My mother often spoke of how enchanting it was when she met my father. She described it as a sudden change of course. She would share fragments of the story during our talks, never in the right order, always a bit scattered, pieced together over years of quiet conversations. It was a bit messy but beautiful in its own way.

  There was always a sparkle in her eyes when she recalled those moments, but beneath it lingered something else, fear or guilt maybe. It was as if recalling him was dangerous, yet irresistible. She masked that unease with the blissful feeling she got while recounting every detail. I grew up pondering over the reason behind her mixed feelings. What meeting my father had cost her. I always had and will forever.

  I wake, torn from sleep already struggling against the present. The warmth still accompanies me. Even before I open my eyes, I know the day has already started without me. I take a deep breath, putting my feet on the floor. I shake the dust from my bedsheet and spread it out again, the fabric coughing softly in the stale air. I take ten steps to the bathroom, counting them as I always do, and brush my teeth. As I set my foot down to leave the bathroom, the realization strikes me with heavy thud, I do not know what I did next. I cannot remember last night’s dream. I try but it refuses to return. I briefly remember I was thinking of my mom and her story in the early morning. Why all of sudden I was remembering about it. After years away, most memories of my parents had faded and I hardly remember anything related to them now.

  The cool wind snuggles my hair, giving my temples a gentle cuddle, trying to chase away the sweat that gathers slowly. I cannot form any picture of things around me. The world seems new to me, and I have no idea what I am supposed to do during the whole day. I assume the memory will return eventually. Until then, I follow my routine. I swing my arms to reach for the cleaning cloth, but Chiya is already at it. I abandon the thought and move on to the next task, letting my body follow its habitual motions.

  No one is preparing breakfast, so I step into the kitchen to make it for my four, no, actually five roommates. Correcting my count, just as I see Anna coming from the bathroom. We, six people, live in that hall, though each of us have separate rooms. It is a hall-like square common room on the first floor, the entrance to the hall is a big brown colored vertical rectangular gate. The bathroom is opposite the entrance gate with three rooms on each side. The surroundings feel strange. A stranger’s place. Looking around, it seems like the first time I have seen it properly despite living there for years, total ten years, I guess.

  We all sit to eat breakfast. The hall smells faintly of coffee and toast but the air around us feels unfamiliar. Despite living together for many years, it surprises me that our talks are limited to polite and formal greetings. Suddenly a loud and penetrating sound of a bell rings my ears. My body jerks with the sound. The others rise without hesitation, grab their bags, and walk outside to join the other girls in a rehearsed manner. Together, they line up perfectly in a straight vertical line. I follow behind them and join the line. Silence hangs heavy, stretching across the girls on the stairs and all the way to the upper floors, where the line is joined by the other girls. When we exist the front gate, I turn back and see a large wooden board hanging on the top with “Home” written there in bold. The vertical line is visible to be going inside the “Prep” school, another wooden board classified the large entrance to the dark hall.

  When we pass the dark hall, the line ahead of me starts getting smaller. It breaks into a group of twenty to thirty people and enters the rooms on the left side of the hall. There are only a few ten girls now in front of me. The line then takes a turn and ascends the stairs. When we take another turn to the right, I notice a familiar door, and Class of 11 written outside. I enter the classroom as the girls ahead leads me in. Everyone starts taking seats from the first bench on the far left, one after another, as the line moves through the room. It’s oddly mesmerizing how organized they are, filling every seat as the line winds around the space.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Just a minute later, another line walks into the class and starts occupying seats from the farthest right. Slowly, the seats fill up, only three remain empty at the very back.

  I sit on the third seat in the second row. The girl on my left has a familiar face; long dark black hair, brown eyes, I smile at her, and her name rises unbidden in my mind. It is Isabella, my companion there and probably the only one I talk to as long as I can remember, which I cannot do well as I have a terrible memory.

  The class starts with a small beep. A small round-like ball hung in the classroom releasing a soft, and polite single beep, impossible to ignore. Then one lady, dressed in a turtleneck skivvy and dark blue pants, enters the room, she carries a small textbook. It is a language session. I look into the bag I carried with me, it has a grammar exercise textbook, cookbook, culinary math book and one small notebook, which is mostly blank. My eyes scan the room in a careful and calculated manner. Everyone is sitting with a straight back with hands lying on the table and listening attentively. Silence sweeping every corner of the room, while its inhabitants complete the exercise in their grammar textbook. Next was physical activity.

  Another beep pierces the silence. This time, we fall into a line to head down to the ground at the back of the “Prep” building.

  The vertical line breaks into a horizontal one after reaching the ground. A whistle shrieks, and everyone bolts. I lag behind at first, but the moment I see them running in a circle, I fall in with the group. We run two hundred meters. While panting I am herded back into a horizontal line. The same running into circles continues for about five times more.

  I try to shut my thoughts during the race, but it is of no use.

  Suddenly, a glimpse of myself passes my mind that I have had similar thoughts before.

  I skim around to see others, but they seem to be so engrossed in running to notice me being confused. The same goes for Isabella. Only I feel out of place.

  We make it through the marathon, but we still lose, as the score is less than the previous day. I sink to the ground, panting and tired from all the running. We are compared with our previous day’s score, and we must improve upon them each day. It also carries a punishment of no lunch for the whole class. After seeing the sign board of “Lost”, I join the others to go back to the class. I anticipate the questions or accusations from them but a familiar silence grips us, unbroken, as we walk to class. Although their mouth remains sealed, my mind keeps asking me questions, “If my late start or the haze in my mind has affected my performance. Is it a recurring event that we fall behind or is it the first time? If so, why is no one bothered about it?”. The uneasiness flows from my mind into my body leaving it trembling but Isabella seemed fine. I reach at my desk again.

  The heat and exertion get the better of me and words slips from my mouth.

  "Hey Izzy, I apologize. Because of me, our class lost the race. Everybody is suffering because of me. I just don’t know.", I blurt it out, the sound too loud in the silence.

  "It is fine. It was inevitable and I was prepared along with everyone.", she says those words in neutral tone. Then she looks at me with skeptical eyes, "Weren't you?".

  “……”

  I gulp my saliva, looking here and there. After examining my surroundings which showed no unusual movements, I whisper, "Honestly, “I cannot remember any detail of my dream last night. I don't recall any of the events of today. I..uhm.. had bad sleep last night". The truth spills out from me.

  "Ohhh", she exclaims but her face lacks any expression. I explain to her again and after some moment of silence, she quietly says, “What, why? Not even a glimpse of it?”

  “No. I did have the dream last night. I know I did see something but cannot remember it now.”, I explain.

  “That’s why the Master says right amount of sleep is essential for both your overall health and mental clarity. And don't stress about not remembering, your day will unfold as it should be. With that, you might remember bits of it while it goes.”

  She is not wrong about that. An appropriate number of hours of sleep is crucial for calming our minds. I would not feel all this pressure if only I could remember what my day is supposed to be like, which I still cannot. All I have are a few faint glimpses, blurred and incomplete, never vivid enough to hold onto.

  The rest of the same passes in silence. Some more language classes, culinary math class and another session where we cook.

  I wake up early next morning at my usual time. But there is one thing that is unusual I did not have a dream last night.