Soft light, filtering through unfamiliar curtains, pulled me from a deep fog. My head throbbed, thoughts muddled like cotton. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, its quiet rhythm the only sound.

  I turned my head, and my eyes widened.

  A stranger, asleep, in my bed!

  My breath caught, a chill rushing through me as I jolted upright, barely holding back a scream.

  The sudden movement startled him awake. His eyes snapped open, locking onto mine. A moment of silence stretched between us before realization dawned on his face. He bolted upright, mirroring my wide-eyed confusion.

  I clutched a pillow to my chest, a makeshift shield. We stared at each other, two strangers caught in the same bewildering moment.

  "Who are you?" we blurted simultaneously.

  "I…" I opened my mouth, but no name came out. "I…" The word hung there, empty. I didn't remember my name. The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. My heart pounded. "I don't know who I am!"

  Panic rising, I turned to the man beside me, dropping my pillow shield and reaching for his collar. "Where am I? Who are you?"

  He jerked back so fast he nearly toppled off the bed. Tall, with sharp features and dark, disheveled hair that stuck up like he'd been electrocuted, he held up a pillow between us like a flimsy shield.

  "Stay back!" he warned, voice edged with panic. "I… I don't remember my name either. What did you do to me?"

  "Me?" I clutched the sheets tighter. "I didn't do anything! I don't even know who I am, let alone you!" We froze, the same terrible realization settling over us.

  "You don't remember anything either?" he asked, lowering the pillow slightly.

  I shook my head, panic thick in my throat. "Nothing. I just… woke up here. With you."

  He ran his hands through his hair, looking as shaken as I felt. "This is crazy. How could we both just... forget everything?" He patted himself down, then said disbelievingly, "And I'm wearing Star Wars pajamas? This is insane."

  Something clicked in my brain. "I'm Sylvie," I said suddenly. I wasn't sure how I knew. It was like my name had survived whatever wiped out the rest of my memory.

  He hesitated, then exhaled. "Byron," he said, testing the name. "I think. That feels… right."

  I jumped out of bed, desperate to find something, anything, that might explain our situation. Byron followed, keeping a cautious distance.

  "This could be a kidnapping," I said, my voice shaking as I yanked open dresser drawers. "Or a cult thing. Or an experiment. Or… aliens!"

  Byron raised an eyebrow. "Aliens? Really? Let's stick to more realistic possibilities."

  "How can you be so calm?" I demanded, tossing clothes onto the floor.

  "Trust me, I'm not calm," he said tightly. "I'm just... keeping the screaming inside my head for now."

  We checked ourselves over, no injuries, no needle marks, just a massive, gaping hole where our memories should have been.

  Outside the window, a pristine beach stretched endlessly, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The smell of salt filled the air. No houses, no roads. Just ocean and sand.

  “Beach…” Byron muttered, stepping beside me. “Somewhere waterfront, then…”

  I shot him a dry look. “Thanks for the groundbreaking observation.”

  The house was empty except for us. Sleek surfaces gleamed, modern furniture sat untouched. The kitchen sparkled with appliances, and the living room boasted a towering wall of books and an enormous television with no power plug.

  As we searched, a strange synchronicity emerged. We moved in perfect harmony, as if we'd done this a hundred times before. Odd, considering that we didn't even remember each other.

  We found a photo of ourselves, smiling together on a mountaintop.

  Despite the initial panic, a gut feeling told me he wouldn't harm me, an odd sensation that told me to trust. And now looking at the photo, I knew him. I knew him well. That explained it.

  "Are we married?" Byron asked suddenly.

  I was surprised, then snorted. "To you? Unlikely." That was rude to a stranger, but felt right. Like I should talk to him like that, joking. But as I looked at him, the furrow of his brow when he was deep in thought, I felt something stir. Familiarity? Attraction? Hard to say.

  “Oh, thanks a lot,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

  Hours of searching revealed little. A computer was password-protected. No phone. No identification. But plenty of cash hidden in a shoebox under the bed.

  "It's like someone deliberately erased our identities but made sure we had enough to get by," I mused.

  I started pacing, my mind racing. "Maybe we're spies," I suggested dramatically. "International agents on a secret mission! Like James Bond!"

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Byron raised an eyebrow. "With amnesia?"

  "It could happen! We… " I threw my arms up, and promptly knocked over a delicate vase. Lunging to catch it, I tripped over the coffee table and crashed to the floor. The vase shattered beside me.

  Byron rushed over. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine," I muttered, sprawled inelegantly among the ceramic shards.

  Seeing I wasn't hurt, he carefully helped me up. His hand lingered on mine a second longer than necessary.

  "Well," he said dryly, "I think we can safely rule out the highly coordinated secret agent theory."

  I shot him a glare, but the situation was so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. After a moment, he joined in, the tension between us easing slightly.

  We wolfed down a quick lunch and continued our investigation until nightfall. Hours of searching yielded frustratingly little. The sole interesting find was an old postcard tucked inside a book, a scenic beach view, postmarked Aug. 2017, addressed to an apartment in a city.

  The garage revealed a promising lead: a boat with a key hanging neatly beside it.

  Back in the living room, we spread out our meager collection of clues.

  I grabbed a pen and started making a list:

  ? A photo showing we knew each other

  ? A house stocked like we'd planned to stay

  ? A boat ready to go

  ? A pile of cash, but not a single ID

  ? A locked computer

  ? A postcard in 2017

  Byron studied the list, his expression tight. "This place is too... prepared," he said. "Like we're on some kind of staged set."

  I nodded, feeling the same unease. This is getting weirder and weirder, I thought to myself. "Okay, let's break this down. What do we actually want to know?"

  I wrote down our burning questions:

  ? Who are we?

  ? Who erased our memories?

  ? Why would someone do this?

  ? How do we get our memories back?

  "And," Byron added, "where exactly are we? What's the purpose of this place? Who put us here?"

  "Whoever erased our memories, obviously," I said with more confidence than I felt.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Not necessarily. Could be someone entirely different."

  The back-and-forth felt strangely familiar, like we'd argued like this a hundred times before. Something about our dynamic sparked a sense of déjà vu.

  "The computer," I said, pointing. "We haven't really tried cracking it."

  Byron pulled the laptop closer. The password screen glared back at us, mocking our ignorance.

  "Any brilliant ideas?" he asked.

  I grinned. "Let's try the classics, 123456, 'password', our names."

  We tried every combination we could think of. Nothing worked.

  "Maybe a date?" I suggested, frustration creeping into my voice. "There's got to be a clue somewhere."

  Byron's lips twitched. "What date?"

  “Try today.”

  He turned to me, eyebrows raised, the ghost of a smile on his lips. It hit me a second too late, we don’t even know what today is.

  Feeling stupid, I glanced around, desperate to move past the moment, when my eyes landed on the postcard.

  “The postcard!” I snatched it up. “August 8, 2017. Try it.”

  His fingers typed 080817. The screen unlocked.

  "Seriously?" I laughed. "That was the password?"

  "Either someone's terrible at security," Byron muttered, "or they want us to find something."

  A chill ran down my spine. "Or some psychopath kidnapped us, erased our memories, and is playing some twisted game."

  He rolled his eyes. "You've definitely read too many thriller novels. Maybe you're a writer."

  That familiar feeling again, a whisper of something just beyond my grasp. I'm a scientist, my mind insisted. But was I?

  The computer files revealed almost nothing personal. Whoever had orchestrated this had been meticulous in covering their tracks.

  A folder caught Byron’s attention. Inside was a map of several islands and a mainland city: Tririver City.

  “That’s the city on the postcard,” I said, comparing the two.

  “We might be on one of these islands,” Byron mused. “But which one?”

  With no clear answers, we decided to explore to confirm whether we were indeed on one of these islands. Using whatever we could find, we fashioned a makeshift compass from a paperclip, a refrigerator magnet, a wine cork, and a plastic bowl. After gathering supplies, we prepared to map the island the next day.

  We set out before sunrise, the first hints of dawn painting the sky in watercolor hues, soft pinks bleeding into deep purples, edged with molten gold.

  The coastline at sunrise was nothing short of magical. Light shimmered on the water, turning the sea into a vast mirror. Mist curled along the rocky shore, cloaking the landscape in an ethereal hush. The salty scent of the ocean filled the air, while the rhythmic crash of waves echoed against the rocks.

  Walking side by side, Byron’s hand occasionally brushed mine. For a fleeting moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the world, our forgotten past momentarily eclipsed by the quiet intimacy of the morning.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, unwilling to disturb the fragile stillness.

  Yet, as we moved, a strange familiarity settled over me. It felt like we had walked this path a hundred times before.

  The coastline was treacherous, uneven rocks, narrow trails, slick seaweed. When my foot slipped, Byron caught me, his grip firm and steady.

  “I got you,” he murmured, his hand lingering just a second too long.

  A quiet current passed between us. Comfortable. Familiar.

  The island was small, but circling it still took most of the day. As the sun dipped low, casting the sky in shades of orange and gold, we found a rocky ledge and sat side by side, shoulders touching.

  “I don’t remember you,” Byron said softly, “but this feels…”

  “Right?” I finished.

  Our movements were effortless, almost telepathic. He’d start a thought, I’d complete it. I’d reach for something, he’d already be handing it to me. It was seamless, like second nature.

  Dinner became a synchronized dance. Byron took charge of cooking, his hands moving with practiced ease, chopping vegetables and stirring pots.

  The smell of garlic and herbs filled the air. When our fingers brushed reaching for a spatula, a spark of something unspoken passed between us. The kitchen felt suddenly smaller, charged with an unfamiliar tension.

  “Sorry,” we mumbled at the same time, then laughed.

  His cooking was unexpectedly excellent. Sitting down to a proper meal felt like a victory, a small moment of normalcy in the midst of our uncertainty.

  That evening, we compared our hand-drawn map to the digital one. The island had a name, Raven’s Rest.

  From there, the plan came together easily: take the boat to the mainland, find the address on the postcard, and hope it led to answers.

  The boat was ready. The address awaited. Answers were within reach.

  To be continued