The first clue to my identity

That evening, Caleb took me to the basement of an old church where volunteers sometimes left blankets and bottles of water for the homeless.

He gave me the cleanest cover.

And he pretended not to notice when I started to cry.

The next morning, my headache worsened.

Memories flashed through my mind like shattered images.

White roses.

A portrait framed in silver.

A fountain in a circular entrance.

And the voice of a man who said:

“Eleanor, don’t let yourself get trapped.”

That name struck me like a bolt of lightning.

“Eleanor,” I whispered.

Caleb looked up.

“Is that your name?”“I think so.”

It was fragile. Uncertain.

But it was a start.

The moment the truth appeared on television

Later that day, we sat quietly inside a public library.

A librarian noticed the bruise on my temple and insisted that I go to a free mobile clinic located nearby.

At the clinic, a nurse examined my head and softly uttered two words:

“Concussion.”

“Memory loss.”

She asked me for my last name.

I closed my eyes and forced the memory to resurface.

Hayes.

As soon as I said those words, the nurse froze.

She turned slowly towards a small television mounted on the wall.

I was breathless.

The screen displayed a picture of an elegant woman smiling confidently.

The legend said:

The philanthropist Eleanor Hayes has passed away.

I stared at myself.