Awakening Chapter 1. Hospital

All characters, names, surnames, and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is purely coincidental.

Awakening
Chapter 1. Hospital

A white ward. A bed in the middle of an empty room. On it lay a girl with light hair braided into a single plait. Her face was pale as snow.

Irene Filiz, a well-known interviewer from Warsaw, had somehow ended up here — in Germany, after a car accident that claimed the life of a famous footballer who had been in the car with her.

A nurse entered, checked the monitors and the IV drip.

The girl slowly opened her eyes.

“Mmm… it hurts…” she whispered.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Easy… You’re in a hospital. You were in a coma, but everything is all right now. I’ll call the doctor.”

The nurse left, and Irene glanced around the room. It was hard to hold her head up; her eyes watered under the harsh light. Through the large window, a frosty day stretched outside, snow falling in thick, heavy flakes.

The door suddenly opened. A tall man with gray hair stepped inside.

“I’m glad to see you conscious, Irene,” he said. His voice was calm, but there was a quiet tension beneath it.

“Thank you…” she murmured faintly.

“What happened to me?” she asked, trying to steady the tremor in her voice.

“You were in a serious accident. The seatbelt saved your life. How do you feel?”

“My head… and what accident? Where? When?”

The doctor studied her closely. Amnesia. All the signs were there.

“What do you remember last?”

“Mmm… April 2025… I was going to an interview… Then I wanted to visit my parents in Kraków… Did it happen on a train?”

“Don’t be afraid. Today is January 2026. The accident happened in Berlin, on July 10, 2025.”

Irene’s heart jolted. The doctor noticed her fear but remained composed.

“Everything will be fine. I’ll call your parents — they’re here in Berlin. The nurse will run some tests, and we’ll monitor your condition.”

He left, leaving Irene alone. The darkness of her thoughts pressed in on her, and she barely noticed the knock at the door.

“Good evening. Detective Nick Hills,” the man announced.

Irene studied him carefully: around forty-five, short fair hair, light stubble. He wore a white shirt, dark blue jeans, a coat — and over it, a doctor’s gown.

“Good… evening?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“The doctor told me about your condition. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up for six months. Now I need to ask you a few questions about the accident.”

“All right… but I don’t remember anything,” Irene said quietly.

The detective sat down beside her bed. His gaze pierced like ice — cold and unyielding.

“Who were you in the car with?”

“I don’t remember… The doctor said it was a man.”

“Who was he? What kind of relationship did you have?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Do you know that he died?”

“Yes…”

“And you were driving. His name was Oscar Mitchell. A famous footballer, a family man — he had a wife and two children.”

“Stop!” Irene burst into tears. “I don’t understand anything!”

“Do you realize the situation you’re in, Irene?” he pressed.

Tears streamed down her face. She cried out:

“I’m not guilty! I couldn’t have done it! I don’t remember anything!”

The nurse and the doctor rushed in to calm her, while the detective walked out. At the door, he glanced back:

“I’ll be back. And I will find out who you really are… and why you killed my brother.”

Irene understood one thing: even remembering nothing, she could still be guilty — even without fault. Would she be able to uncover the truth hidden only in her memory? Or perhaps, aware of the consequences, she had already chosen to lie to escape responsibility?