Chapter 3. Irene

Irene Filiz is a twenty-five-year-old journalist and interviewer who rose too quickly in her profession — before she even had time to understand the price it might demand. Since childhood, she had dreamed of journalism, never suspecting that the search for truth could destroy a person from within.

By her third year at university, Irene had already secured a position at an editorial company — at first as an assistant, a shadow among other shadows.

Her life gradually filled with connections, famous names, and articles that stirred public attention. Audiences remembered her face, but no one saw the sleepless nights, the trembling hands, or the constant feeling that someone was watching closely behind every word she wrote.

Until the age of eighteen, Irene lived in Kraków with her parents — a city where everything felt too small, too safe. She realized that if she wanted to become known, she had to escape.

Adulthood. University. New friends. A first serious job. Everything looked perfect, like a carefully constructed set. Irene believed in tomorrow and often caught herself thinking that her life had fallen into place—

—and then the accident changed everything.

The search for truth became a personal obsession.

Was she a killer… or not?

The question settled deep in her mind, giving her no peace, erasing the line between reality and nightmare.

***

Darkness. A hospital corridor at night — empty, deserted. I move through the labyrinths of my own memory, like in a horror film.

Where is everyone? — the thought echoed in my head.

Nearby.

Irene heard the voice — painfully familiar. It carried not only the tremor of fear, but also a strange, distorted sense of happiness.

“Who are you?” the girl whispered.

“I am the one you loved so deeply… and the one you so desperately took the life of,” the voice sounded like a sentence, condemning her to guilt.

“What is happening?!” Irene cried out in terror, her voice echoing through the corridor as she collapsed to her knees.

“Remember,” the silence replied.

“AAAAAAAAAAAA!” Irene screamed at the top of her lungs.

She snapped her eyes open.

“It’s a dream… just a dream,” the girl tried to calm herself.

But the feeling remained — sticky, like a dark residue clinging to her soul — heavy, suffocating, making her tremble with fear.

***

Three weeks later

“Today is your discharge day. By all indicators, you’re healthy,” the doctor said calmly, almost matter-of-factly, as if he weren’t speaking about a person whose memory had shattered into pieces.

“Thank you, doctor,” Irene replied, keeping her gaze lowered.

“I insist: forget about work for at least three months. No stress. Only peace,” he added after a short pause.

“Of course,” she said, her smile mechanical, rehearsed.

Peace. The word sounded almost mocking.

Three weeks had passed since that night. Since the darkness that had torn her life in two. Yet the terror didn’t let go. It had settled inside her, hiding in the pauses between thoughts, returning in the whisper of a familiar voice. Too familiar. Too close.

Irene replayed fragments of memories over and over, fragments that refused to form a coherent picture. Could she live a double life? Be a lover, lie to everyone — and to herself? And worst of all… could she have killed the person she loved?

Her chest tightened at the thought. What pain, what fear could drive someone to that?

This is a trap, she thought.

My thoughts are like sticky cobwebs. The harder I try to escape, the tighter they pull.

“Sweetheart, sorry we’re late,” her mother nearly ran into the ward, eyes betraying the worry she tried to hide. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No,” Irene answered too quickly. “I’m ready.”

She rose, but for a moment the world wavered. Weakness? Fear of returning to the place where the truth might be waiting around every corner?

“Then let’s go,” her mother said softly.

***

The airport. Metallic gleam. The hum of voices. The plane that was supposed to take her home — or deeper into the past she so feared to remember.

Irene stared out the window, gripping the armrest. Home no longer felt like a safe place. It was a starting point. That’s where it all began. That’s where the answer might be hiding.

Her memory remained silent. But Irene knew — that silence was only temporary.

Life was preparing its blows, and the most painful one was still ahead. Because the truth doesn’t vanish without a trace. It waits. Patiently. In the darkness of her own mind.