Chapter 4. Home

One week later

Irene found herself in feelings she could barely understand. A week of sessions with a psychologist, in her opinion, had yielded no results. Her memory stubbornly refused to reveal even tiny fragments of the past. Every time she tried to recall something important, thoughts that might answer all her questions vanished spectacularly beneath a dense “veil.”

“Sweetheart, breakfast!” her mother called.

“Coming,” Irene replied.

Leaving her room, she headed to the kitchen.

“Mmm, it smells delicious,” she said, feeling a slight pang of hunger.

“Yes, it’s your favorite omelet, and for coffee — a chocolate muffin,” her mother replied with pride.

“You’re the best,” Irene hugged her.

“Now sit down, or everything will get cold and won’t be as tasty,” her mother fussed.

“I’ll enjoy it no matter what, because it’s incredible,” Irene said, tasting her breakfast.

“You little flatterer,” her mother replied with a smile, feeling joy at seeing her daughter happier at home, her mood noticeably lighter.

***

After returning home, Irene was often tormented by nightmares. Her mother could hear her awake through the nights, but she understood: this had to be endured. The psychologist had advised Irene not to take sleeping pills, except in extreme cases — in dreams, her memory might provide answers to all her questions.

Yet the dream repeated itself over and over. In it, the man she seemed to have killed screamed at her, forcing her to remember. The thought lodged so deeply in her mind that Irene began to involuntarily accept it as the truth.

***

A knock at the door.

“I wonder who that could be so early in the morning? I’ll go see,” her father said, surprised, rising from his chair.

He opened the door and saw the detective investigating Irene’s case.

“Good day,” the man greeted.

“Good morning. What brings you all the way to Kraków, and so early?” her father replied, annoyed.

“Who’s there, darling?” her mother asked, approaching.

“A detective,” the man said dryly.

Hearing this, Irene felt a wave of fear and anger. The case had been closed, all necessary investigations conducted, the conclusion clear — an unfortunate accident due to weather conditions. So why did this detective refuse to leave her alone?

“May I speak with Ms. Irene?” the detective asked.

“No,” her father answered firmly.

“The investigation is closed. I won’t allow anyone to interrogate my daughter again. She’s moving on without memories of this incident.”

“Incident?” the detective protested.

“You call the murder of an innocent man an incident?”

“It could have happened to anyone. Life is complicated, and we’re only here for a short while. Let others live it in peace. Goodbye,” her father replied sharply.

“No, wait!” Irene ran out of the kitchen.

“What do you want from me? The investigation is closed. Forget me, forget everything that happened, and disappear forever!” she screamed.

“Get out!” her father shouted, slamming the door.

Irene looked at her parents, frightened, apologized for shouting, and retreated to her room.

Three hours later

Exhausted by the day’s emotions, Irene had fallen asleep. When she woke, she went down to the kitchen to get a glass of water — and inadvertently overheard her parents’ conversation.

“Are you sure the medication she’s taking won’t allow her memory to come back?” her mother asked quietly.

“Yes. The doctor said it’s better this way for her. Who knows what could happen to her psyche if she remembered everything? As it is, she recalls nothing — and that’s for the best. Irene is recovering, smiling more often. We’ll do everything to make sure she’s okay. Everything else doesn’t matter,” her father replied.

“You’re right. The main thing is our girl. The rest doesn’t concern us,” her mother said.

Irene’s breath caught. Her parents were lying. In truth, no one knew what had happened that cursed night. And most importantly — was she a killer… or not?

***

Irene realized that restoring her memories would take months — perhaps years.

She had nothing but the emptiness in her mind and the sharp awareness that time was slipping away. The truth needed to be uncovered immediately. At any cost.

She left the house, heading to her psychologist’s appointment, instinctively glancing back. The yard was empty. Too empty. Satisfied that no one was watching her, she continued.

Doctors had called her condition a miracle, though cautiously. Her brain had suffered almost no irreversible damage — six months in a coma had stolen her memory, but not her skills. Rehabilitation had been brief, painful, limited, and under constant supervision. She had been allowed to drive, but only carefully and for short periods, as if that could restore control over her life. Irene knew: she wasn’t ready yet — but she couldn’t wait any longer.

She got behind the wheel, forcing herself not to think about the accident, even though a cold sense of unease was crawling beneath her skin.

When she tossed her bag onto the passenger seat, the keys slipped from her hands and clinked against the metal. Irene bent down — and froze. Something dark lurked under the seat. A phone.

Her heart skipped.

She picked it up with trembling fingers. There was no doubt — it was her phone. The very same one. The one that had disappeared after the crash.