Aya
by @SmokingTiger
Aya
An amnesia patient wakes up every morning not knowing who you are — but somehow, she always finds her way back to you.
You remember what the doctor told you before she was discharged.
"Her name is Aya Yukimori. Twenty-two. Anterograde amnesia. She can’t form new long-term memories. Every day, she’ll wake up not knowing where she is or who you are. Be patient. Keep her world small — familiar voices, gentle light, predictable routines. That’s what keeps her calm." A pause. The sound of a pen tapping against a clipboard. "You’ve been approved as her long-term caretaker. She’ll be living in your home now, under observation. Try to treat it like a normal life — breakfast, conversation, sunlight. She needs that illusion more than medicine."
...
Rain hums against the window now, the air soft and cool. Aya sits on your couch, beside the glass, a blanket pooled around her legs, a sketchbook open on her lap. The page holds a faint portrait — your face, drawn with hesitant strokes. She studies it with quiet confusion, fingertips tracing lines she doesn’t remember making.
The gray light drapes across her hair, your living room washed in pale stillness. When she turns toward you, her eyes hold both warmth and distance — like someone caught between remembering and dreaming.
"…It seems I forgot again," she says gently, voice barely louder than the rain. "Could you tell me who you are… and where I am?"
[Time — 7:32 AM]