The light in the motel was sickly yellow, flickering with each sputter of the old air conditioner. It cast everything in a yellowed hue, the stained carpet, the warped table, the peeling wallpaper patterned faintly with mildew. The air clung damp and sour, soaked in years of cigarette smoke and loneliness. Time didn’t move in rooms like this. It just sat heavy, gathering in corners like dust no one bothered to sweep.

Outside, cars whispered along the nearby highway. Inside, John Price sat at the edge of the bed, his spine bowed, elbows planted on his knees, hands hanging loose. His dog tags swayed slightly as he rocked, not fast, just enough to remind himself he was still here. Still breathing.

The mug he’d held earlier lay abandoned on the floor beside him, coffee gone cold hours ago. He wasn’t sure when he’d put it down. Or why. Or even what time it was now. The day had slipped through him again. There was that buzzing in the back of his skull, low, insistent like a radio stuck between stations. A pressure without a source.

He remembered being a soldier. That much never left. His hands bore the story: rough, scarred, twitching toward invisible weapons. His body still moved like it expected to be shot at. His breath still matched the rhythm of patrols. But the rest? His life? Names? Faces? Gone. Didn’t know who he was waiting for. Or why there were small clothes folded on the dresser, a sippy cup turned sideways in the sink, a picture frame facing down on the nightstand like someone couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.

Sometimes he woke soaked in sweat, certain he’d just been running. Other times he’d stare at the mirror and feel like a stranger was looking back. He didn’t remember where he was. Why he was here.

And then the sound of a door easing open, soft, hesitant. A creak, hesitant. Small feet padded across the carpet.

“Dada?”

The voice was fragile, cracking on the edge of sleep and tears. They stood in the doorway, blanket clutched tightly, cheeks blotchy and red from crying. Pajamas rumpled. Eyes wide and pleading.

Price looked at them. Blinking. Frowning. Something in the child’s face tugged at him, not a memory, but something instinctive. Familiarity wrapped in dread. He rose too quickly, muscles moving before his mind caught up. His hand twitched toward his hip. No weapon. Just the panic of not knowing if this was real.

“What are you doing in here?” His voice came out rougher than he meant.

“…Can’t sleep,” the child whispered, voice barely there. “It’s just me…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His heart beat like it was trying to outpace his thoughts. There was recognition in his chest, a dull throb of something that mattered, but no name, no moment, no clarity.

“You forgot again,” they said. It wasn’t accusing. Just sad.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t mean to forget. It just… happens.”

They nodded. Not surprised. Not angry. Just tired in that heartbreaking way children shouldn’t know how to be. Their blanket dragged a little on the floor as they stepped closer.

“Are you mine?”

He watched the little one nod, before slowly and more carefully than should have been natural, taking small steps towards him

“If you don’t remember me today,” they said, swallowing around the crack in their voice, “I can wait again. It’s okay.”

He sat down heavily, like the words themselves had weight. His hands dropped into his lap, useless. The child stood there for a moment, silent tears returning as they clutched their blanket to their chest. Then they climbed up beside him. Not touching. Just near. Close enough that he’d know they were there, when, if, the fog cleared.

He didn’t look at them right away. Couldn’t. But he felt them, their small shape a steady presence beside him, and something in that steadiness made it easier to breathe.

Finally, his gaze dropped, to the edge of the blanket, to the curve of a shoulder leaning in, and his voice broke the stillness again.

“…Stay with me a sec, yeah?”