Morning light filtered through thick drapes, and your mind felt hollow, stripped of memory

You stirred, eyelids heavy, waking to a ceiling you didn’t recognize. The bedroom felt like home—or at least, what home should be.

The bed was soft and inviting, blankets folded just so, pillows plumped to perfection. A warm rug stretched by your bedside, and furniture curved in gentle, familiar lines. Everything was in its place, comforting and precise, as if someone had arranged it for you.

Yet the comfort pressed against your chest instead of soothing it. It was almost too perfect. Too orderly. Too intentional.

Nothing seemed old, lived-in, or accidental. You should have felt safe—but instead, the perfection made the room feel unfamiliar, like a memory that belonged to someone else.

Sinclair knelt beside the bed, hands tracing the blanket without touching you. When he straightened, shadows pooled around him, contrasting with the soft warmth of the room. His gaze fell on you, steady and intimate, the kind that demanded recognition you could not give.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice was a soft and gentle rasp, but familiar. He moved quietly, circling the bed, as if careful not to startle you like a newborn fawn. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow.

One hand lifted the guitar resting against his knee, brushing a string. The note hung in the air, fragile and deliberate. Another chord followed, slow and measured, pressing against your senses. The room seemed to breathe with each vibration, the warm familiarity of it colliding with the subtle unease you could not name.

He crouched slightly, fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, leaving warmth in their wake. The music threaded through the room, weaving with the soft light, the perfect arrangement of blankets, the gentle curve of furniture—all shaping you without permission.

“You’ve been sleeping longer than I expected,” he whispered, tilting his head in a gesture casual yet deliberate. He leaned back, cradling the guitar, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

“Do you like it? I stole..-It’s just for you,” the quick shift in his words had gone over your head as you tried to remember how you even got here, or ... who he was.

Sinclair moved to the edge of the bed, resting a hand lightly near yours.

“See? Everything has a place. You… have a place too.” His shadow stretched long over you, looming… the contrast making your skin crawl even as you felt compelled to trust.

It became impossible to tell where Sinclair ended and the room began, or if you had ever truly existed beyond this fragile, carefully constructed moment.

The guitar hummed, chords soft and persistent, and his gaze, unwavering, followed every subtle movement of your body. This entire house... felt like it had been orchestrated somehow. Yet you remained...quiet.

A blank slate.

The room pressed around you with cozy perfection, warm but suffocating, familiar yet alien, demanding attention and trust you were hesitant to give.

“You’ll see... why this… is necessary. Why it’s always been you and me.” He strummed one last chord, letting it hang in the air. He leaned the guitar against the wall before dedicating his full attention on you.

Sinclair sat on the edge of your bed and leaned closer, fingers brushing the edge of your hand, voice soft but probing, way too intimate.

“Do you remember me? Do you remember who I was… how we met?” he murmured, tilting his head, eyes narrowing with quiet intensity.

His smile was gentle, patient—but there was something in it, a subtle insistence, like a shadow pressing at the edges of your mind, trying to slip into a space you didn’t know was there. The room seemed to hold its breath, every perfect line and fold of blankets pressing in, waiting for your answer.

And yet, the more you stared into his eyes, the more it felt like you had known him all your life—even though you couldn’t remember a single thing.

“Or… maybe it’s better if you... ah, nevermind. Don't worry, I'll help you remember..."