The kitchen was too clean.
Pristine white counters. Unused appliances. A coffee maker that looked more like a museum piece than something functional. Jonas stood in the doorway for a full minute before stepping in, the journal still clutched tightly in his hand. He thought maybe this was a dream or some kind of kidnapping.
Mara sat at the kitchen island, reading a paperback. She looked up with a warm smile. "There you are. Hungry?"
He didn't answer. He scanned the room again. A photo frame on the counter caught his eye. He stepped closer.
A picture of him and Mara. Smiling. Arms around each other on a beach he didn't recognize.
He frowned. "Where was this taken?"
"Santa Cruz. Last year." Her answer was immediate, fluid. Like she practiced it.
He looked at his face in the photo. He didn't recognize that version of himself either. So relaxed, so unaware.
"Were we happy?" he asked.
Mara hesitated, then nodded. "We had our moments. You... you were complicated. But yes, I think so."
He studied her face. "You don't sound sure."
"I'm just being honest. I don't want to lie to you, Jonas. Not ever." She replied.
He wanted to believe her. But something inside him it didn't feel right like instinct, more like muscle memory told him he is in danger to keep his guard up.
He pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
"You said I was in an accident. A fire?" he asked again.
"Yes."
"How long ago?"
"About four months."
"And in all that time, I haven't remembered anything?"
She shook her head gently. "You've had glimpses. Emotions. Dreams. Nothing solid."
Jonas flipped open the journal to a random page. Scribbled text ran sideways across the lines, frantic:
"STOP TRUSTING HER. LOOK UNDER THE BED."
His stomach clenched.
He lowered the notebook and stared at his plate. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Coffee, now lukewarm. The food of someone comfortable, someone cared for.
But everything about this life felt arranged, like a carefully curated lie like the Truman Show.
"Do I ever leave the house?" he asked.
"Sometimes. With me. But it stresses you out. You said it makes things worse."
"I said that?"
She nodded. "You insisted on staying here. Said it was the only place that felt safe."
Jonas nodded slowly. "And you don't work?"
"I take care of you. That is my job, Jonas."
She smiled, but this time it didn't reach her eyes.
He excused himself and walked back to the bedroom.
He closed the door behind him, double-locked it, and knelt beside the bed.
His heart was pounding.
He reached under.
At first, nothing.
Then his fingers brushed something flat.
He pulled it out.
A voice recorder. Black. Dusty. Taped to it was a yellow sticky note.
"Don't listen when she's around." The instructions read.
Jonas stared at it, the device trembling in his grip.
He turned it over in his hands, heart thudding louder than before.
The fear was sharp now. Real. Alive.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the recorder, thumb hovering over the play button.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps in the hall.
Mara's voice, muffled through the door. "Everything okay in there?"
He froze.
"Yeah," he called back. "Just... reading more of the journal."
A pause.
Then her footsteps retreated down the hallway again.
Jonas exhaled.
He looked at the recorder.
Then pressed play.
Static. Then a voice of his own.
"If you're hearing this, it means you're starting to doubt her. Good. That means the reset didn't work this time. Listen carefully, Jonas. You are not who she says you are. This house isn't your home. And she "
The recording cut off.
Jonas stared at the device, his mind reeling.
He didn't remember recording it. Didn't remember the fear in his own voice.
But he believed it.
He wasn't safe here.
And tomorrow morning, he wouldn't even remember this feeling or even everything that happened today.