Forgotten Reel

Dr. Fields clicked on the arrow, and the room filled with a low hum, the sound of a captured moment coming to life. On the computer screen, I watched myself—a digital ghost trapped in pixels and light—doing exactly what he’d described.

My fingers moved nimbly over the grand piano’s keys, coaxing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata from their ivory depths with a finesse I didn’t remember having. The melody swirled around me like an enchanting spell, one that held me captive in its haunting beauty.

Only I didn’t remember any of it.

It was disconcerting, watching my performance unfold before my eyes as though from another life. My heart pounded in my chest like a wild drum, matching the rhythm of the forgotten music. Disbelief gnawed at my edges.

“That can’t be me,” I protested, swallowing the lump of confusion in my throat. But there I was, larger than life on the screen, commanding an imaginary audience into silence with every note played.

Dr. Fields, a neurologist specializing in memory loss, studied me carefully. His eyes held a strange mix of avarice, curiosity, and compassion as he slowly nodded his head.

“You don’t recall any of this because you have selective amnesia,” he explained, his voice gentle against the heavy silence that had swallowed us whole.

The room felt small—a milieu of truth and denial converging into a poignant moment of realization. The piano resounded within me, its melody beating against my ribs like a caged bird fighting to be free.

“Your brain injury caused this,” Dr. Fields continued. “But I believe we can help you retrieve those lost memories.”

I stared at him, then back at the screen where the digital specter continued playing masterfully. The idea that such talent lived inside me, lost and unreachable, made me feel dissociated, like I was mourning a stranger.

In that moment, I realized this wasn’t just about remembering how to play the piano. It was about rediscovering a part of my identity that had slipped into oblivion. It was about navigating a labyrinth of forgetfulness and charting a path through the shadows of my memory in search of the melody that was once part of my soul, if the passion with which I played were any indicator.

With that realization, I knew what I had to do. I turned to Dr. Fields, ready to begin the journey into the lost recesses of my past, into the forfeited fragments of myself.

“Let’s start,” I said. “It’s time for me to remember.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. This process isn’t proven. There may be...complications.

“I’m sure,” I said with conviction.

A maniacal grin spread across his gaunt face. “Excellent.”