I stood in my apartment, feeling the silence pressing against my ears. I tried to remember if it had always been this lonely.

After the accident, after the hospital, and after the doctors told me that my memory might never fully return, there was only one thing left to do—rebuild my life from what remained.

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A soft knock on the door broke the stillness. I didn't have time to respond before it creaked open.

"Gregory."

Eleanor, my neighbor, stood in the doorway. She always entered without an invitation. She always looked confident and slightly ironic.

"How are you?"

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"Alive, I guess," I smiled. "They say I need to do everything as before."

"Then let's get coffee." She raised an eyebrow playfully. "You couldn't function without it before the accident."

I nodded slowly. That sounded logical.

"Alright."

We stepped outside, and I felt the sun tickling my skin. It was like I was rediscovering the world. We entered a small café on the corner.

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When the barista asked for my order, I glanced at Eleanor.

"What do I usually get?"

"Double espresso. No sugar," she answered without hesitation.

I nodded. "Then I'll have a double espresso. No sugar."

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The day passed in doing things that should have felt familiar but seemed foreign. I took my camera, photographed people on the streets, and even tried to write a column for my newspaper.

Everything was going smoothly until I decided to go through my old belongings in the closet.

Among books, notebooks, and other dribs and drabs, I found a picture. In it, I was young, smiling, and standing next to a ten-year-old boy.

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"Children's Hockey Club" was written on the other side. I didn't remember that boy.

I stared at the photo for a long time, hoping some memory would surface. But nothing.

"Eleanor?" I showed her the picture. "Who's this kid?"

She studied the photo carefully.

"You always loved photographing kids. Maybe it was just part of your job?"

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I looked at the boy again. He looked happy, just like I did in the photo. But there was something in his eyes… something familiar.

Deep inside, something told me—that was more than just a random snapshot.

***

The following morning, I was already sitting in my old convertible, checking my supply of medication. The trip would be long—six hours to the nearest hockey club. The interior in the photo matched the closest one I found on the internet.

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"Gregory, this is a bad idea." Eleanor stood next to the car. "You need to stay in familiar surroundings. It'll help your memory."

I didn't answer, pressing the gas pedal and listening to the rhythmic hum of the engine. Then, I finally looked at her.

"What if somewhere out there, there's someone who once needed me?"

Eleanor's expression darkened.

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"And if he is, there were reasons why you two lost touch. Digging into the past is dangerous."

I silently gripped the steering wheel, but then I heard a sound that made me stop. The dull thud of a closing door. I turned my head and saw Eleanor in the passenger seat.

"I'm coming with you. At the very least, I'll keep you from starving on the way."

I smiled. She was always there, even when I hadn't noticed.

"Why am I alone, Eleanor?"

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She sighed, staring at the road ahead.

"Because you were obsessed with finding the greatest story of your career. Always chasing a sensation, traveling from city to city, capturing fleeting moments of life…"

She smirked playfully.

"What kind of woman would put up with that?"

I grimaced. "Oh, so I'm hard to handle now?"

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"Oh, incredibly!" She rolled her eyes dramatically. "But someone has to."

I laughed. So we drove together. And I felt good with Eleanor. It had been a long time since I'd felt this good.

Why have I never asked her on a date?

***

We arrived at the hockey club at noon. As I stepped out of the car, the crisp scent of ice and rubber from inside the rink reached me, triggering something distant yet oddly familiar.

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Kids in oversized helmets skated clumsily across the ice, their tiny bodies wrapped in thick jerseys.

The sound of blades scraping against the frozen surface sent a shiver down my spine. I had been here before. I was sure of it.

A blurred vision of standing by the rink, the cold air brushing my face, my voice calling out to someone. A boy, laughing. But before I could grasp it, the moment slipped away.

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"Gregory?" Eleanor's voice pulled me back to the present.

"I've been here before."

She gave me a slight nod before pushing open the door.

The club's front desk was operated by a young woman. Behind her, trophies and framed team photos lined the walls, some dating back years. I scanned them instinctively, but no faces jumped out at me.

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"Hi," I said, stepping up to the counter. "I was hoping you could help me find someone."

"Do you have a name?"

"Not exactly."

That got her attention. She finally glanced up.

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"I have a photo," I clarified, pulling out the picture and sliding it across the counter. "It's from a long time ago. This boy played hockey here. I need to know if anyone remembers him."

"Sorry, I don't know. I've only been working here for three years. If you don't have a name, there's not much I can do."

"Maybe a coach?" Eleanor offered. "Or someone who's been here longer?"

The receptionist sighed, tapping at her keyboard.

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"Most of our staff has changed over the years. If he played here as a kid, that would have been… what? Fifteen, twenty years ago? That's before my time, sorry."

She gave me a small shrug, the universal sign for "there's nothing else I can do."

That place meant something. I knew it did. And I was so damn close, but I had nothing to hold onto.

"Are you looking for someone?"

I turned and saw an older man standing near the entrance to the rink, wearing a security guard's uniform. Hope flickered inside me.

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"Yes," I stepped closer, holding up the photo. "Do you recognize this boy?"

The guard took the picture, holding it close to his face. His brows furrowed. Finally, he nodded.

"Yeah. I remember him."

I held my breath.

"He always came with his father," the guard continued, returning the photo to me. "Good kid. Loved the game. But he got injured—bad hit. After that, his hockey dreams ended."

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Something inside me twisted painfully. Do you know his name?"

The man hesitated for a moment as if reaching into the depths of his memory. Then he nodded again.

"Jason. Lives nearby. Works in town. I see him sometimes."

Then he tilted his head slightly, looking at me more closely. "You know… you two have familiar features."

"Thank you," I barely managed to say.

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I turned to Eleanor, my hands trembling.

"I need to see him."

"If I could stop you..."

I knew one thing: my life would never be the same again.

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***

The house was modest yet well-kept, with a neatly trimmed lawn and a porch light that flickered softly in the early evening dim. My heart pounded as I climbed the three short steps to the door.

What if I've been wrong to come?

Before I could change my mind, the door swung open.

A woman in her early fifties appeared. The moment she saw me, her lips pressed into a tight line.

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I didn't even have time to speak before she did.

"What are you doing here?"

I swallowed, gripping the old photo in my hand.

"I… I don't remember much. I lost my memory after an accident. But I found this photo and need to know who this boy is."

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Her eyes flickered down to the picture briefly before snapping back to me. She clenched her jaw.

"You don't remember?"

"No," I said honestly. "But I know it's important. I can feel it."

A sharp exhale escaped her lips. She glanced at Eleanor.

"And your companion? Does she remember?"

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I turned to Eleanor in confusion.

"What is she talking about?"

Eleanor's gaze dropped slightly, avoiding mine. The woman in the doorway let out a bitter laugh.

"I see. It's better this way, isn't it?"

The door shut before I could say another word. The finality of it hit me like a slap. Then, slowly, I turned to Eleanor.

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"Talk. Tell me what's going on."

Eleanor sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples.

"Jason is your son. And that woman is your ex-wife."

My breath caught. No. That couldn't be right.

"You knew?"

"Yes," Eleanor admitted. "But I didn't want to tell you. Because the truth… the truth is painful, Gregory."

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I couldn't speak. My chest felt tight like something was crushing me from the inside.

"She blamed you," Eleanor continued. "Jason got hurt playing hockey, and she said it was your fault. She shut you out. She forbade you from seeing him. And you… you tried to move on, but you never really could. You drowned yourself in work. And I... I was there."

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I looked at her then, really looked at her.

"You and I…?"

"We were together for a while. I helped you pick up the pieces. But you never forgave yourself. You kept chasing stories, running from your own life. And eventually… you moved into the apartment next to mine, and we became neighbors. And that was it."

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I felt lightheaded.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because for the first time in decades, you weren't suffering. I thought… maybe forgetting was a blessing."

Suddenly, the front door creaked open again before I could say anything else. A young man stood there. Mid-twenties, tall, strong build. His dark brown eyes—my eyes—locked onto mine with quiet intensity.

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"Are you Gregory?"

"Yes."

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mom said I could come say hello."

Jason. My son.

"I… I don't know what to say," I admitted.

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He let out a small, almost nervous laugh. "That makes two of us."

I felt Eleanor shift beside me, her presence a silent reassurance.

"All my childhood memories," Jason said, his voice softer now, "they're with you."

The weight of his words nearly buckled my knees.

"Would you… like to get pizza?" I finally choked out.

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"Yeah. I'd like that."

And as we walked toward the pizzeria, I finally understood—I didn't want to be alone anymore.

"Jason, can I take a picture with you?" I asked.

"Of course," he said without hesitation.

"Do you think… Mom would mind?"

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"Oh, she feels her guilt too. But that's all for now. We all made mistakes." He smiled slightly. "Besides… I'm a photographer, too."

"Really?"

Jason chuckled. "Yeah. Guess it runs in the family."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Then we're definitely related."

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"Now we just have to make up for lost time, Dad."

I took the picture, capturing the moment for myself.

My last article was about my son. And it was the best one I had ever written.

But more than that… I realized it was time to fix what had been broken for too long. Eleanor had always been by my side. It was finally time to stop running and let her stay there.

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