Same Day — Brooklyn, Greenwood Heights, 42nd Street Avenue
A sleek black Mercedes-Benz 300 CDT Coupe pulled up in front of a modest two-story home nestled in the quiet suburbs. In the back seat sat a young teen with light blond hair and clear blue eyes, his expression distant and thoughtful as he stared out the car window.
The car came to a gentle stop in the driveway.
"We're here, Mr. Henry," the middle-aged driver said kindly. "Would you like help with your luggage?"
"No need. I've got it. Thanks for the ride, Mr. Lee," the boy replied, snapping out of his thoughts. He reached for the door handle, stepped out of the car, and grabbed his bag before closing the door. With a casual wave to Mr. Lee, he turned toward the house just as the front door opened.
Maria stood in the doorway, dressed in blue jeans and a floral shirt. She gave a small wave toward the departing car, her eyes softening as they landed on the boy approaching.
"There's my handsome young man," she said warmly, opening her arms.
The boy walked up and embraced her tightly, burying his face into her shoulder.
"I missed you so much, Mom," he murmured, the tension in his voice melting into her arms.
Maria stroked his back gently. "Hmmm… I guess things didn't go so well at Francine's place again?"
Michael didn't answer. He just held on, silent.
Maria sighed softly. Though she wasn't his biological mother, she had raised Michael since he was a baby—even breastfeeding him at times. Back then, her employer, Francine, had been more interested in parties and social events than parenting. It was Maria who had changed his diapers, soothed his cries, taught him his first words.
To Michael, she was his mother.
There had been a scandal when he first called her "Mom." Francine had nearly fired Maria on the spot. It was only thanks to David—Francine's husband at the time, and now Maria's husband—that she kept her job. Back then, David was a struggling lawyer, and Francine was a stay-at-home wife who did little actual homemaking. Maria managed the house and raised Michael almost entirely on her own.
After Francine and David's messy separation, things hadn't gotten easier. Though she'd never had anything to do with their breakup, Maria bore the brunt of the fallout. For years, she and David hardly spoke beyond what was necessary, focused as he was on rebuilding his career. It wasn't until he asked Maria and her daughter to move in—initially just for help—that anything changed between them.
Even now, years later, Maria often felt a pang of guilt. She loved Michael deeply, but the tangled roots of their family situation were hard to forget.
"Alright, let's get inside before you catch a cold. I'll make you some hot chocolate," she said, guiding Michael into the house.
Inside, the warmth and familiarity of home seemed to melt some of the tension in his shoulders. He gave Maria a faint smile before heading upstairs.
As he climbed, Michael's thoughts drifted back to the past two weeks at Francine's.
The first few days had been the usual routine—lavish gifts, outings, sweet talk, and forced smiles. His step-siblings had joined in the fun, and for a moment it all seemed picture-perfect.
But then came the inevitable pitch: "Why don't you move in with me, Michael? This could be your home, too." The same lines, every time.
Michael knew better.
Francine had cheated on his dad—with his father's best friend, no less—and when the truth came out, she'd tried to shift the blame. Sure, his dad worked too much. He wasn't perfect. But he had never lied to Michael. And when it mattered, he was there.
Francine? She showed up to school events, yes—but her eyes were always on her phone. She clapped at the wrong times. Her affection felt like a performance.
Maria, on the other hand, had always been there. Through scraped knees, broken hearts, and every small victory that mattered.
Letting out a sigh, Michael reached his bedroom door and opened it. As expected, everything was just as he'd left it—clean, neat, and cared for. His real mom's touch was everywhere.
He dropped his bag to the floor and collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
"It's open," Michael called out, his voice low and tired.
The door creaked open to reveal David standing in the doorway. He wore a plain black T-shirt and a pair of worn blue jeans, looking both casual and concerned. He lingered near the entrance for a moment, unsure whether to come in.
Michael gave him a brief glance before turning his eyes back to the ceiling, clearly not in the mood to talk.
David sighed softly. This wasn't the first time Michael returned from his ex-wife's place looking emotionally drained—and likely wouldn't be the last.
"Hey, buddy," David said gently, stepping into the room. "How was your time with your mother? Want to talk about it?"
Michael's jaw tightened slightly. "It was the same as always. And she's not my mother. Maria is."
David paused for a moment before responding, his tone firm yet calm. "Don't say that."
He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd his son. Closing the door behind him, he continued, "Look, I know she's made mistakes. A lot of them. But that doesn't change the fact that—"
"I know, Dad," Michael interrupted with a sigh. "She gave birth to me. She brought me into this world. And I should be grateful for that." His voice was tired, rehearsed, like he'd heard this speech one too many times.
David offered a small smile, trying to ease the tension. "Exactly. I just don't want you carrying all this by yourself. You can always talk to me, alright?"
He gave Michael's leg a light pat before standing to leave.
Michael nodded faintly, the edges of a smile tugging at his lips. As David reached the door, he paused, turning back with a thoughtful expression.
"Oh, and—Alex woke up."
The words hit Michael like a bolt of lightning. He shot up from the bed, wide-eyed. "Wait—what? Seriously? When?"
"Yesterday," David replied, watching his son's reaction closely. "We can go see him at the hospital later."
A flicker of hesitation passed across David's face, but he continued. "Just... be prepared. His condition is still fragile. He's awake, but he's not out of the woods yet."
Michael nodded slowly, still absorbing the news. Despite the caution in his father's words, a hopeful smile began to spread across his face.
An hour later, Michael was riding his bike through the neighborhood, the wind brushing against his face as he pedaled harder, driven by a quiet surge of hope.
Michael pedaled hard, the wind tugging at his jacket as he zipped through the familiar streets of the neighborhood. The morning sun cast long shadows across the pavement, but his focus was fixed ahead—he wasn't going to waste another minute. After making a sharp turn past the corner store, he coasted to a stop in front of a cozy, two-story house with a basketball hoop mounted above the garage.
He jumped off his bike without bothering to prop it up properly and rushed to the front door, knocking urgently.
A few seconds later, the door swung open.
Mark Hunter stood there, blinking in surprise. His tousled dark brown hair, slightly wavy, fell over his forehead and around his ears. His light brown eyes lit up behind round, wire-framed glasses, and his fair skin glowed softly in the morning light.
"Michael?" Mark's voice cracked with excitement. "Dude! You're here!"
The two boys grinned and immediately pulled each other into a brief, brotherly hug—the kind only shared between close friends who hadn't seen each other in far too long.
"It's been weeks!" Mark said as they stepped back. "I thought you got grounded again."
"I wish," Michael chuckled dryly. "I've been at… her place."
Mark's expression shifted just slightly, understanding immediately. He didn't press.
The two walked inside toward the living room, falling into an easy rhythm. Their friendship had always been natural, born from their parents' closeness and strengthened over years of sleepovers, bike rides, and shared summers.
Alex was more than just a mutual friend—he was like a little brother to both of them. He had a big heart, an even bigger imagination, and an innocence that pulled people in. His intellectual disabilities made him vulnerable in ways that stirred a fierce protectiveness in anyone who knew him well, and Michael and Mark were no exception.
"He's awake," Michael finally said, unable to hold it in any longer.
Mark smirked knowingly. "I know. Mom told me last night after she and Dad came back from the hospital."
Michael blinked. "Wait—she already went?"
"Yeah, obviously. " Mark said, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I had to stay back and watch Emma. But she said Alex looked daze... like, really out off it, but awake. I've been waiting all morning for a chance to see him myself."
"I'm heading there now," Michael said. "Dad's taking me. Figured I'd stop by and see if you wanted to come."
Mark shook his head with a sigh. "I wish. Mom said she'd take me later this afternoon once she gets back from running a few errands."
Michael nodded, understanding. "I'll let him know you're coming. And that you didn't forget about him."
"Thanks," Mark said with a small smile. "Give him a fist bump for me, alright?"
"You got it."
With that, Michael turned back toward the door, already eager to see Alex for himself. Mark stood at the doorway, watching his friend ride off, the sunlight catching in the spokes of the bike wheels as they turned.
The day felt different—brighter somehow. Alex was awake.
Hospital Center– Alex's Room
Oliver hovered beside Alex's bed, his posture stiff, the lines in his face sharpened by a mixture of hope and disbelief. Jennifer and Ashley stood frozen just inside the room, as if afraid to get too close. The only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights above.
Alex blinked slowly, his gaze flickering between them all—his father, his sisters, and Duke—his expression tight with discomfort and uncertainty.
"Alex?" Martha asked softly, unable to stop herself from inching forward.
"...Mom?" Alex said, a hesitantly as unsure of his words. Though it felt right
The word felt odd in his mouth. Heavy. Like something remembered from a dream.
Martha gasped, covering her mouth. Her knees gave out and she sat at the edge of the bed, reaching for him with trembling hands. "Yes, sweetheart. It's me."
Alex looked at her face, searching it—studying the curve of her eyes, the shine of her tears, the tremble in her voice. His brows pinched together in a frown.
"I know you. But…" he hesitated. "You feel farther away than you should."
Jennifer let out a strangled sound, and Ashley was already crying, clutching her sister's arm.
Alex turned his head toward them. He stared. Recognition stirred, faint and flickering like a candle in the dark.
"Jennifer," he said first, slowly. "Ashley."
The girls gasped.
"But I don't know how I know that," Alex added, wincing and pressing the heels of his palms to his temples. "It's like… like the names are there, but everything else is stuck behind a wall. It's loud. Everything is loud."
Duke took a cautious step closer. "Alex… it's me. Duke."
Alex squinted. "You're harder to figure out."
Duke's throat tightened. He didn't speak.
Dr. Reynolds cleared his throat, gently breaking the spell. "Mr. Williams, I strongly recommend we begin full diagnostics as soon as possible. What we're witnessing is beyond extraordinary—it's a complete neurological recalibration."
Oliver barely heard him. He was still staring at his son—his son who had spent the last nine years locked behind a fog of confusion, limited speech, and scattered thoughts. His son who now spoke with self-awareness, with clarity, with… insight.
Alex looked back at him. "You're my Dad," he said, but more cautiously. "I know that. I think. But I don't remember why exactly, there a lot of messy thoughts going on in my head right. But that the first word that comes to mind when I look at you."
The words hit Oliver like a punch to the chest.
Oliver eyes became a little teary-eyed but, not of joy at actually hearing Alex speak so fluently without stuttering or fidgeting around. He'd never believed this day would come, Oliver quickly wiped his eyes. Alex not completely recognizing hurt but, that was of secondary concern.
Martha place a hand on her husband back tenderly. Alex stared at both of his parents picture formed in his mind, a memory that overlapped this moment.
"I feel like I'm waking up inside someone else's life," Alex whispered. " And that someone was very… lost."
No one could speak for a long moment.
Then, softly, Martha reached up and brushed a strand of hair from Alex's forehead. "You're not lost anymore," she said, voice cracking. "You're here. You're with us."
Alex looked at her hand, then slowly leaned into the touch. His eyes slipped closed for just a moment.
"I'm tired," he said. "Everything's moving too fast."
"We'll give him space," Dr. Reynolds said gently. "I need to notify a neurologist immediately."
One by one, they began to file out, each looking back at Alex with a mixture of awe and grief and something like wonder. Ashley paused at the door and gave a wavering smile. "We'll be back soon, okay?"
Alex just nodded faintly.
Soon, the room was quiet again.
He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts a whirl of images, feelings, and memories that didn't quite belong to him—or maybe they did, once. He felt like he was standing in the middle of someone else's memories, only now, for the first time, he could actually read them.
His body ached. His head pulsed. But underneath it all… there was a strange clarity, like he'd finally opened his eyes after years underwater.
Taking in a deep breath, Alex rested is head back against the pillow closing his eyes as sleep over to him. Side-effect of the pills the doctor gave him to help with his throbbing headache.
Outside of the hospital Alex's parents and three siblings all stared back into the room, watching Alex fall back asleep.
" It still feels like a dream. Doesn't it?" Ashely said, mirroring everyone else thought on the matter.