The evening light had dimmed to a soft orange glow filtering through the living room windows. The family sat in comfortable silence, the dinner plates long cleared away. Liam stretched in his chair and glanced at his phone, the blue light catching his silver hair.
"I should probably head home," he said, standing slowly. "Let you get some proper rest."
Michael looked up from where he'd been staring at his hands—these foreign hands that still didn't feel like his own. "Thanks for staying with me today. I know it couldn't have been easy."
"Don't mention it." Liam's green eyes were warm but tired. "That's what friends do, right? We look out for each other."
Sophie emerged from the kitchen, having finished the last of the dishes. Her movements were precise, methodical—everything in its proper place. "Thank you for everything, Liam. For staying at the hospital, for bringing him home safely."
"He's my best friend," Liam said simply, as if that explained everything.
His mother appeared from the hallway, her graying hair slightly mussed from organizing Michael's medication. When she looked at her son, Michael caught something in her expression—a flicker of relief mixed with lingering worry. The kind of look a mother gives when her child has been through trauma, searching for signs of lasting damage.
"You get some rest, dear," she said to Liam. "You've done enough for one day."
Liam nodded and headed toward the front door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, turning back to Michael. "I'll see you later, alright? Maybe tomorrow we can get some fresh air, walk around a bit."
"Yeah," Michael replied. "I'd like that."
After Liam left, the house settled into a quieter rhythm. Sophie moved through the living room, straightening cushions and folding the throw blanket, while their mother gathered the medication bottles, organizing them with careful attention. The soft rustle of fabric, the gentle clink of bottles, the quiet footsteps—Michael found himself listening to each sound, something warm spreading through his chest that he hadn't felt in years.
"Come on, sweetheart," his mother said softly, though Michael noticed how she watched him with the protective intensity of someone afraid her child might disappear again. "Let's get you settled for the night."
They walked down the narrow hallway together, Sophie following a few steps behind. The house felt different in the evening—smaller, more intimate. Family photos lined the walls, and Michael caught glimpses of himself in various stages of childhood, always smiling, always surrounded by people who clearly cared about him.
His room was at the end of the hall. When his mother opened the door, Michael stepped inside and took in his surroundings properly for the first time. The space was modest but clearly lived-in, with a single bed against the far wall covered by a navy blue comforter that had seen better days but looked clean and comfortable. Band posters covered most of the wall space—some he recognized from his old life, others completely foreign. A small dresser held personal items: a digital clock, some loose change, a pair of headphones.
In the corner near the window sat a wooden desk, its surface covered with open books and scattered handwritten notes. The chair was pushed back slightly, as if someone had been sitting there recently and stood up in a hurry. Even from across the room, Michael could make out bold text on some of the book covers.
"You spent hours at that desk," Sophie said quietly from the doorway, her voice carrying a note of fondness. "Always reading, always trying to understand everything about the world beyond the Walls."
Michael crossed the room and ran his fingers along the book spines, the titles now clearly visible: "The Great Wall: Engineering Marvel or Divine Intervention," "Understanding the Symbolic Bond," and "A History of Humanity's Last Stand." The handwriting in the margins was neat, methodical—questions and observations written in careful script.
I was studying this world, Michael realized. The real Michael was trying to learn about something important.
As he flipped through one of the books, something called "Hollows" caught his eye in the margins before he could read much more. The page flipped away before he could fully process what it meant, but it was the last clear thing he saw before closing the book, disturbed by whatever he'd glimpsed.
His mother moved around the room with practiced familiarity, straightening the comforter and fluffing the pillow. Michael noticed how she kept glancing at him, her eyes filled with the tender concern of someone who had nearly lost what mattered most to her.
"You were always so curious," she said, her voice carrying a strange quality—like she was remembering someone rather than talking to them. "Always asking questions about the Hollows, about the Symbolics, about what life was like before the walls."
'Behind the walls ?' he thought, confused. He didn't understand what she meant.
Michael sat on the edge of the bed, testing its familiarity. The mattress felt right beneath him, but everything else felt like wearing clothes that almost fit but weren't quite the right size.
"The doctors said your memory might take time to come back," Sophie added from the doorway. "Don't push yourself too hard trying to remember everything at once."
"I'll try to be patient," Michael said, though part of him was disturbed by what little he'd glimpsed in those books.
His mother leaned down and kissed his forehead, the gesture tender but somehow hesitant. "Sleep well, sweetheart. If you need anything during the night, just call for us."
Sophie lingered in the doorway for a moment longer. "Good night, Michael. It's so good to have you home."
"Good night," Michael replied softly, looking between them both.
They turned to leave, but just as they reached the doorway, something stirred inside Michael—a sudden, overwhelming need he couldn't quite name.
"Wait," he called out, his voice barely above a whisper.
Both women turned back, concern flickering across their faces. Michael stood up from the bed, his movements uncertain but determined. Without saying another word, he crossed the small room and wrapped his arms around both of them, pulling them into an awkward but heartfelt embrace.
His mother melted into the hug immediately, her arms tightening around him as if she'd been waiting for this moment all day. But Michael felt Sophie stiffen in surprise, her body going rigid against his side. She stood frozen for a long moment, as if she couldn't quite believe what was happening, before slowly, tentatively, returning the embrace.
"Thank you," Michael whispered into the quiet space between them. "For everything. For being here, for... for being my family."
When they finally pulled apart, Michael caught the shimmer of tears in his mother's eyes. Sophie looked stunned, staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite read—surprise mixed with something that might have been hope.
"Sleep well, sweetheart," his mother whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
"Good night, Michael," Sophie added quietly, though her tone carried a new warmth that hadn't been there before.
They left, closing the door softly behind them. Michael could hear their quiet voices in the hallway, too low to make out words but carrying a tone that seemed different now—less concerned discussion and more like wonder.
The room fell into darkness except for the amber glow of streetlights filtering through thin curtains. Michael lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling and trying to process everything that had happened.
The family dinner, the easy conversation, the way they all looked at him with genuine care—it was everything he'd dreamed of during those long nights at Martha's house. But underneath it all, he could sense there was so much more to discover. The books on the desk, the mentions of Hollows and Symbolics, the way everyone spoke about the world beyond the barriers as if it held both wonder and danger.
"Maybe everything that happened today was just a dream," he whispered to the darkness, his voice barely audible.
The words hung in the air. For a moment, he almost let himself believe it—that he'd wake up back in his old life, with all its familiar misery and hatred.
But then he thought about Sophie's careful cooking, Liam's loyal friendship, his mother's protective love. The possibility that this could be real, that he could actually belong somewhere—and maybe even discover what the real Michael had been so determined to understand.
"I hope not," he whispered even softer, closing his eyes and letting exhaustion pull him under.