Althea woke to another morning of filtered sunlight. It seemed softer than the day before, or perhaps she was simply noticing it now. The shadows in her room were longer, stretching across the walls in pale stripes. She stretched slowly, feeling the gentle stiffness in her limbs, the unfamiliar weight of her body reminding her she was still alive.
Ms. Everhart appeared at the door, just as she always did. "Good morning, Althea," she said. "Today we'll try some new routines, nothing too overwhelming."
Althea nodded, her throat tight but voice absent. She had learned to trust the quiet consistency of Ms. Everhart's presence.
After breakfast, Ms. Everhart led her down the hall to the garden. Kate was already there, humming softly as she tended the flowers. Her hands moved quickly, planting new seedlings while leaving older plants undisturbed. Clara appeared shortly after, folding towels on a small bench, her movements precise, deliberate.
"Althea, this is your chance to help both of them today," Ms. Everhart said. "You'll start with the garden. Small tasks, just observe and follow along."
Althea took a deep breath and stepped forward. She picked up a watering can, remembering the rhythm she had learned last week. The water poured slowly, soaking the soil. Kate glanced at her, smiled, and nodded slightly. The gesture was small, but it encouraged Althea more than words ever could.
"Nice work," Ms. Everhart said softly. "See? You already know what to do."
Althea felt a spark of confidence she hadn't realized was possible. She moved among the pots carefully, mimicking Kate's movements, noticing the patterns of how she handled each plant. Clara came forward and demonstrated folding a small set of towels for the kitchen. Althea followed her lead, her fingers brushing against Clara's hands briefly as she adjusted the folds. The contact was fleeting but grounding.
Later, during lunch, Althea noticed the subtle rhythms in the dining room. Kate reached for a plate first, Clara arranged utensils meticulously. Althea tried to match these movements, feeling strangely connected to the routine.
After the meal, Ms. Everhart suggested a walk around the property. Althea followed, observing the world with attention she hadn't exercised in years. The garden paths curved gently, lined with flowers of muted colors. Kate and Clara moved through the paths almost silently, yet their presence filled the air with warmth.
"Althea," Ms. Everhart said, pausing to look at her, "you're adjusting well. You might not feel it yet, but your body and mind are learning to function together again."
Althea nodded. She tried to believe it. Even though she remembered nothing, even though the past was a blank, she had herself, she had routines, and she had these small connections forming around her.
Later in the afternoon, Althea sat by the window, notebook in hand. She wrote observations: the soft hum of Kate's voice, Clara's careful folding, the way the sunlight warmed her hands. Each entry grounded her, built a record of her life in the present. She began to notice tiny changes in herself—a steadier hand, a calmer breath, a growing awareness of those around her.
Evenings were always quieter. Althea lay in bed, whispering her name: Althea Vallejo. It no longer sounded entirely foreign. She closed her eyes and imagined walking through the garden, passing Kate and Clara, feeling the small, comforting presence of others in a space that was slowly becoming hers.
By the end of the first part of this week, she could navigate the house more confidently. Tasks that had felt impossible were now routine. Small interactions with Kate and Clara had become meaningful, though unspoken. Their presence reassured her, reminded her that she was part of something larger than herself, even if she could not yet remember what had come before.
The following morning, Ms. Everhart appeared at her door as usual. "Good morning, Althea. Today, we'll try a few new routines. Don't worry, nothing will overwhelm you."
Althea nodded, feeling a subtle tension in her shoulders. She had learned that routines provided safety, yet the unknown still lingered at the edges of her mind.
After breakfast, Ms. Everhart led her to the garden again. Kate was there, arranging small potted plants, humming softly. Althea observed the rhythm of her movements, the careful tilt of her head, the occasional glance toward Althea as if silently encouraging her. Clara was nearby, folding and organizing towels for the kitchen. Her calm precision grounded the space around them.
"Althea," Ms. Everhart said, "today, you'll help both Kate and Clara with different tasks. You'll rotate between the garden and the kitchen."
Althea hesitated but followed instructions. She poured water carefully for the plants, adjusting her pace to match Kate's silent rhythm. Kate occasionally offered a small smile, a nod, or a subtle gesture indicating which pot needed attention. Each silent cue was a form of communication, gentle yet powerful.
When it was Clara's turn, Althea carried folded towels to the kitchen. Clara guided her hands briefly, showing how to stack them neatly. The brief contact anchored Althea, reinforcing her growing awareness that she could navigate not just her own movements but also the unspoken language of others around her.
Lunch came, and the dining room felt slightly less intimidating. Althea noticed the rhythm of the room: Kate's soft humming, Clara's deliberate placements of utensils, Ms. Everhart's calm presence overseeing the flow. Althea mimicked these small patterns, feeling her movements slowly align with the routines she had observed over the past week.
After lunch, Ms. Everhart suggested a new activity: folding linens for the other rooms. Althea felt a flutter of nervousness. She worried about making mistakes, about breaking the unspoken order of the house.
Clara approached, placing a neatly folded towel beside her. "Start with this one," she said gently. "Take your time. It doesn't have to be perfect."
Althea's fingers fumbled slightly, but Clara's presence was patient, allowing her to adjust. Each neatly stacked towel was a small victory, a tangible sign of accomplishment in a world where her memory offered no guidance.
Later in the afternoon, Althea found herself sitting in the garden, notebook in hand. She observed Kate moving among the pots, Clara arranging supplies, and Ms. Everhart tending small tasks here and there. She recorded each detail carefully: the angle of sunlight, the color variations in the flowers, the soft cadence of Kate's humming, the precise folds of Clara's hands. Writing became more than documentation; it was a form of connection, a way to anchor herself in the present.
As evening approached, Althea experienced a fleeting moment of panic. She stood at the window, realizing she could not recall the last time she had felt truly independent. The blankness of her memory pressed against her chest. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched the notebook.
Ms. Everhart appeared beside her quietly. "It's alright," she said softly. "You're allowed to feel uncertain. Each step forward is progress, even when the past is absent."
Althea nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat. The presence of someone who understood, who did not judge, made the fear manageable. Kate walked past the window, glancing at her briefly. The simple acknowledgment was enough to soothe her unease.
That night, Althea repeated her name softly, tracing it in her notebook. Althea Vallejo. The words no longer felt entirely foreign. She had lived in this house long enough to establish small routines, to recognize familiar faces, to notice patterns. Though she remembered nothing of her past, she was learning to exist fully in the present.
The next morning, Althea encountered a minor challenge. While carrying a tray to the dining area, she stumbled slightly, nearly dropping the dishes. A rush of panic rose within her, memories absent but fear real. Kate's hand appeared almost instinctively, steadying the tray.
"You're okay," Kate said softly. "Just take it slow."
Althea exhaled, following her guidance, realizing that small acts of help could build trust, even without words. Clara appeared shortly after, offering a gentle nod. Althea felt the faintest warmth of belonging—not from memory, but from consistent presence and mutual support.
Over the next few days, Althea continued to navigate daily life with growing confidence. She folded clothes with precision, tended the garden, assisted in meal preparations, and observed Kate and Clara closely. She began initiating small interactions, like handing Kate the watering can without instruction or asking Clara a quiet question about folding techniques. Their responses were patient, encouraging, never intrusive.
Althea's notebook became a repository of small victories: a perfect row of folded towels, a plant revived under her care, a conversation navigated without hesitation. Each entry reinforced her sense of agency, a subtle affirmation that she could survive and even thrive despite the absence of memory.
Evenings remained reflective. She traced her fingers along the window sill, listening to the soft movements of Kate and Clara in the hall. Though no shared stories existed yet, she felt a growing sense of connection, a fragile but undeniable thread of human presence anchoring her in the world.
By the end of this second part of Chapter 10, Althea's days had developed rhythm and structure. She could move through the house with confidence, assist in daily routines, and engage in small interactions with Kate and Clara. Though the past remained absent, she was building a foundation for a future: a life measured in small steps, subtle victories, and quiet bonds formed without the need for memory.
Ms. Everhart's final words before lights out captured the essence of this progress: "Recovery is not measured in leaps, but in steady steps. You're learning to live again, Althea, and that is the most important achievement of all."
Althea closed her eyes, feeling the weight of those words settle. She did not yet remember, but she understood that she was learning to exist—and that, for now, was enough.