"Mother…"
I was shocked. The woman in front of me looked barely in her early twenties, yet she claimed to be my mother, even though I was clearly in the body of a child — about seven or eight years old, at least by my guess. The shock hit me hard, though I quickly realized my guess about the age might have been wrong.
Judging by the bandage wrapped around my head, it seemed I had been in some sort of accident. Before I could gather my thoughts, another person entered the room. He, too, looked worried but composed — and just like the woman, he had pointed ears. Two out of the three people here shared that strange feature.
He approached and hugged me gently. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm… fine," I replied weakly.
But then, the woman who claimed to be my mother spoke up, her voice trembling. "Look! He doesn't even know who I am!"
The man looked confused. "What do you mean by that?"
He quickly turned to me, concern filling his face. "Dear, do you remember who I am?"
I wanted to be honest, so I replied quietly, "I'm sorry… but I don't know you."
His expression froze, disbelief in his eyes. "Look at me," he said softly. "Try to remember who I am."
I tried. I really did. But there was nothing. I couldn't recall his face, his voice, or any memory tied to him. Finally, I said, "I'm sorry… I don't remember."
He went silent. Then, in a quiet, almost defeated tone, he said, "Call the doctor." He stepped out of the room, but I could still hear him clearly.
The maid beside me whispered, "His body is still weak." The woman — my supposed mother — exhaled deeply, slowly calming herself. She instructed the maid to prepare some food and water, then sat beside me.
We remained silent for a while until the door opened again. An old man entered, dressed in neatly fitted pants and a long coat. A boy around fourteen followed him, carrying a large bag that seemed almost heavier than he was.
"The doctor is here," said the man who had checked on me earlier.
The doctor didn't seem to have any modern equipment. He approached me with extreme care, as if touching me too roughly might get him punished. He asked everyone except the pointed-eared man to leave the room.
He began his examination — checking my pulse, then asking me to blow into something that looked like a balloon made of leather. He inspected me from head to toe, looking for any rashes or wounds, then carefully removed the bandage from my head.
He leaned closer to observe. "It's healed," he said, sounding surprised. "Only a small scar will remain."
He ordered the boy to hand him a new bandage, then applied some kind of medicine — it smelled faintly herbal — and rewrapped my head.
After that, he started asking questions:
"Does it hurt anywhere?"
"Do you know who the man beside you is?"
"Where are you?"
"How many fingers am I holding?"
"What's your age?"
Most of the general questions, I could answer. But when he asked about who I was — my name, where we were — I had no answers. I truly didn't know.
Still, one thing was certain. This wasn't the 21st century.
The doctor told the boy to pack up. As the boy turned, I noticed something striking — his hair was bright blue, and his eyes brown. It wasn't dyed; it was naturally blue, shimmering under the light. I knew then — no one on Earth had hair like that. This wasn't Earth. It couldn't be.
Could this be some kind of dream? No… it felt far too real. Every sound, every breath, every sensation — too vivid to be an illusion.
Then I overheard the doctor speaking quietly with the man who had stayed behind — my supposed father.
"It appears he's lost all of his memories," the doctor said gravely. "However, his general knowledge remains. He's forgotten everything with a title — names, places, his parents, his age — even his own name."
My father's voice lowered. "Will he ever regain them?"
"It's… highly unlikely," the doctor replied after a pause. "But perhaps something he's deeply attached to could help restore his consciousness."
Then I heard it — a woman crying softly. It was her. The woman who claimed to be my mother.
I glanced around the room again. I noticed more details I had missed before — people here had strikingly different hair colors. The boy had blue hair, the maid's was brown, my supposed father's hair was the same shade, while my mother's was pure white. Both of them had pointed ears and pale skin, like mine. No one else shared those features.
The room itself was simple but solid. A large glass window stood on the left wall, fixed in place, and two doors—one to the right, one beside the window—led elsewhere. There was barely any furniture, only a wooden table with a drawer beside the bed.
I wanted to move, to explore, to understand where I was… but my body was too weak. All I could do was lie there — watching, listening, and wondering what kind of world I had woken up in.