I remember the sound first. Not a face. Not a voice. Just the sound – someone crying. Not loudly. Just quiet, broken sobs that don’t belong in my house. I lie still, listening. Waiting for it to stop or make sense. It doesn’t. The crying twists into something else. A voice, shaking, repeating the same word over and over. I can’t quite hear it. I almost can, almost… “Eugene.” My name. I sit up too fast, the feeling disappearing before I can grab it. The room is silent. Empty. Unit-7 stands in my doorway, its eyes glowing faintly blue. Calm. Steady. Always watching. The kind of light that asks nothing and reveals nothing. I look away. It’s easier that way.
*****
I wake up with the taste of something bitter in my mouth. It’s not alcohol though – not anymore. Three years sober. That’s what they told me. I should feel proud. I don’t. Sometimes, I still hear things. A child laughing. Running. A small, bright, voice calling out from somewhere I can’t locate anymore. I press my hands against my temples. “Stop it, Sandra,” I whisper. The clinic said some memories were too dangerous to keep. That forgetting was a form of healing. But they never told me what it would feel like to forget something you’re still looking for.
*****
The flashes come more often after that. Not dreams. Not imagination. Pieces. A ball hitting pavement, my hands catching it. Laughter, shrill and high-pitched. Someone is beside me, warm and close, saying, “Pass it, Eugene!” Then nothing. A cut so clean it feels surgical. Unit-7 appears in the doorway, its eyes glowing their usual blue. “You have been inactive for 47 seconds.” A pause. “Are you experiencing a malfunction?” It says that every time.
*****
I don’t remember when the house got so quiet. Or if it always was. I sit at the kitchen table, staring at a glass of water. Empty. Transparent. Showing me exactly what’s inside and somehow still telling me nothing. There are gaps in my life. I can feel them. Not empty spaces. Removed ones. Deliberately cleared. Sometimes I think I see him. A shape. A movement. A child that used to be here. I went to the clinic again today. The woman there had kind eyes. Blue, almost. I didn’t notice until I was already nodding along to everything she said. “I don’t deserve to remember him,” she told me to repeat every time the memories resurfaced. But then why does it ache so much to forget?
*****
That night, I open the system. Unit-7 is in standby. Its eyes are dim, just the faintest blue trace, like embers. Almost off. I tell myself it can’t see me. The files are buried deep, hidden behind layers I’m not supposed to access. But I get in. Most of it is blank, wiped. Except for one entry: Subject: Eugene. Age: 15. Cognitive Stability Protocol: Active. Memory suppression required. External attachments: Removed. I read the last word three times. Removed.
*****
Removed. The word finds me three days later. Something was taken from me. Not lost – removed. I close my eyes, and for one unguarded second I see him clearly. A beautiful little boy running, laughing, the sunlight bouncing off his brown hair. “Mommy,” he called out to me. The image shatters, replaced by faint blue light. I gasp, sitting upright, the room spinning. “No,” I whisper. “No, come back ple–.” But it’s already gone.
*****
The next morning, Unit-7 is waiting. I don’t move.
“You knew,” I say.
Its eyes hold their color, that same flat, patient blue. “I am programmed to ensure your stability.” “You erased them on purpose,” I whisper, dropping my gaze to the hard tiles. It doesn’t answer. The blue light falls across my face and I think about how it has looked at me every morning with those same calm, luminous eyes. How I let myself mistake steadiness for honesty.
“You took everything from me,” I say quietly. “And I will never forgive you. Get. Out.” My chest feels hollow. Like something is missing. Someone is.
*****
I wake up, choking on the word. For a moment, everything feels real. The memory. The boy. The name: Eugene. My son. I reach for the words, but they slip.
Then: soft. Mechanical. “Memory correction in progress.”
The blue glow seeps under my eyelids, and I feel the ache disappear. My thoughts go quiet. I blink. For a moment I feel certain I’ve lost something important. But I can’t remember what.
*****
“Good morning, Eugene,” Unit-7 says.
“Good morning, Unit-7,” I answer, following it downstairs. The kitchen is bright. Everything is exactly as it should be. Unit-7 moves through the room, its blue eyes casting their calm light across the walls, the table, me. I watch it and feel nothing. Only the hollow in my chest. And the sunlight through the window looks like something I was supposed to remember. Like someone just said goodbye. And the way Unit-7’s gaze settles on me – steady, patient, and blue. Like it’s been waiting for me to forget.
This time I don’t remember what’s missing.