THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE MEMORY THIEF
Wednesday, October 18th – 10:00 AM
The first patient was a woman named Greta Holloway.
She was forty-three years old, a former schoolteacher, admitted three weeks ago with severe depression and suicidal ideation. She had not spoken since her admission. She spent her days sitting in the corner of her room, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes fixed on a point on the wall that no one else could see.
Sloane had read her file. The details were sparse. Greta had been found wandering the streets near the hospital, disoriented and mute. She had no identification. No family had come to claim her. The police had not been able to identify her.
She was a ghost.
One of the forgotten.
Sloane stood outside Greta’s room, her hand on the door, the voices in her head murmuring.
“She is like us,” Marian whispered. “She has been buried alive in her own mind.”
“You can help her,” another voice said. “You can remember for her.”
“You can remind her of who she is.”
Sloane opened the door.
The room was small, like all the rooms on the psych ward. A bed. A chair. A window with bars. The walls were bare, the paint a pale, institutional green.
Greta sat in the corner, just as the file described. Her knees were drawn to her chest. Her eyes were fixed on the wall. Her hair was matted, her clothes were wrinkled, and her face was expressionless.
“Greta,” Sloane said softly.
No response.
“My name is Dr. Vance. I’m a psychologist here at the hospital. I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”
No response.
Sloane pulled the chair to the corner of the room and sat down across from Greta.
“You don’t have to speak. You don’t have to look at me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I just want to be here with you.”
Greta’s eyes flickered.
Just for a moment.
But Sloane saw it.
“She heard you,” Marian said. “She is in there. Buried. But she is in there.”
Sloane closed her eyes.
She reached out with her mind.
The memories came.
Not hers. Greta’s.
Greta was seven years old, standing in the doorway of her parents’ bedroom. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn. Her mother was lying on the bed, her face pale, her eyes closed.
“Mommy?”
No response.
“Mommy, wake up.”
Her mother did not move.
Greta walked to the bed. She touched her mother’s hand.
It was cold.
She pulled back.
She ran to the kitchen, where her father was sitting at the table, a bottle in front of him.
“Daddy, Mommy won’t wake up.”
Her father looked at her. His eyes were red. His face was wet.
“Go to your room, Greta.”
“But Mommy—”
“Go to your room!”
She ran.
The memory shifted.
Greta was fifteen, standing in the bathroom of her high school. Her wrists were bleeding. She was holding a razor blade. The blood was warm, running down her arms, dripping onto the tile floor.
She had tried to forget her mother.
She had tried to forget the cold hand, the closed eyes, the way her father had looked at her like she was already dead.
But forgetting was not working.
So she had decided to remember.
The way her mother had remembered. With blood.
The memory shifted again.
Greta was thirty, standing in the living room of her apartment. A man was shouting at her. Her boyfriend. The one who said he loved her.
“You’re crazy,” he shouted. “You need help.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“You cut yourself. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You just sit there and stare at the wall.”
“I’m remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“My mother.”
“She’s dead, Greta. She’s been dead for twenty years. You need to let her go.”
“I can’t let her go. She’s all I have.”
“You have me.”
“No. I have her. She’s inside me. She’s always been inside me.”
The man left.
Greta sat on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes fixed on the wall.
She never spoke again.
The memory faded.
Sloane opened her eyes.
Tears were streaming down her face.
Greta was watching her.
Not the wall. Her.
“How do you know?” Greta whispered. Her voice was rough, rusty, like a door that had not been opened in years.
“I’m a psychologist,” Sloane said. “It’s my job to know.”
“You saw it. My mother. My father. The blood.”
“I saw it.”
“No one else has seen it. No one else has wanted to see it.”
“Then they weren’t looking hard enough.”
Greta unfolded her legs.
She reached out.
Sloane took her hand.
“What happens now?” Greta asked.
“Now you remember. All of it. Not the pain. The love. The love your mother had for you. The love you had for her. The love that never died.”
“I don’t remember the love.”
“It’s there. Buried. Under the pain. Under the grief. Under the forgetting.”
“Help me find it.”
Sloane closed her eyes.
She reached out with her mind.
And she remembered for Greta.
The memory was buried deep.
Under layers of trauma, layers of denial, layers of self-destruction. But it was there.
Greta was four years old, sitting on her mother’s lap. Her mother was reading a book. Not a children’s book. A grown-up book. But Greta didn’t care about the words. She cared about the voice. Soft. Warm. Safe.
“I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you too, my little star.”
“Will you always love me?”
“Always. Forever. Even when I’m gone.”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. I’ll always be right here.” Her mother touched her chest. “In your heart. In your memories. In the love we share.”
Greta opened her eyes.
The memory faded.
She was back in the hospital room, holding Sloane’s hand.
“I remember,” she whispered.
“What do you remember?”
“The love. The love my mother had for me. The love I had for her.”
“It never died.”
“No. It was just… buried.”
“Now it’s not.”
Greta smiled.
It was a small smile. Fragile. But it was real.
“Thank you, Dr. Vance.”
“You’re welcome, Greta.”
Sloane stood up.
She walked to the door.
“Dr. Vance?”
She turned.
“How did you do that? How did you see my memories?”
Sloane hesitated.
She could lie. She could say it was years of training, years of experience, years of learning to read people.
But Greta deserved the truth.
“I’m the Keeper,” Sloane said. “I hold the memories of the forgotten. The ones who have been buried alive. The ones who have been silenced. The ones who have been erased.”
“You can see anyone’s memories?”
“Anyone who is willing to share them.”
“Is that a gift?”
“It’s a responsibility.”
Greta nodded slowly.
“Will you come back?”
“If you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Sloane smiled.
“I’ll come back.”
She walked out of the room.
The voices in her head were cheering.
“You did it,” Marian said. “You helped her remember.”
“She is no longer forgotten,” another voice added. “She is no longer alone.”
“She is no longer buried.”
Sloane walked to the nurses’ station.
The nurse looked up.
“Greta Holloway spoke today,” Sloane said.
The nurse’s eyes widened.
“She spoke?”
“She spoke. She’s ready to start therapy. I’d like to see her again tomorrow.”
“Of course, Dr. Vance. I’ll make a note.”
Sloane walked away.
Behind her, the voices were still cheering.
But one voice was silent.
“The Keeper,” it whispered. Not cheering. Not happy. Hungry. “The Keeper has awakened. And she is powerful.”
Sloane stopped.
“Who said that?”
The voices fell silent.
“Who said that?”
“No one,” Marian said.
“I heard someone. A voice I haven’t heard before.”
“The tree,” Marian whispered. “The tree is watching. The tree is waiting. The tree is hungry.”
Sloane’s blood ran cold.
“The tree is part of me now.”
“Part of you. Not all of you. The tree has its own will. Its own desires. Its own hunger.”
“What does it want?”
“To remember. To be remembered. To never be forgotten again.”
“But the tree is not a person. It’s a collection of memories.”
“Memories have power. Memories have will. Memories can hunger.”
Sloane pressed her hand to her chest.
The warmth was still there.
The warmth of the tree.
The warmth of the Watcher.
The warmth of the child.
“What does it want from me?”
“Everything.”