When I was five, Mom and Dad told me I was diagnosed with Asperger''s Syndrome. All I knew


    about it was that it supposedly meant you were a loner with an off-the-charts IQ.


    Scratching my head, I wondered, am I really one of those reclusive geniuses? As for my smarts...


    they seemed pretty average to me. Remembering high school, poring over textbookste into the


    night, I was just your typical studious kid, nothing on the level of a prodigy like Colin.


    "Today marks Phoebe''s first day of therapy at the hospital. Damian says her case isn''t severe. With


    proper treatment, she''ll be able to live like everyone else."


    "Phoebe''s second day in therapy, and Damian says she''s improving, even ying games with other


    kids now."


    "Phoebe''s third therapy session. Damian says there''s been a setback."


    "Today Howler ran away from home. We searched for ages until we found him sneaking into the


    sanatorium to see Phoebe."


    "After Howler came back, he stopped eating and drinking, justy by the door looking miserable. I


    knew he was waiting for Phoebe."


    The picture of Howler lying by the door, head hanging low, was taken by Mom. It captured his


    somber silhouette.


    A tightness gripped my chest, aching as I gently touched the photo. I wish I could reach out and feel


    Howler again.


    I have no memory of Howler, but his picture still brings me to tears.


    "Damian says Phoebe can go back to her normal life. We can bring her home from the hospital. I


    cried with joy allst night. We can finally pick up Phoebe."


    ording to the journal, I had three stints of treatment with Damian, thest onesting six months,


    making up a year of therapy. What did Damian do during that year? Why can''t I remember any of it?


    It''s as if those memories were scrubbed clean from my mind.


    "Phoebe and Howler."


    After my first round of therapy, I managed to start kindergarten. Howler was still alive. I was a bit of


    an introvert, but I could interact normally with the other kids and teachers.


    Then, when I was eight, the year I met Colin, I ended up back in the sanatorium.


    The reason was that I had hurt a kid from the orphanage. Not fatally, but enough to scare everyone.


    The journal mentioned I had killed a chicken at the orphanage.


    I massaged my temples, overwhelmed by my mother''s records of my past. Was I really such a wild


    child, killing chickens?


    The most terrifying part is that reading these entries feels like I''m looking into someone else''s life.


    It''s as if the memories from that time don''t belong to me at all.


    What was I like before losing my memories?


    Dexter is wary of me, afraid, yet he ims he loves me.


    Colin''s obsessive, protective love was for the me back then.


    Was I really better off in those days?


    Iy on my bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.


    Jealous, of all things, of my former self.


    Even though I don''t know why I''ve lost my memories, the current me actually envies the past me


    who had them.


    "Miss, it''s time for breakfast."


    Around 7:30, the housekeeper knocked on my door.


    I didn''t respond.


    Half an hourter, there was another knock. "Miss, it''s really time for breakfast now."


    Reluctantly, I opened the door, only to see Dexter standing there.


    "Phoebe,e down for breakfast," he said, relieved to see me open the door. "Did you sleep well


    last night?"


    I eyed Wendy warily and shot back at Dexter, "How about you? Did you sleep well?"


    Wendy nced at me and, with Dexter unable to see, she gestured for me to keep quiet and then


    shook her head slightly.


    Têxt belongs to N?velDrama.Org.


    I froze, puzzled.


    What was she trying to tell me? Had she seen something in Dexter''s roomst night?