I wake up in my flat, sunlight cutting across the floorboards. Everything feels normal—until I notice the clock is missing. Again. I know they took it. That woman, the carer, she stole my watch last week, and now the clock’s gone too. I shout into the empty room, demanding answers.

Then Anne walks in, but something’s off. She looks like my daughter, but younger, softer, like she did twenty years ago. She tells me she’s moving to Paris. Paris? With who? I don’t remember any man in her life since James. James—wasn’t he the one who left? Or did he die? I can’t recall.

She says if I keep driving carers away, she’ll have to put me in a home. A home? This is my home. I won’t go. I won’t let them take me.

Later, a man walks into my flat—Paul, he says his name is. Says I’m living in his and Anne’s apartment. That I’ve been here for years. That’s impossible. I live here. I’ve always lived here.

I look at the photo on the wall—Lucy. My other daughter. Where is she? Why doesn’t anyone talk about her?

I need to find my watch. I need to remember.