The Town Without Yesterday

Halima woke to birdsong she didn’t recognize.

Not the sharp cries of crows on tin rooftops in Lahore, nor the afternoon calls of kites circling the sky. These birds sang in eerie harmony—too soft, too measured, like something from a sound machine. She blinked against the white light filtering in through gauzy curtains and sat up slowly, her breath quickening.

This wasn’t her room.

The walls were a pale, sterile cream. A small bookshelf stood in one corner, neatly arranged with hardcovers. The bed she lay on was wider than any she remembered sleeping in. Across from her, a framed photograph of a town square hung crooked on the wall—cobblestone streets, ivy-covered buildings, and people frozen mid-laugh. None of it looked familiar.

Her palms were sweating.

Where am I?

She threw off the blanket and swung her legs to the floor. The wooden floorboards were smooth and polished, not like the cracked tiles of her childhood home. She rose shakily to her feet, instinctively reaching for a headscarf, but found none. No luggage. No purse. No phone.

Nothing that belonged to her.

The door creaked open behind her, and she turned sharply.

A woman entered—tall, pale-skinned, with silver-rimmed glasses and an unsettling smile. She wore a white coat, like a doctor or a therapist.

“Good morning, Halima,” she said brightly. “How are you feeling today?”

Halima froze. “Who are you?”

The woman paused as if surprised. “It’s me—Dr. Keene. We’ve met several times now. You had a fall, remember? There was some trauma. It’s perfectly normal for memories to come back slowly.”

“I didn’t fall,” Halima said, backing away. “I was in Pakistan. I was traveling to Islamabad by bus. There was an accident—maybe—but this place? I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

Dr. Keene’s smile didn’t waver. “You’ve lived in Greybridge your entire life, Halima. You teach at the primary school just five blocks from here. You love blueberry muffins and volunteering at the church bake sales. You’re well known in the town.”

“No,” Halima whispered, her voice sharp. “I don’t even know what country I’m in.”

The doctor took a step forward, her voice soothing. “It’s okay. These confabulations are common. The mind tries to protect itself by inventing alternate narratives. But you’ll find your way back, I promise.”

“I don’t need to find my way back. I already remember who I am!” Halima snapped. “My name is Halima Ameer. I’m from Lahore. My father’s name is Shabbir. I have a younger brother—Sarfaraz—he just turned sixteen last month. He makes kites from tissue paper and bamboo. I was supposed to meet him—he’s waiting for me.”

Dr. Keene’s expression shifted subtly. Still calm, but calculating.

“There is no record of any Sarfaraz,” she said. “You don’t have any siblings.”

Halima’s breath caught. “That’s a lie.”

“You were raised in this town. We’ve spoken to your friends, your coworkers. They’ve all visited.”

“No,” she said again, louder this time. “You’re trying to confuse me.”

“We’re trying to help you.”

Halima’s head throbbed. She stepped toward the mirror above the dresser and stared at her reflection. Her face was the same—oval, dark eyes, slightly arched brows—but she looked… polished. Her hair had been trimmed and styled. She wore unfamiliar pajamas with a floral pattern she would never have chosen.

It felt like someone else’s life was being wrapped around her, inch by inch.

“Where’s my phone?” she asked suddenly. “Let me call home.”

“You don’t have one,” Dr. Keene replied gently. “You’ve never needed one.”

Halima laughed once, bitterly. “Everyone needs a phone. Even in Greybridge.”

Dr. Keene didn’t respond. She only watched, waiting. As if expecting Halima to break.

But Halima wouldn’t.

She turned sharply, heading for the door. “I want to see the town. If I’ve lived here, I want to walk through it.”

“We can do that,” the doctor said. “But only when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now.”

Dr. Keene hesitated, then gave a nod. “Very well. I’ll arrange for someone to accompany you.”

As the doctor left, Halima sat back down on the bed, staring at her hands.

She wasn’t insane. She knew who she was.

She remembered her brother’s voice calling her Api. She remembered the warmth of her mother’s chai, the uneven steps to her old school, the dusty market stalls near Mozang. These memories weren’t fantasies—they were hers.

And if this town wanted to erase them, it would have to try harder.

Because somewhere out there, Sarfaraz was waiting.

And she was going to find him.