The Nameless Man

The first thing he remembered was rain falling upward.

For several seconds, perhaps longer, he watched thin streams of water rise past him into darkness.

There was no sky beneath them.

No ground either.

Only blackness, broken occasionally by the glimmer of wet metal.

He tried to understand what he was seeing and discovered that understanding hurt.

Something pulsed inside his skull. Each beat drove pressure behind his eyes. He closed them, breathed through his mouth, then opened them again.

The rain was still climbing.

No.

Not rain.

Water was dripping downward from somewhere above him.

He was the thing that was upside down.

The realization came strangely easily. He knew what gravity was. He knew water fell. He knew that bodies were not meant to hang with blood gathering behind the eyes.

He knew all of that.

He did not know why he was there.

His left arm was pinned beneath something heavy. His right hand hung free, fingers brushing cold metal. A restraint cut across his waist. Somewhere below—or perhaps above; direction had become unreliable—water rushed violently between rocks.

He tried to shift his weight.

Pain tore through his shoulder and ribs.

A scream echoed through the wreckage.

It took him a moment to realize it had come from him.

He stopped moving.

For a while he concentrated only on breathing.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The air smelled of oil, wet earth, blood and something scorched.

Metal creaked around him.

Then he heard another sound.

Someone crying.

Very faint.

Man: "Hello?"

His own voice startled him.

It sounded unfamiliar, though he could not have explained what he had expected it to sound like.

The crying stopped.

He listened.

Man: "Can you hear me?"

Nothing answered except the river.

He tried to remember what had happened.

There should have been something.

A road.

A destination.

A reason he had been travelling.

Instead, when he reached backward, there was simply nothing there.

He frowned.

The pain in his head made concentration difficult, but this felt like more than pain.

He tried something easier.

His name.

The question should have been absurd. A name was not something a person had to search for. It should have been there before the question finished forming.

His mind returned nothing.

His breathing changed.

He tried again.

His name.

Nothing.

He searched for his home.

Nothing.

His mother's face.

His father's voice.

A bedroom.

A school.

A friend.

A birthday.

Anything.

There was no darkness hiding those things from him.

Darkness would have suggested they were still there.

This was absence.

Rescuer: "No."

He said it quietly, as though refusing might alter whatever had happened inside his head.

He knew what a hospital was.

He knew what blood was.

He knew that fire burned and winter followed autumn and two plus two equalled four.

He knew people were born and eventually died.

But between those two events there should have been a life.

His life.

And he could not find a single piece of it.

He pulled against the wreckage again, more from panic than intention.

Pain exploded through his shoulder.

This time, when he shouted, another voice answered.

Rescuer: "Don't move!"

A man's voice. Somewhere beyond the crushed metal.

The stranger called again, louder.

Rescuer: "If you can hear me, stay still. We're coming to you."

Man: "Where am I?"

There was a short pause.

Rescuer: "You're in an accident site. Rescue crews are here."

That was not what he had asked, but it was more honest than saying he was safe.

Man: "What happened?"

Rescuer: "We're still working that out. Can you tell me your name?"

His mouth opened.

Nothing came.

The question suddenly felt impossible.

Man: "I..."

He swallowed.

Rescuer: "I don't know."

Silence followed.

Not long.

Long enough for him to hear the river clearly again.

The rescuer's voice returned, calmer this time.

Rescuer: "All right. You may have hit your head. Don't force anything. Do you know where you were going?"

Man: "No."

Rescuer: "Who were you travelling with?"

Man: "I don't know that either."

Metal scraped nearby. A narrow beam of light appeared through a gap and moved across the interior.

For the first time he saw part of the wreckage around him: torn seats, shattered glass, twisted support bars, muddy water glistening below.

A figure climbed toward him.

The light caught his face.

He shut his eyes.

Rescuer: "Found him!" the rescuer shouted.

More voices answered from outside.

Hands reached him soon after.

Someone checked his neck. Another touched his wrist. Questions came from different directions—whether he could feel his legs, whether he could breathe properly, where the pain was worst.

He answered as best he could.

Then one of them asked again:

Rescuer: "What's your name?"

He opened his eyes.

A helmeted face hovered above him.

Rainwater ran from the man's chin.

Man: "I don't know."

The rescuer nodded once, professionally, as though this were merely another symptom to record.

Rescuer: "That's all right. We'll worry about that later."

But the man hanging upside down in the wreckage understood something the rescuer did not.

There was nothing else he wanted to worry about.

The world faded before they freed him. ---

When he woke again, the ceiling was white.

For a few seconds he simply stared at it.

Some irrational part of him had expected memory to return with consciousness.

It did not.

A machine beside him measured his heartbeat in soft electronic pulses.

There was a tube in his arm. Bandages covered part of his head. His ribs hurt when he breathed too deeply, and his left shoulder had been immobilized.

Sunlight entered through a narrow window.

He looked at his hands.

They were ordinary hands.

There was a pale scar near the base of his right thumb.

He turned the hand over and studied it.

The scar seemed old.

That should have meant something.

A cut from childhood.

A workplace accident.

Broken glass.

A fight.

Someone should have remembered receiving it.

He did not.

He traced it with his fingertip until the door opened.

A woman in a grey medical coat entered carrying a tablet.

She noticed his eyes were open and slowed.

Mara: "Good. You're awake."

Her voice was gentle but cautious.

He looked at her for several seconds.

Man: "Do I know you?"

Mara: "No. We haven't met while you've been conscious."

That answer relieved him more than it should have.

She pulled a chair beside the bed.

Mara: "My name is Mara. I'm one of the doctors treating you. You've been unconscious for almost two days."

He searched her face for something familiar anyway.

Nothing.

Man: "Where am I?"

Mara: "Saint Orra General Hospital."

The name produced nothing.

Mara noticed.

Mara: "Does that sound familiar?"

Man: "No."

She told him the name of the city.

Again, nothing.

He turned his head toward the window.

Man: "Am I from here?"

Mara: "We don't know yet."

He looked back at her.

There was something carefully controlled in the way she said it.

Man: "What do you know?"

Mara: "You were recovered from the North Crossing accident. You had a significant head injury, two fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder and several smaller injuries. Physically, you're doing better than we first expected."

Man: "And the part where I don't know who I am?"

Mara's expression changed slightly.

Not surprise. Confirmation.

Mara: "You told rescuers you couldn't remember your name."

Man: "I still can't."

Mara: "Do you remember anything from before the accident?"

He closed his eyes and tried once more.

Nothing.

When he opened them, Mara was watching him.

Man: "I know things," he said. "I know what this room is. I know what you're doing. I understand the language. I know what a doctor is. But if you ask me where I learned any of that..."

He stopped.

Mara nodded.

Mara: "That's useful information."

Man: "It doesn't feel useful."

Mara: "No. I imagine it doesn't."

That answer was softer than he expected.

She asked him several questions.

What year was it?

He did not know.

Who governed the country?

Nothing.

Could he read the monitor beside the bed?

Yes.

Could he understand the numbers?

Yes.

Could he describe what a train was?

Of course.

Could he remember ever riding one?

No.

Eventually Mara placed the tablet in her lap.

Man: "You seem to have retained general knowledge and learned skills. What's missing, at least from what we can tell so far, is autobiographical memory."

Man: "My life."

Mara: "Yes."

She did not disguise it behind medical language.

He appreciated that.

Man: "What happened in the accident?"

Mara: "A passenger vehicle went through the barrier on the northern crossing during the storm."

Man: "How many people were on it?"

Mara hesitated.

Mara: "Twenty-three, according to the transport company."

Man: "And how many survived?"

Mara: "Seven."

He stared at her.

The machine continued marking his heartbeat.

Man: "Was I travelling with anyone?"

Mara: "We haven't established that."

Man: "Has anyone asked for me?"

Mara: "Not yet."

There it was.

Not yet.

Two words shaped exactly like hope.

He looked away.

Man: "What did you find on me?"

Mara: "Very little."

Man: "No identification?"

Mara: "No."

Man: "Phone?"

Mara: "No."

Man: "Wallet?"

Mara: "No."

Man: "Anything?"

Mara's pause made him turn back.

Mara: "There were a few coins and one small metal object. Security has your belongings."

Man: "What kind of object?"

Mara: "I'm not sure how to describe it. A disc, perhaps. It may have been worn as a pendant."

Man: "Was there writing on it?"

Mara: "A symbol. And some damaged text."

Something changed in her face.

He noticed immediately.

Man: "You recognize it."

Mara: "No."

Man: "You reacted."

Mara exhaled and folded her hands.

Mara: "I've seen similar symbols before. That doesn't mean I know what yours is."

Man: "Similar where?"

Mara: "Religious contexts, mostly."

He looked at her.

That word should have carried associations.

Childhood ceremonies.

Rules.

Stories.

Arguments.

Something.

It gave him nothing.

Man: "Which religion?"

Mara: "That's the problem. More than one tradition uses symbols that could be mistaken for it."

Man: "So it doesn't tell us much."

Mara: "Not yet."

He lay back against the pillow.

The disappointment surprised him. A few seconds earlier, he had possessed nothing. Now even an uncertain clue felt precious.

Man: "Can I see it?"

Mara: "When security clears your belongings, yes."

Mara stood and adjusted the blanket near his arm.

He watched her.

Man: "Doctor."

She paused.

Mara: "If nobody comes for me, what happens?"

For the first time since entering the room, she did not answer immediately.

Mara: "We'll continue searching."

Man: "That isn't what I asked."

Mara: "No."

She looked at him carefully.

Mara: "If nobody comes, then we'll deal with that when we reach it."

He almost challenged her again.

Instead he looked toward the door.

Someone could still walk through it.

Someone who knew him.

Someone who would laugh at all of this and tell him his real name.

Man: "All right," he said.

Mara seemed mildly surprised by the lack of argument.

Mara: "Try to rest."

Man: "I've apparently been resting for two days."

A faint smile appeared on her face.

Mara: "Unconsciousness is not very restorative."

The remark drew the smallest breath of laughter from him.

It hurt his ribs.

Mara noticed.

Mara: "That's enough comedy for today."

Then she left. ---

Over the next five days, people came to ask him questions.

A police officer.

Two transport investigators.

A social worker.

Another doctor who tested his memory with photographs.

The photographs were the worst.

A bridge.

Man: "A bridge."

A bird.

Man: "A bird."

Doctor: "What kind?"

Man: "I don't know."

A historical ruler.

Man: "A king, I think."

Doctor: "Which one?"

Man: "I don't know."

Then the doctor placed a photograph of a family on the table.

A man stood behind two children.

A woman beside them was laughing at something outside the frame.

The room was ordinary.

A meal sat half-finished on the table.

One of the children had turned away from the camera.

Doctor: "Do you recognize anyone?"

Man: "No."

Doctor: "Does the photograph make you feel anything?"

He almost answered automatically.

Then stopped.

The family looked comfortable in a way that hurt to watch.

Man: "They know where they're supposed to sit."

The doctor waited.

Doctor: "What do you mean?"

He stared at the photograph.

Man: "They belong in that room. Nobody has to explain why they're there."

The doctor wrote something down.

That irritated him more than the question had.

Man: "Do you write down everything I say?"

Doctor: "Only what may help us understand your condition."

Man: "So if I say I hate that pen, does that become medically significant?"

The doctor glanced at the pen, then back at him.

Doctor: "No."

A small silence followed.

The doctor almost smiled.

He did not.

That was when the patient realized he had been trying to provoke a reaction simply because he could.

He looked away.

Man: "Sorry."

The doctor stopped writing.

Doctor: "For what?"

Man: "I don't know."

It was becoming the answer to everything. ---

On the sixth day, they brought survivors from the accident.

One at a time.

A woman with a broken jaw studied him for nearly a minute before shaking her head.

An older man thought he remembered seeing him board.

Man: "Was I alone?"

Older Man: "I think so," the man said. "But it was raining heavily. Everyone was rushing. I wouldn't trust my memory."

A young woman entered later that afternoon.

Her eyes were already red.

The moment she saw him, something changed in her face.

Recognition.

His heart lurched.

He pushed himself upright.

Man: "You know me."

The woman stopped.

For several seconds she just stared.

Then her expression collapsed.

Young Woman: "No."

The answer came softly.

He felt something inside him fall with it.

Man: "But you looked at me like you did."

Young Woman: "I'm sorry. For a moment..."

She pressed her hand to her mouth.

He understood before she explained.

Man: "You lost someone."

Young Woman: "My brother."

He looked down.

Man: "I'm sorry."

Young Woman: "So am I."

She turned to leave.

He almost called her back.

Not because he had anything else to ask.

Because for those few seconds, somebody had looked at him as though he belonged to them.

He let her go.

By the end of the day, he had learned very little.

One survivor thought he had been sitting near the rear.

Another thought he had spoken briefly with an elderly woman who had died in the crash.

Someone else believed he had boarded alone.

Nobody knew his name.

Nobody knew where he had come from.

Nobody knew where he was going.

Twenty-three people had entered the vehicle.

Twenty-two seemed to have histories.

The last had emerged without one. ---

On the eighth day, a nurse brought his belongings.

Everything fit inside a transparent evidence bag.

His coat had been cut open by rescuers.

One shoe was missing.

His shirt had dried stiff where blood had soaked into the collar.

There were three coins.

A paper receipt so damaged by water that most of the ink had disappeared.

And the metal disc.

He held it in his palm.

It was smaller than he had imagined.

Dark metal.

Scratched around the edges.

A small opening at the top suggested that it had once hung from a cord.

One side carried a symbol.

A vertical line.

Two curved marks beneath it.

Above them, a small circle broken at one edge.

He stared at it.

Nothing happened.

No memory rose.

No sudden certainty.

He turned it over.

Five words had been engraved into the back, though damage had erased part of the inscription.

Only three remained completely clear.

When alone, speak.

He read them several times.

Mara entered while he was still holding the token.

She noticed immediately.

Mara: "So they gave it back."

He nodded.

Mara: "Do you recognize it now?"

Man: "No."

He handed it to her.

Man: "Tell me what you thought you recognized."

Mara examined the symbol.

Mara: "I showed a sketch to a colleague. She thought it resembled an old sign associated with a group called the Keepers."

Man: "Associated how?"

Mara: "Religiously."

Man: "Then perhaps I belonged to them."

Mara: "Perhaps."

The word irritated him.

Mara noticed.

He pressed instead of snapping at her.

Man: "You keep saying perhaps because you're being careful."

Mara: "Yes."

Man: "How uncertain are you?"

Mara: "Very."

That was easier to accept.

She handed the token back.

Mara: "Another member of staff thought the same symbol resembled something used by the Houses of Ash."

He looked from her to the metal disc.

Man: "Another religion?"

Mara: "Another tradition."

Man: "Do they use the same symbol?"

Mara: "They would probably tell you they don't."

He almost smiled.

Man: "That sounds promising."

Mara did smile this time.

Mara: "You're beginning to understand religious history remarkably quickly."

He turned the token over again.

Man: "What does the symbol mean?"

Mara: "For the Keepers, something about being heard by the divine. For the Houses, I believe it relates to remembrance."

Man: "And nobody knows what mine means."

Mara: "Not yet."

He focused on the inscription.

When alone, speak.

Man: "Speak to whom?"

Mara sat beside the bed.

Mara: "I suppose that depends on what you believed."

He looked at her.

Man: "I don't know what I believed."

Mara: "Then perhaps that's another thing you'll have to discover."

He was quiet for a while.

Outside, evening light settled over the buildings opposite the hospital.

Windows began turning gold one by one.

Thousands of rooms.

Thousands of people returning somewhere.

He imagined someone, somewhere, noticing his absence.

A mother unable to sleep.

A father making calls.

A partner checking messages repeatedly.

A friend studying the news.

Perhaps they simply had not found him yet.

Eight days was not forever.

Distance existed.

Mistakes existed.

Bad luck existed.

He held onto each possibility.

Then another thought came, unwelcome and simple.

Eight days.

No one.

Mara stood.

Man: "I'll come back tomorrow."

He barely heard her.

When the door closed, he remained by the window with the token in his hand.

The words on the back seemed different now.

When alone, speak.

He looked at the empty room.

Mara: "Speak to whom?"

His voice sounded small.

No answer came.

He felt foolish almost immediately.

He placed the token on the table.

Then picked it up again.

There was nobody there to see him embarrass himself.

Perhaps that was the point.

He closed his hand around it.

Man: "Hello?"

The room remained unchanged.

The heart monitor continued its patient rhythm.

He waited.

Then tried again.

Man: "I don't know who I'm supposed to be talking to."

Still nothing.

He could have stopped.

Instead he looked toward the dark window.

Man: "If someone knows who I am..."

His throat tightened.

The next words were harder.

Man: "Tell me."

Nothing happened.

No memory returned.

No voice entered his thoughts.

No forgotten face appeared.

The room remained exactly what it had been before he spoke.

He lowered his head.

For several seconds he could not say anything else.

Then, so quietly that even he barely heard it:

Man: "Please."

That was the first prayer of his second life. ---