Tell me what you Remember

Okay, I can explain.

"Everyone keeps asking me that,"

Like there’s something I’m refusing to say.

But I’m not hiding anything.

I just don’t understand why my answers keep changing depending on who’s listening.

"You’re the live-in assistant, correct?"

"Yes".

I organize schedules, refill prescriptions, make sure doors are locked at night.

I notice things because it’s my job to notice things.

If I didn’t, someone could get hurt.

"Were you the last person to see her?"

"Yes."

That part is true.

I remember standing in the hallway with the light off, listening to her talk to herself.

She did that when she was tired. Or angry.

Or pretending she wasn’t afraid.

She sounded calm. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.

People don’t fall the way they say she did when they sound calm.

"You’ve reviewed the events?"

"Over and over."

I'm trying to find the moment I went wrong.

But every time I get there, the memory slips sideways.

Like it’s not mine anymore.

"Why didn’t you scream?"

"I didn’t hear a fall."

What I heard was the house settling. Pipes ticking.

This house has habits.

If you live inside it long enough, you learn the difference between noise and warning.

That night felt like noise.

"Did you remind her to take her medication?"

"Yes."

I remember because she smiled at me.

She always did that when she wanted me to stop asking questions.

“You worry too much,” she said and she said it kindly.

I wrote it down anyway. Time. Dosage. Initials.

I’m careful like that. At least, I usually am.

"We reviewed your notebook"

"Yeah, and you flipped through it like it might confess for me"

You said some entries were too neat.

As if neatness proves intent.

You also said some pages didn’t match the others.

Pressure different. Slant different.

Like the pen was held by someone with steadier hands.

"Where were you at 11:42 p.m.?"

"I was resetting the security system."

It malfunctions if you don’t enter the code slowly.

"She didn’t like the alarm, did she?"

"She said it made her feel watched."

I told her it was for her safety.

I believe that. I still do.

"But the system was disarmed."

"I wouldn’t do that."

Not without being told

Not without writing it down.

"You reviewed the hallway footage?"

"Yes."

Just a few seconds. No sound.

The hallway. The stairs.

The clock blinking: 11:42.

I watched myself step out of the shadows.

I didn’t look rushed or look angry.

I didn’t look like someone about to make a mistake.

I paused at the top of the stairs.

Like I was waiting for something. Or someone.

"You don’t remember that?"

"No."

I told you that.

"You always say that."

"And you always nod,".

Like you’ve already decided what forgetting means

I keep thinking if I could just remember it correctly, everything would settle into place.

Because I know what it feels like to be afraid.

And the woman in the hallway didn’t look afraid at all.

"So tell me what you remember, Detective."

Because I’m starting to think we’re not remembering the same person.