Sometimes I am drawn to stories that are not mine, but could be. It could be about a family member. But this one, I imagined one of these nights, when sleep does not come, thinking about what it would mean to get lost within oneself, in the labyrinths of our mind. I don't know if it will ever happen to me, I hope not, but I wanted to write it as if I were living it. I like to write stories that few people write about, beyond medical topics or conditions of that nature.
The house was quiet, in semi-darkness, as if time had hidden itself away in some corner. In a room where only a little light filtered through the curtains, a woman stood in front of an old mirror. The wooden frame was cracked, and the glass reflected a face she didn't quite recognize. It was hers, yes, but it didn't feel like her own. The wrinkles, the dull eyes, that lost expression... everything seemed foreign to her.
She touched her face with trembling hands. “Who am I?” she asked herself in a low voice. There was no answer, only deafening silence and the echo of her question, fading away between the cold walls. Sometimes she thought she heard footsteps, voices, distant laughter. She didn't know if they were real or memories that her mind was confusing with the present.
She had been beautiful, she knew that, looking at the photos in the living room. A young woman with dark hair and vibrant eyes, surrounded by people who loved her. In one picture, she appeared next to a man with a warm smile. Her husband? She wasn't sure, but something in her chest stirred when she saw her image in the photos.
Senile dementia began to creep in like a soft shadow, a confusion that seemed harmless. She forgot little things, mixed up the days, forgot whether she had eaten. But over time, that shadow turned into fog, and then into a growing darkness. Names faded away, faces blurred, and memories remained like scattered pieces of a puzzle she couldn't put together.
Now she lived alone. Her husband had died years ago, and her children—if she had any—were no longer with her. Perhaps they had drifted away out of sadness, out of cowardice, not knowing how to deal with the situation, out of convenience, or because she herself had forgotten them. The house was large, too large for her alone. Every corner held a story she could no longer tell. Her short-term memory was confused, but memories of her childhood often came to mind.
At night, she would sit down at the piano. The keys were worn, and the notes that came out were clumsy and discordant. She didn't know how to play, but her fingers moved as if something inside her were guiding them. Sometimes she cried without knowing why. Or she laughed, without understanding the reason.
In front of the mirror, she kept searching for answers. “That's not me,” she thought when she saw her reflection. But deep down, part of her knew that it was. That this tired, confused woman had loved, laughed, traveled, danced, and lived. Only now, her light was slowly fading, like a candle burning silently.
I hope that never happens to me...
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