Chapter 6 THE WEIGHT OF MEMORY
The elevator doors parted with a soft sigh, and the smell of antiseptic washed over Aliyah like a familiar tide. Morning rounds had just ended, and the corridors buzzed with the restless energy of the shift change — nurses handing off cases, interns clutching tablets, residents half-running toward their next crisis. It should have blended into the background, just another hospital morning, but something about today pressed against her ribs like a thumb on a bruise.
She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d slept barely three hours, or because she could still feel Meta’s eyes lingering on her from yesterday’s brief encounter. His voice had filled the cardiac wing, smooth and confident as always. Too confident. Too rehearsed. As if he’d practiced charm the way other surgeons practiced sutures.
“You look tense,” Ava murmured beside her as they stepped into the surgical wing. “Like you’re about to bite someone.”
Aliyah blinked. “Just tired.”
Ava gave her a look — the kind that said she didn’t believe a word of it but wasn’t going to push. “Well, brace yourself. You’re assisting Dr. Kepler for the splenectomy at noon. And there’s a consult waiting for you in room 314.”
Aliyah nodded, but the words floated somewhere behind her thoughts. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Observed. Studied. Maybe it was just the hospital’s atmosphere — too many eyes, too many cameras, too many hands charting every movement. Or maybe it was the echo of the past, pushing its way into the present like a pulse she couldn’t silence.
She paused halfway to the consult room, glancing at the reflective surface of a glass door. Her face stared back: calm, composed, unrecognizable.
Selene Ward is gone, she reminded herself.
Dr. Aliyah Wynn is all that remains.
She straightened her coat and walked into Room 314.
The patient was a middle-aged man with graying hair and eyes that switched between fear and exhaustion. His wife sat beside him, gripping his hand so tightly her knuckles whitened.
“You must be Dr. Wynn,” the wife said, rising.
“Yes,” Aliyah replied gently. “I reviewed his scans. Let’s talk through everything together.”
She pulled up the chart, and for the next several minutes, she explained the mass they’d found, the biopsy, the possible outcomes. She broke it down in plain language, pausing whenever the wife looked overwhelmed. When the patient’s eyes grew glassy with fear, she leaned in, lowering her voice.
“We’re going to take this one step at a time. You’re not alone in this. I’m here, and I’ll guide you through it.”
The wife exhaled shakily. “Thank you, doctor. No one explained it like that before.”
Aliyah gave a small smile — real, not performative. “You deserve clarity. And hope.”
When she finished answering their questions, she stepped out into the hall and exhaled slowly. These moments grounded her — the raw humanity, the vulnerability, the trust placed in her hands. It reminded her why she’d chased medicine in the first place. Why she’d fought to return even after everything was ripped from her.
But moments like this also reminded her of Meta.
He used to speak to patients with the same softness she saw in that couple’s eyes. He’d done it effortlessly, almost beautifully — the kind of warmth that made people fall in love with him. The kind that had made her fall.
Aliyah turned sharply, pushing the thought aside.
She didn’t come here to reminisce.
She came here for justice.
For the truth.
For the scar she still carried.
A voice echoed down the hallway — familiar enough to pull her head up on instinct.
“Dr. Wynn!”
Meta.
He was walking toward her with long, confident strides, his badge swinging, his scrubs fresh, his expression alert. Something in his gaze was directly focused on her, sharp with curiosity.
She forced her shoulders to relax. “Dr. Vale.”
“I didn’t get the chance to properly welcome you yesterday,” he said, stopping a few feet from her. “You handled the aneurysm case brilliantly. Dr. Kepler won’t stop talking about it.”
Aliyah kept her pulse steady. “Just doing my job.”
Meta’s smile flickered — impressed, intrigued. “Where did you train again? I read your file, but it felt… concise.”
Her stomach tightened.
Of course he noticed.
Of course he would.
He always dissected people the way he dissected a chest cavity — clean, efficient, leaving no tissue untouched.
“Different hospitals,” she replied. “Different cities. I moved around.”
“Hm. Interesting path.” His eyes skimmed her face with quiet intensity. “You remind me of someone I once knew.”
For a moment, the hallway shrank, the walls closing in around her. Her breath stilled. Her fingers curled slightly at her side.
But her voice was measured when she answered. “Lots of people work in medicine, Dr. Vale. Familiarity happens.”
Meta tilted his head as if trying to peer behind the mask she wore. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then Ava rounded the corner. “Aliyah, Dr. Kepler wants you in pre-op.”
Meta stepped back, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. “I’ll see you around, Dr. Wynn.”
As he walked away, Aliyah felt a tremor of something old — something sharp — claw at her chest.
Not recognition.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Something closer to the beginning of the end.
Pre-op was bustling when she arrived. Nurses checked vitals, anesthesiologists reviewed charts, and Dr. Kepler paced back and forth muttering his surgical plan under his breath. When he noticed Aliyah, he brightened.
“There she is, the star of yesterday’s trauma shift.”
Aliyah managed a polite nod. “I’m ready when you are.”
He handed her the clipboard. “Thought you might want to lead parts of the procedure. Your technique is cleaner than most of my second-years.”
A flicker of pride bloomed in her — small but warm. “I’d like that.”
As she reviewed the surgical checklist, she felt someone watching her again. She glanced over her shoulder.
Meta stood at the far end of the hallway, half-hidden behind a curtain, pretending to check a chart.
Their eyes locked.
He shifted his gaze immediately, but not quickly enough to hide the truth:
He was studying her.
Not the way a colleague studies a newcomer.
Not the way a surgeon studies potential talent.
But the way a man studies a ghost.
The surgery went flawlessly. Controlled blood loss, clean margins, smooth closure. When Aliyah removed her gloves afterward, a wave of satisfaction steadied her nerves. She needed this — the order, the precision, the clarity that the OR always gave her.
The clarity she lost years ago.
She showered quickly, changed into fresh scrubs, and slipped into the staff lounge. The room was empty except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft rattle of the air vent. She sat on the worn couch and allowed herself a single moment to breathe.
That’s when her phone buzzed.
A message from an unlisted number.
I know who you are.
Aliyah’s breath caught.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Her chest stilled.
Her world narrowed.
Then another message came seconds later.
We should talk. Tonight. Parking Level C. 9PM. Come alone.
Aliyah stared at the screen, her pulse hammering.
There was no name.
No hint.
No signature.
But she felt it — unmistakable, bone-deep, ancient.
Her past wasn’t just following her.
It had already arrived.