“How do I even begin telling everyone about myself when I could barely remember where I came from?”

People would usually laugh it off every time I tell them that I have no idea about my childhood. Not even the faintest. I initially thought that it was normal—that everyone would automatically forget about certain parts of their lives if they had passed long ago, but I turned out to be wrong. On second thought, perhaps it is my drawback, the way I cannot recall anything from the past. But my classmates… they would mock me and tell me that I was adopted, hence the missing recollection of my early days. The more I think about it, the harder I try to accept that perhaps it is what actually happened.

I grew up in a loving family as the only child. My mom and dad spoil me rotten, and I do love them unconditionally. Sometimes they could be too much—too restraining, but they told me that they were doing it in the name of love. I couldn’t bring myself to complain if whatever I want would immediately be granted in a heartbeat. Although still, I would feel deeply disappointed when they caught trying to avert their gaze and change the topic when it comes to my childhood.

“Now it feels like I’m a lost soul borrowing a boy’s body.”

I could not tell you about my most wonderful childhood memories, my favorite food growing up, my silly antics, or even the hospital I was born in. I have never felt more like a stranger to my own self. But to tell you the truth, it shouldn’t matter that much, no? Not when I grew up to be a child who had everything on his table. What else could I ask for?

They know my name very well: Aether Dahlberg, the son of a rockstar. Some also call me a junior rockstar in the making. I am thriving, and I do love what I do now. I have got a number of fancy guitars at home, and dad’s collections are stashed meticulously in the attic.

“Don’t they usually store all your childhood keepsakes in the attic?”

What a silly thought, because I now find myself meddling amidst dusted piles of stuff and thingamabobs, wishing that one of them had the trace to my own forgotten past. For a hot minute, I was on this stupid mission deeper than I thought—hands sprawled on every surface, fingers opening what seemed to be albums and boxes… but the only thing that felt familiar to the touch was this key. Dark in color, and superficially attractive. I was immensely drawn to its enigma.

Not too far from the key was a small door that looked like it would ache my sides if I were to squeeze myself in. Still, the pit of my curiosity is far from reach, and this key has always belonged to the door. I was physically shaking at the sheer thought that whatever lies behind the door would be the answer to all my questions, yet my grip was strong. I twist the key in, and something, or someone, stands on the opposite side.

“Mom…?”