After some time had passed, when my breathing had finally settled and the worst of my crying had faded into quiet exhaustion, Ms. Amelia stepped away for a moment and returned with a small tray.
On it was a glass of orange juice and a plate with a few cream chocolate biscuits.
At the time it felt strangely ordinary. Almost absurdly ordinary, considering everything that had happened the night before. Yet the calm way she placed the tray in front of me made the moment feel safe in a way I desperately needed.
My hands were still trembling slightly as I picked it up. I remember staring at the orange juice for a moment before taking a cautious sip. The sweetness felt. …..oddly grounding.
Ms. Amelia sat across from me while I slowly ate the biscuits one by one. The silence in the room was not uncomfortable, but it was clear that both she and Mr. Vidot standing near the window were waiting for the right moment to begin asking questions.
Mr. Vidot had been standing quietly near the window before finally turning toward me. There was something steady about his presence, something calm but alert, like a soldier who had already lived through too many dangerous situations to be easily disturbed.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried a calm seriousness that made it impossible not to pay attention.
That was the time when I came to know about their names. He gave his and Ms. Amelia's introduction, in a very formal way.
At thirteen, the formal introduction felt strangely adult, as if they were trying to make me feel included in something important rather than simply treating me like a frightened child.
He explained that they were part of an international aid organization, but he didn't let the conversation linger there for long. Instead, he immediately shifted into a systematic and relentless series of questions.
At first the questions were completely normal. They asked about my family and the place where we lived. They asked about my school, my teachers, my classmates, and the friends I spent time with in my neighborhood. They also asked about the places where I usually played and the people who knew my family.
I answered everything as best as I could. Some details felt foggy because of everything that had happened, but most of the basic things were still clear in my mind.
Mr. Vidot listened carefully to each answer while occasionally writing things down. Ms. Amelia mostly observed quietly, though sometimes she would gently guide the conversation when I struggled to remember something.
After a while, however, the nature of their questions began to change.
They started asking whether I had ever experienced anything strange or unusual in my life. They asked if I had ever seen something that could not easily be explained, or if I had ever noticed things happening around me that felt different from normal life.
At first I didn't really understand what they meant.
Then their questions became even more specific.
They asked whether I had ever witnessed something that resembled supernatural abilities, like the powers people see in superhero stories. They also asked whether I had personally experienced anything like that—anything that felt impossible or beyond ordinary explanation. They asked whether I had ever experienced recurring nightmares or dreams that felt unusually vivid.
That was the moment when something in my memory stirred.
For a brief moment I hesitated before telling them about the dreams I had been having.
As I described those dreams, and how same events played in real life, the expressions on both of their faces changed slightly.
Mr. Vidot stopped writing.
Ms. Amelia leaned back and listened more carefully.
Neither of them interrupted me until I finished explaining everything I could remember.
After that, the atmosphere in the room shifted in a subtle way.
Mr. Vidot stepped aside and made a phone call. I could not hear the entire conversation, but it was clear that he was speaking to someone important. He mentioned my age and briefly referred to the dreams I had described, and it sounded as if he was asking for permission to proceed with something.
At the time I had no idea what that meant.
Once that call ended, they continued asking a few more practical questions.
Eventually they asked for my home address.
I told them where my house was located.
Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if the address I gave them was entirely correct. Perhaps the shock of everything that had happened had blurred certain details in my memory. But at that moment I believed I was describing my home exactly as it had always been.
After noting down the address, they contacted the local police.
Not long after that, we left the hotel and drove toward the place I had described.
The ride felt strangely long. I remember sitting quietly in the back seat while watching the city pass outside the window. Gradually the busier streets gave way to quieter neighborhoods, and eventually we reached the area where I believed my house should have been.
When the car stopped and I stepped outside, the first thing I felt was confusion.
Because the place where my house should have been… looked completely wrong.
At first I thought we had arrived at the wrong location.
But according to the street signs and the nearby houses, the location was exactly where I had believed it would be.
Yet there was no house there.
Instead, there was only an empty plot of land.
Dry soil stretched across the area where my home should have stood. A few wild bushes had grown unevenly near the center of the plot, and scattered stones were half-buried in the dirt as if they had been there for many years.
No walls.
No door.
No windows.
No house.
For several long seconds I simply stared at the empty ground, waiting for my mind to correct what my eyes were seeing.
But nothing changed.
Mr. Vidot carefully walked around the plot while the police officers examined the surroundings. Soon after that they began speaking with the neighbors who lived in the nearby houses.
One by one, people came outside.
Some of them looked curious, others simply confused by the presence of police in their neighborhood.
When the police began asking the neighbors, I was certain everything would finally make sense. All I needed was one person—just one—who would recognize me and tell everyone that there had been a house there, that my family had lived there, that I wasn't imagining my entire life.
But that didn't happen.
One by one the neighbors stepped forward, some of them people I knew very well. I recognized their faces instantly. The old bald grandpa who used to water his plants every evening. The stingy woman who sold snacks from a small cart near the corner. Even the fat uncle who had once scolded me for kicking a football into his window.
I remembered all of them.
But when they looked at me, their eyes held nothing but confusion.
They shook their heads slowly when the police asked if they had ever seen me before. A few of them studied my face a little longer, as if searching their memories, but the result was always the same. Blank expressions. Polite uncertainty. Eventually most of them said the same thing—that the land behind us had been empty for as long as they had lived there.
Some even insisted that no house had ever stood there in their entire lifetime.
Then the police called a few local kids from nearby houses.
I recognized a few of my friends among them.
But when they looked at me, they didn't smile.
They didn't greet me.
They didn't even hesitate.
They simply said they had never seen me before.
By that point the sun had already begun lowering behind the houses, casting long shadows across the empty plot.
I stood there in silence while the adults continued discussing the situation around me.
But their voices had begun to sound distant.
Because a terrifying thought had slowly begun forming inside my mind.
If the house had never existed…
If the neighbors had never seen my family…
If even the children I believed were my friends didn't recognize me…
Then where had I been living all those years?
And more importantly…
what exactly had happened to me and my family the night before?