Autumn September

The September sun rose with sadness, sneaking through its bright threads and its pale yellow leaves. In this area, a boy and his father lived among the trees in a small house overlooking the forest, where the folds of the woods held many stories that did not fade with the onset of darkness.

The rooster's crow announced the dawn, the beginning of the day for the hardworking residents of the rustic village. The man rose from his warm bed, seeking his livelihood, and the caring mother prepared the home for her husband and children. This was the usual routine for this warm village, day after day. The days passed, and the village remained unchanged. The tree trunk recorded memories in its roots, watching over humans with compassion, while the autumn winds rushed through the trees like messengers eager to hear the stories told by the trees to passersby.

The story began in a small house where an eleven-year-old boy lived. He woke up one day, devoid of all memories, starting anew.

To illustrate, memories are like the massive tree with interwoven roots. The roots represent memories, and the tree is the bearer, the guardian of these memories. If a branch falls, a memory is lost. As time passes, the water dries up, and the branches wither. Fresh memories need water to thrive, while old ones require constant care to prevent them from fading and dying. Thus, the boy had no branch left on his fragile tree. He stepped out of the house, gazing at the sky with a compassionate look, wondering which sky it was, elevated and roofed without falling. Then, he looked at the clouds, fluffy like the most accurate description of a threat looming on the horizon, cottony but laden with many tears. What sorrow made them withhold what was in their hearts until winter arrived? Was winter a pleasant companion, or were the clouds infatuated with it? He then observed the passing flocks of birds, seemingly eternal companions, a cause for envy. The boy couldn't stop his mind from wandering, boasting about life. Suddenly, he felt a prick and woke up from his long dream.

Looking around, he saw a tall man with a broad build, a long, tidy beard, holding the reins of authority with a calendar on his shoulder. I felt uneasy but not confused. I looked into his eyes and waited for him to speak. He finally spoke.

"What's the matter, Elias? You seem absent-minded."

Elias, I looked at him, bewildered, unaware that this man was referring to him.

Silence lingered for a few moments, then he spoke again.

"Elias, what's the problem? Why won't you answer?"

From his penetrating gaze, I deduced that my name might be Elias, but I wasn't sure, and I couldn't confirm. I took a few breaths and asked firmly, "Am I the Elias you're talking about?"

Anger flashed in his eyes, then he scolded me forcefully.

"Elias, this is not the time for jokes! Fetch some firewood and follow me."

I didn't understand, and I didn't get answers to my thoughts, but I listened in silence, as if my body was accustomed to this. I raised the firewood, and silently followed him.

He looked at me with hesitation, then absentmindedly took the firewood from me and entered the cellar. I didn't follow him inside; I dared not think about the matter. Reaching a point of no return from the beginning was frightening. I waited in silence until he returned from below. He stopped for a few seconds, inspecting me, then asked seriously.

"Elias, what's on your mind today? You are not your usual self, why won't you answer!"

I answered calmly, "Sir, I don't know if I am the Elias you're talking about, but I realize that I don't remember anything since I woke up."

He looked at me, puzzled, then spoke about Elias as if he were not present.

Afternoon inside the hospital, he had brought me to this place filled with sadness and gloom. We sat waiting for our turn, which took a long time. I felt boredom creeping into the atmosphere. The light was too bright, the noise was loud, and the smell of medicines was suffocating. Everything seemed to be at its maximum to bother me. Boredom was an evil creature that needed to be fought! I stood up and followed the person who claimed to be my father, and we entered the doctor's office. He began explaining the situation.

"Doctor, please diagnose my son. I came back after a long day, and I found him standing in front of the door, and when I asked, he said he doesn't remember anything."

"Doctor, my son reads books every day. He is much more mature than many children of his age. He never complains or asks without reason. But he is always enthusiastic when it comes to his books. However, today this happened suddenly. Please treat him, he's my only child."

The doctor, after this conversation that lasted for a few minutes, approached me, placing his hand on my forehead, and then instructed me to lie down.

I listened in silence, lying on my back. I looked at the ceiling of the white room, and he examined me with his tools. Then he took me to a strange room, made me sit on a chair, used a tool that suddenly lit up, then stopped and led me out.

"I regret to inform you that what happened to your son is called 'Selective Memory Loss,' usually caused by various reasons such as exposure to shock or a complex psychological condition. It could be due to stress. Does your son perhaps read a lot of books daily without resting?"

The father lost his words and nodded, confirming the doctor's question.

"This is likely the cause of his condition, the exhaustion from continuous reading is evident and damaging to brain cells. There must be a clear limit to reading, specific times, and schedules. Lack of discipline in his life damages it. I apologize for intervening in your affairs."

"That's alright," the father said.

The father looked silently at his son, observing without understanding how this child could be so mature. He was not shocked to learn that I was his father, nor did he find it strange that I lost my memories. With all this information, he showed no signs of shock or annoyance, as if he were a passing current flowing quietly in the river of life.

The father looked at the doctor again and asked, "So, what is the solution, doctor? What should I do?"

The doctor took a few breaths before answering, "You need to expose him to memories from his life; perhaps it will trigger a recollection. However, there's no need to worry. Despite the rarity of your son's case, this condition usually results in short-term memory loss and doesn't last long. But there are rare cases where people lose it permanently. If he does, you'll have no choice but to build new memories with him from the beginning and resign from trying to recover the old memories. Memories are like human body parts; if a person loses a hand, they can't regain it. But you can try if you're curious. We're done here; you can go to the accounting after leaving."

I followed my father outside, and when we were in front of the forest, before taking the first step inside, he asked me.

"What do you think? Will your memories come back, or shall we create new ones?"