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Silence. Almost deafening. The falling snow outside adds a soft hush to the commotion of cars driving by. Watching the snow cling to every branch, every remaining leaf, pine needle. The beauty of a fresh snowfall, pure and untouched. Funny how something so bright makes the world go so quiet. Something in which I used to find solace. Nothing brings me solace anymore. I hope for noise, commotion, any distraction from the distorted pictures and fractured memories.

I found my medical records after noticing the tan line on my finger, the altered photo, his eyes piercing into me. There had to be a connection. I had to make it all make sense.

Do I look at what it says? Is it even true? No one has given me answers after all this time, this could be a fake record. The folder looks brighter, like it's wanting my attention. I take a deep breath and open the file..

Name: Bloom, A.
Marital status: Single
DOB: 8/14/1986
Height: 5'2"

And so on and so forth, note of the bullet that hit me, the physical therapy, but nothing in my records about anything prior to that hospital admission.

My heart sinks. I was hoping there would be more. I was hoping this would weave in all the loose ends of this weird tapestry. I am so tired of being alone. Is it because I was once used to having some one around? My thoughts go back to those eyes. I am almost certain he's connected to what happened. In my broken dreams I see him, in uniform, giving orders, checking on me. But is it a memory or my mind giving me something so I'll stop looking?

My gaze returns to the fresh snow. So many snowflakes, unique and one of a kind. I remember when I used to view sand as a brilliant masterpiece of time and wind. Sand is nothing special. It doesn't melt, it collects in the corners of barracks, in shoes, food..I hate the feel of it anymore. It doesn't comfort me that I can recall the exact feeling of sand in my boots, with no memory of it happening. I think I need to adopt a cat or something. The isolation is sure to drive me mad.

I hear a light rapping on the front door.

I freeze. I am not expecting any one. No one comes here. I keep all contact over the phone for a reason. My first instinct is to draw a weapon. When will the instincts end? I start walking to the door, avoiding the places in the floor that make noise. Another trick of the subconscious.

I hear the faint knock again.

I quickly try to regain control of my breathing and composure as I carefully look through the tiny hole in the door. I see those blue eyes. My throat tightens, I can't breathe. Why is he here? Why now? My mind is racing with all the fractured images of my dreams, him in the hospital.

"I know you're confused. I know you have questions. I know who you are. We need to talk"