"None of this matters anymore. The only thing that matters is that Amal is alive," Michael thought, his heart pounding with a strange mix of relief and confusion. "As long as she's safe, as long as she's alive, nothing else matters."

Michael descended the stairs again, moving quietly through the creaky old house, his eyes scanning every corner, searching for clues—anything that could tell him more about this place, about himself, and most importantly, about her.

"I need to know everything about her... about myself... because I don't even know her name anymore."

The house, dimly lit by the soft morning sunlight filtering through dusty windows, was eerily silent. Shadows stretched across the walls, and the air smelled of damp wood and earth. Michael's footsteps were soft as he moved through the living room, then the kitchen, but he found nothing. His thoughts drifted back to her—Aisha.

"Should I search her room?" he hesitated, thinking. "No, I can't do that."

Defeated, he climbed the stairs again, the weight of uncertainty growing heavier with each step. His room was small, modest, and strangely unfamiliar. A cracked mirror hung on the wall, reflecting distorted images of a man he no longer recognized. To the left was a narrow bed beside a small desk cluttered with old papers. A worn wooden wardrobe held his clothes, as tired and weathered as the house itself.

Michael opened the desk drawers, his hands trembling slightly as he sifted through the dusty papers. Among the scattered pages, one caught his eye—a drawing. It was a rough sketch of a child, crude but filled with an innocent warmth. The handwritten words, in childish scrawl, read: "Me and Aisha, family." The drawing showed a small boy with one brown eye and... the other red. His hair was black, and he was holding the hand of a little girl with black hair and brown eyes.

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"So, her name is Aisha now" Michael whispered, staring at the paper in disbelief. "But why does the boy have a red eye?"

A chill ran down his spine as he looked at the boy in the drawing. There was something unsettling about him, something just out of reach in his memory. But he pushed the thought aside, leaving the drawing behind as he exited his room and headed towards the other door.

It was Aisha's room. The door creaked as he opened it, revealing a space that was more organized than his own. The bed was neatly made, and on the desk was a stack of papers—bills, unpaid debts, and scattered notes. He glanced through them, his heart sinking as he read the details. The papers were for medicine, clothes... and books—all for him.

A wave of guilt and confusion washed over him. "She’s been taking care of me... but I don't even know who I am anymore."

The house, though familiar, felt strange. Its walls seemed to hold secrets and whispered memories that Michael couldn’t grasp, and every creak of the floorboards was a reminder that something terrible had happened here.

Michael left the papers where they were and walked out of the room. He descended the stairs, passing through the living room into the kitchen, and started cleaning the table.

"If I want to protect her, I need to make sure she can live comfortably too," he thought, wiping the surface, his mind racing to organize his thoughts.

"I need to find a job, figure out where she works, and find a better home for us than this."

As he finished cleaning, Michael looked around the simple kitchen. The faint smell of old wood and the quiet hum of the house settled around him. A thin layer of dust clung to the window sills, giving the place a neglected air, yet he felt a determination rising within him—a need to provide for his sister and protect her from the unseen forces surrounding them.

He dressed quickly, slipping on a white shirt, a black coat, dark trousers, and boots. As he fastened his coat, his fingers brushed the soft fabric. "These clothes... they're not cheap," he realized, a faint echo of a life he couldn’t quite remember.

"I'll make you happy, sister" he vowed quietly, his resolve hardening in his chest.

Opening the door, he was greeted by the cold morning air as he stepped outside. The air was filled with the distant sounds of machines and the hum of the town waking up, contrasting with the quiet determination building inside him.