The doctor looked familiar.

She was one thing I could latch onto. Most everything else in the room just looked odd. The walls were glass, illuminated green and blue, and one of them – the one to my left – was an actual giant fish tank, floor to ceiling. Dozens of tropical fish drifted up and down, occasionally stopping and seeming to look at me. Red ones, yellow, electric blue – I don’t know my fish very well, so I didn’t know what they were exactly.

And there was a fragrance in the room, basically pine. And light breezes would come through, gentle but still more than would have been generated naturally by any air conditioning system. Any such system from my first life, at any rate.

I think it was all there to be relaxing, but I found it too much. Well, the fish were cool. The breezes and scent, I could do without.

But the doctor looked familiar.

It hit me, and it had taken too long for me to realize:

She looked like Jennifer.

I felt I was still half asleep, thinking this. Was my mind playing these tricks on me because I was drowsy? Or was the impossibility of it wearing me down and making me drowsy?

But she looked like Jen; just older. Substantially older, around seventy. Or over seventy. She was clearly a doctor, or some medical professional, because she wore a white coat over a gray suit; but she looked past the usual retirement age.

She was beaming at me.

It wasn’t actually Jennifer, of course. I knew that. Her eyes were green, for one thing, and Jen’s were brown. But the shape of the eyes, her eyebrows, and just her face overall, especially the top of it, somehow, reminded me of Jen. And her hair; her hair was dark gray, not black like Jen’s, but it was pulled back the way Jen pulled hers back, and it was the same length.

I asked her:

“Have you been trying to wake me up for some time?”

“No,” she said. “We’ve been checking on you, of course. But this is your second day awake. Why do you ask?”

“You look familiar. A little. Like maybe I’ve seen you already here but I’ve forgotten.”

“Your eyes have been closed, so you wouldn’t have seen me. But that’s good. We want this room to be warm and comfortable, for you.”

“I – see,” I said. “That’s what I guessed. It’s almost like – camping, in here.”

“Camping on a coral reef,” she said. She was smiling.

“Yes. I can’t miss the fish.”

“Is it too much? We could channel them away.”

“No, they’re fine. I always feel like I’m being watched, but maybe that’s good. Keep me in line.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Perry. Perry Doran. But I’m not remembering much else. I feel I’ve been asleep for – quite a while, possibly.”

“You have been. A very long time. Are you ready to know?”

“Sure.”

“It’s now 2122, Perry.”

“And I – I don’t remember exactly when I . . . lost my memory. But that’s around a hundred years?”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“It is. You were put into stasis – suspended animation – in 2025.”

“Twenty Twenty-Five,” I repeated. “So that’s – ”

But suddenly the simple arithmetic was beyond me. I looked beyond the doctor to two orange fish which seemed to be looking at me, and I felt fatigued. Near-paralyzing fatigue; torpor. I realized I was not well; not yet well.

Then I must have fallen back asleep.

*

The next day, I woke up normally. The doctor was back, already sitting there. Behind her, the fish drifted around, ignoring me. I realized that I felt better.

“Good morning, Perry. You’re back again. I’m sorry if I said too much too soon yesterday! What you have been through is like anesthesia, and you’re still coming out of it.”

Today she looked familiar, again; but this time she reminded me not of Jen, but of Araceli. It was her smile, and the way she spoke; but primarily her voice. It was strange, because I remember Ara as a young girl, of course, and this woman here was over seventy, but still – the voice seemed so familiar.

“Is it still – 2122? I mean, am I remembering that correctly from yesterday?”

“You are.”

“I became so tired all of a sudden.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“Where am I? Have you told me already?”

“We have not. You are in Atlanta. In a specialty neurological clinic.”

“What have I – been doing for a hundred years? Have I been in a coma?”

“Basically, yes. You were placed in a stasis device back in 2025 after your brain activity stopped. There was a very optimistic doctor who thought you might be revived, one day. And here you are.”

“I, uh,” I said. “I don’t feel one hundred. Or one hundred and thirty, whatever age I am. I guess I haven’t looked in a mirror. My hands look normal, though. My skin.”

“You do indeed look good. You didn’t age. Are you remembering anything from your time away?”

“I don’t, no. I do feel like I’ve been gone. I can tell time has passed, like after a long sleep. A very long one. But I’m not remembering anything. I’m not even remembering what happened to me. But – I remember my past. My wife, and my daughter. And our home, and my work.”

“Good. Jennifer, and Araceli.”

“That’s right. You know this?”

“We do. Perry, I’m afraid you did not miss them by much. Araceli lived a long time, and she passed away just over ten years ago.”

I said nothing to that.

“And Perry – she was my mother. Jennifer was my grandmother. I’m your granddaughter. I’m Jenna – it’s for Jen, and Araceli. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I looked down. I cried. And cried. Ugly cried, as people would have said – one hundred years earlier. And my granddaughter Jenna was there to put her arms around me.

*

“And – you knew your grandmother? Jen?”

“I did. Very well, she took care of me many days when I was little. She would take me to the bus stop. Some days my parents were away, and she baked with me.”

She smiled and added:

“And she helped me name my rabbit. The one I got when I was eight.”

“What was the name?”

“Cinnamon.”

“That’s a good name for a rabbit,” I said. “And a good name coming from . . . your grandmother.”

I paused, then asked:

“Did she seem – happy?”

“She did. Very. She was a perfect grandmother to have. I was lucky.”

“I’m so sorry I missed her. I missed half of her life. That should have been our life.”

It occurred to me:

“And I should have been there for you, too. Taking you to that bus stop.”

“Well, you’re here now. We can go back there soon and you can walk me. We’ll find the corner.”

With that, I started to cry again.

“And you’ll be coming home with me,” she said.

I raised the bed sheet up to my face to dry off.

“Home with you?”

“Yes, I have a room. You can stay with me until you’re on your feet again. Oh, and I have this for you.” She reached into a pocket.

She took out a ring; my wedding ring. I recognized its water pattern. It seemed appropriate, what with the wall behind her.

“We saved this for you. Grandmother gave it to Mother, and she gave it to me.”

She put it in my hand.

“You’re back, Grandfather. Welcome home.”