Actually, it was exactly how he would have done it. Same techniques, same materials, same attention to detail.
With his hands starting to shake, Finn checked other projects around the workshop. A ship's log that should have been untouched looked like it had been through advanced cleaning. Maritime charts had been flattened and treated for mold damage he'd been planning to deal with but hadn't gotten to yet. Even his tools looked like they'd been used recently, despite him clearly remembering cleaning everything before he left yesterday.
Then he found the notes.
Detailed instructions in his own handwriting, describing restoration work with an urgency that was completely unlike his usual calm approach to documentation.
Used the Venetian method for ink revitalization. More effective than expected. Need to remember this—running out of time to finish everything.
Finn stared at the note. His handwriting, no question about it. But he'd never heard of the Venetian method, and what did “running out of time” even mean? He never rushed his restoration work. Ever.
The cold dread started creeping up his spine as another memory surfaced—finding his mother in their old kitchen at three in the morning, humming while she organized spice jars with military precision. She'd looked up at him with bright, focused eyes and said, “Almost finished with the inventory, mijo. Just need to get everything catalogued before—” Then she'd stopped, confusion flooding her face like someone had flipped a switch. “What am I doing down here?”
That was how it had started with Mom. Projects she couldn't remember beginning, work completed with skills that seemed to come from nowhere, that strange urgency about finishing things she couldn't explain. Near the end, she'd spend entire afternoons reorganizing photo albums with meticulous care, only to stare at them later like she'd never seen them before.
Mom used to do things she couldn't remember too, especially near the end.
The journal sat open in front of him, its pages perfect with work he couldn't remember doing. The pattern was so familiar it made his chest tight with recognition and terror. This was exactly how it had looked when he'd find his mother's projects—completed with skill and attention to detail that proved she'd been present and focused, even though she had no memory of the work itself.
Oh God. Was this how it had started with his mother? Small gaps that got bigger and bigger until there was nothing left but confusion?
Finn closed the journal with shaking hands and walked to the window overlooking the street. The workshop felt wrong now, filled with evidence of a version of himself he couldn't rememberbeing. The restoration work mocked him with its excellence, proving that whoever he became during these lost periods was just as skilled, just as dedicated to his craft.
But when had it happened? How many hours had he lost? And why couldn't he remember any of it?
Dr. Martinez had been taking care of the Torres family forever, had walked them through his mom's whole nightmare with this mix of medical knowledge and honest kindness that Finn appreciated even when the news was shit. Her office was on the second floor of this old Victorian house, and the waiting room still had that antiseptic smell of people looking for answers to problems they couldn't explain.
“What's going on, Finn?” Dr. Martinez settled into her chair with that patient way of hers that had gotten them through the worst parts of his mother's illness.
Finn tried to figure out how to explain without sounding completely insane. “I'm losing time. Hours where I can't remember what I did, but there's proof I was working, doing stuff normally.”
“Can you give me some examples?”
“I found work completed in my shop that I have no memory of doing. Complex restoration that should take days, using techniques I don't remember learning.” His voice got tighter. “It's not like forgetting where I put my keys. It's like someone else is living parts of my life.”
Dr. Martinez scribbled notes while he talked, keeping that professional neutral face. “How long has this been happening?”
“I don’t know…” Finn hesitated, then just went for it. “I'm scared I'm getting whatever killed my mom.”
“Finn, your mother had early-onset dementia, which usually doesn't show up until much later in life. You're twenty-six. What you're describing sounds more like dissociative episodes from stress and grief.”
“Dissociative what now?”
“Your mind disconnects from what's happening as a way to cope with overwhelming stress. It's actually pretty common after losing someone important.” Dr. Martinez leaned forward, voice gentle but firm. “You've been through hell with your mother's death. Grief shows up in all kinds of ways, including memory problems.”
Finn wanted to believe her, wanted to think this was just his brain being weird about grief instead of something that would slowly eat him alive. But what he'd found in his workshop felt like more than stress-related amnesia.
“The work I found is too complicated for someone having some kind of mental episode. It takes concentration, skill. Someone spacing out couldn't do complex book restoration.”
“Actually, lots of people function pretty well during dissociative periods, especially doing familiar stuff.” Dr. Martinez put down her pen and really looked at him. “I want to get you set up with a grief counselor and maybe something for sleep and anxiety. Bad sleep makes memory stuff worse.”
“What about brain scans? Neurological testing?”
“Based on what you're telling me, I don't think we need that right now. Let's try the psychological approach first.”
Finn left feeling more frustrated than relieved. Dr. Martinez's explanations made sense and felt completely wrong for what he'd discovered. She was treating him like some grieving kid with normal symptoms, not someone experiencing actual brain weirdness.
The walk back to the shop took him through the harbor district, past beat-up docks and working boats. He went slow,needing time to process how isolated he felt from any kind of medical understanding.
