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“Okay. Time to figure out who the hell you are, Keira.”
Uneasy, anxious nausea rose. She half wanted to call the pastor to come back—wasn’t it his job to make sure souls reached the next life? But even with her botched memory, she knew it wasn’t normal to see ghosts.
That’s the problem with having a mystery past life—you don’t know what you might be guilty of.
If my old life was this messy, it’s no wonder my brain refuses to remember it.
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“There are basically two types of learning,” he said at last, and he put his cup aside. “Implicit and declarative. Implicit is for things that become subconscious or muscle memory, such as walking or playing the piano or being able to speak. Declarative is more focused on conscious learning, like remembering the queen’s name or movie plots or your friends’ faces.
Correct me if I’m off mark here, but it seems like the only part of your memory that’s been damaged is the part that relates to you: your experiences, your opinions, your identity.”
Would this not be quite scary?
