Registration
The first time I saw one of them was on the metro at 6:47 in the morning.
He wasn’t lost.
He didn’t look confused.
He wasn’t asking for help.
He was simply there, standing perfectly still, as if someone had placed him in that exact spot and then walked away.
People passed by without looking at him. Some stepped around his shadow the way they’d avoid a column in the middle of the platform. Others didn’t even break stride.
It was as if their brains had been programmed with a simple instruction:
Don’t register him.
Don’t look at him.
Don’t make him real.
I looked.
He was around thirty, maybe younger. Dark hair. Clean clothes. Hands resting loosely at his sides. His eyes were open, fixed on a point that didn’t exist.
The station smelled of metal, cheap coffee, and damp concrete. The screens flashed delay notices. A baby cried somewhere nearby. A couple argued in hushed voices.
The entire city sounded... human.
He didn’t.
The air around him felt colder.
Not because of the temperature.
Because of the absence.
I pulled my identification badge from my pocket without thinking. Professional reflex.
Observation and Registration Unit – Reintegration Program.
My photo. My name. A tired hologram glinting beneath the station lights, as if my entire life could be reduced to an official stamp.
I’d chosen this job for one simple reason: it gave me the illusion that I was fixing something. That the world hadn’t completely broken apart.
That it had only changed shape.
During training, they repeated the same phrases over and over:
“They aren’t dangerous.”
“They aren’t contagious.”
“They aren’t dead.”
“They’re Recovered.”
Sometimes they added one more.
“The price of still being here.”
The man didn’t move when I approached.
“Good morning,” I said, as if politeness might unlock a door.
Nothing.
I stepped beside him, close enough to see the pulse in his neck.
Steady.
Regular.
Calm.
His skin had color. No visible injuries. No strange odor. No signs of violence.
He wasn’t homeless.
He wasn’t sick.
He was simply... absent.
My hand hesitated before touching his arm.
Warm.
Real.
“Can you hear me?” I asked, lowering my voice.
His eyes blinked once.
That was all.
Protocol stated that we were not to intervene unless there was a risk: severe disorientation, aggression, physical collapse.
Protocol also stated that any unregistered incident had to be reported.
I was already writing the report in my head.
Male, approximately twenty-five to thirty-five years old. Dissociative episode. Berri-UQAM station. No immediate risk...
Then, without moving his lips, without changing his expression, he spoke.
It wasn’t a normal voice.
It was a sentence that seemed to appear in the air between us, as if it had risen from somewhere deep inside his chest instead of coming from his mouth.
“Don’t.”
I froze.
I searched his face.
There was nothing there.
No fear.
No anger.
No desperation.
And yet the message was unmistakable.
It was meant for me.
“What?” I asked.
He blinked again.
Slowly.
As if closing his eyes required conscious effort.
“Don’t bring me back.”
A chill crawled up my spine.
There was no logical reason for it, but my body reacted before my mind could.
“Do you know me?” I asked.
No response.
People continued moving around us.
A teenager wearing headphones nearly bumped into me.
A woman dragged a suitcase across the platform, its wheels rattling against the concrete.
No one reacted to what had just happened.
No one had heard him.
Or they had.
And chosen not to.
My thumb pressed the record button on my official device.
The screen lit up with my identification code.
A small red light began to blink.
“I need your name,” I said, slipping back into my professional voice, trying to hold on to something solid.
He turned his head.
Only slightly.
A few millimeters.
Just enough for our eyes to meet for the first time.
“You already have it.”
My mouth went dry.
I hadn’t asked for mine.
I hadn’t told him my name.
And even if someone had told him before—
Recovered didn’t do that.
They didn’t connect.
They didn’t hold meaningful conversations.
They didn’t respond with intention.
“What do you mean by ‘bring you back’?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he slowly raised a hand.
And pointed behind me.
I turned, expecting to see a supervisor.
A security drone.
A surveillance camera.
Instead, I saw a woman walking toward us with calm, deliberate steps.
A gray uniform.
A folder tucked beneath one arm.
I recognized her immediately.
Partly because of the insignia on her chest.
Partly because people seemed to move out of her way without realizing they were doing it.
Containment Unit.
Then I noticed the folder.
My surname was printed across the front in bold letters.
As if it were a case file.
As if it had always been waiting for me.
The woman looked directly at me.
And smiled.
The kind of smile worn by someone who already knew how the story ended.
“Jessica,” she said.
“You found him.”
