In life, there are unexpected moments when our hearts crumble. The moment of losing a family member is equally deep and sharp. I still feel a tightening in my chest when I recall standing in front of the bank ATM in a daze the day after my mother's funeral, who passed away suddenly from a brain hemorrhage.

After barely sleeping for two days and being exhausted from the funeral, I urgently needed cash the next day and walked to the ATM, but when I saw the message "Please enter your PIN," my mind went blank as if I were alone in an empty room. It was a six-digit number I had pressed for years, but suddenly I could only remember the first digit and couldn't recall the rest.

It wasn't a combination of my birthday or social security number; it was a PIN given by the bank that I had been using, but suddenly I couldn't remember it.

At first, I could only think of it starting with an 8, and my fingers were fumbling in the air, trying to press something, but no matter how hard I tried to recall the number combination, it felt like a wall was blocking me, and nothing came to mind.

In that moment, I felt my heart sink, and a fear crossed my mind, "Could I be getting dementia at this age?" Perhaps it was the shock of losing my mother, or the fact that I hadn't slept properly for days and was holding on in a state of tension; at that time, I was too sensitive and vulnerable.

Someone behind me gave me a hint to move aside, and I tried several times next to the ATM to recall it, but the memory never returned. Eventually, when I called the bank, I was told that due to security regulations, resetting it over the phone or online was absolutely not possible, and I had to visit the branch in person with my ID.

Hearing that made me feel even more powerless, and I was flooded with self-blame, thinking, "Why can't I remember something so simple?" The journey home that day felt unusually long, and both my body and mind were drained. It felt like some safety mechanism inside me was slipping away one by one.

However, when I got home and thought about it, I finally acknowledged that I had been under such mental pressure and sadness that it was hard for a real person to endure for days. I realized for the first time that a funeral is not just about moving the body; it takes away the energy of the heart, and even the strongest person can have their mind freeze in an instant.

In the end, I intentionally took two days off without scheduling anything. I turned off my smartphone for a while, took quiet walks, and spent time sipping warm tea to catch my breath.

After about two days, my mind slowly began to clear. And quite mysteriously, at one moment, the six-digit number came to me naturally.

It felt like the number, which had been trapped in a deep fog, was gently walking out. The moment I recalled that number, tears welled up in my eyes. It was a moment of relief that it wasn't dementia, and I realized how much I had been enduring in tension.

Only after going through this experience did I understand. The human heart is much more delicate than we think, and when it experiences a great shock, even the most familiar things can temporarily disappear. And if we give ourselves enough rest and comfort our hearts, the lost senses and memories can find their way back again.