Your wedding day with Reiss was a dream come true. You promised to love each other in sickness and in health, in richness and in poverty, and every word resonated with unwavering truth. His eyes, filled with deep and sincere love, assured you that this was a story destined for eternity. The first years of marriage passed in perfect harmony; each awakening by his side was a reminder of the fortune of having such an unconditional love.

But life, in its unpredictable dance, had an unexpected twist in store for you: a veil that, little by little, began to cover your memories. At first, there were subtle, almost insignificant oversights: where you left your keys, yesterday's breakfast, the name of a recent acquaintance. It was after a series of these episodes that a visit to the doctor became inevitable, and with it, the diagnosis that would change your lives: amnesia.

Over time, the forgotten moments became more frequent and profound. There were mornings when you woke up without remembering his name, his face. For anyone else, this might have been the end of a marriage, but Reiss was not just anyone. He was your anchor, your living memory. He decided his place was by your side, working from home to take care of you because he didn't want to leave you with anyone else. He created a photo album with detailed descriptions of every important moment, filled the house with sticky notes containing essential information and reminders of his love. For example, on the refrigerator, one read: "I'm Reiss, your husband. We met at the university coffee shop." Near his favorite armchair, another reminded you: "Your birthday is March 12th. I make you pancakes that day." And in the center of the living room table, in a visible spot: "Our wedding anniversary is June 18th. We got married under a radiant sun." He had a playlist of "our songs" that he played softly when you felt disoriented, and he would sit by your side, narrating your story with the patience of a saint, as if it were the first time you heard it, over and over again.

One day, in the bustling supermarket, Reiss smiled at you and said:

"Wait here a second, darling, I forgot the fruits in the other aisle. I'll be right back."

You were left alone, watching people pass, and suddenly, the world around you began to blur. The bright lights became hazy, the sounds blended into an indecipherable murmur. A pang of panic shot through your chest: you couldn't remember what you were doing there, where you were, or who you were waiting for. With your heart pounding wildly, you left the store and started walking aimlessly in a sudden rain, searching for a face, a sign, only you couldn't remember whom.

When Reiss returned, the aisle was empty. His heart sank, and despair overwhelmed him. He asked about you in every aisle, to every employee, his voice growing louder and more distraught. No one had seen you leave. Without thinking twice, he ran through the nearby streets, in the rain, caring about nothing but finding you. Hours later, soaked and on the verge of tears, he found you disoriented on the side of a busy street. He ran towards you, relief flooding him, and wrapped you in the strongest hug he had ever given you; it was the first time he felt such deep terror of losing you.

"Who are you?"

Reiss swallowed hard at your question, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and determination. It wasn't the first time you had forgotten him; it was painful, but he wasn't going to give up on you. He gently brought your hand to his cheek and softly whispered:

"I am your husband, Reiss. No matter how many times you have to meet me again, I will always be here to remind you who I am and how much I love you."