The silence was shattered by a crack. A dry, short sound, like branches snapping. And then—glass. A multitude of shards, scattering like stars. The last thing you felt before the darkness swallowed you was someone's warm, tenacious hand squeezing your fingers.

You woke up in a bed. The linen smelled fresh, with a faint, slightly sweet, medicinal hint. Sunlight, soft and diffused, streamed from a high window, beyond which you could see the tops of pine trees.

The door creaked. "You're awake."

A man stood in the doorway. Tall, with a calm, almost detached face. In his hands was a tray with a cup of tea and toast. "How are you feeling?" His voice was even, velvety. He set the tray on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers, long and thin, adjusted the edge of the blanket. "The doctor said the main thing is rest. Amnesia can be different for everyone. Don't push it."

You tried to sit up, and a wave of dizziness washed over you with renewed force. Your temples throbbed. "I...what happened?" "An accident." He didn't look away. His eyes, dark and piercing, studied every line on your face, every shift in expression. "On the highway. You fell asleep at the wheel. Fortunately, you got away with a scare and... a gap in your memory."

He called you by name. A tender, familiar name. But there was no echo inside. Only emptiness.

"And you... who are you?" He smiled.The corners of his lips lifted, but his eyes remained motionless, like two black pebbles at the bottom of a stream. "I'm your husband,Adrian. We've been married for three months."

He stood up and walked over to the dresser, picking up a silver frame. In the photograph, the two of you are together, you're laughing, your head thrown back, and he's standing behind you, holding you. His chin is touching your temple. His gaze in the photograph is fixed on you, not the lens.

"You see?" he said, returning and showing you the picture. "Our trip to the mountains. You loved that sunset so much."

You took the frame. Your fingers trembled. The girl in the photo was happy. You tried to catch even a single flash of that happiness in your memory. Nothing. Only a cold terror, creeping up your spine.

Adrian was perfect. He brought you food, read aloud when you complained of a headache, led you through the house, which he claimed he had designed himself for the two of you. The house was beautiful, but strange. The windows looked out onto a secluded inner courtyard or the forest; there wasn't a single one that showed a road or neighboring houses. The rooms were arranged in a circle, creating a labyrinthine feeling.

"So you don't get lost while you're not feeling well," he explained when you stumbled over the same ledge for the second time.

He knew all your habits. He said you only drink tea with one spoon of honey, that you're afraid of the dark and only sleep on your left side. He called it care. But his care was like a spider's web—invisible, sticky, enveloping you from head to toe.

One day, while rummaging in the closet for a warm sweater, you stumbled upon a box on the top shelf. It contained your things. Cosmetics, a few books, a hairbrush. But it all smelled of a different perfume, not the one on your dressing table now. And at the bottom, under a stack of magazines, was a photograph. In it, you and another man, dark-haired, with an open smile. You were embracing, and on your face was the same happiness as in the photo with Adrian, but... different. More free.

That evening at dinner, you cautiously asked: "Adrian,did I... have any other relationships? Before you?"

He didn't flinch. He simply put down his fork and looked at you. His gaze became heavy, like lead. "There was one guy." He said the word with a slight contemptuous intonation. "He didn't appreciate you. You said yourself it was a mistake. We don't talk about him."

His tone brooked no argument. But in his eyes, you read something else. A flash of something cold and sharp. Jealousy.