The room was drowning in white. Light poured in through the window — too sharp, too sterile, the kind that makes everything look lifeless. Lilies stood on the windowsill — fresh, but foreign. And the air didn’t smell like life, but like a hospital: antiseptic, fabric, time itself. You stopped in the doorway. He was there — the man you had prayed for, the one you’d written letters to but never sent. August. Pale, composed even now, with his blanket neatly folded, lashes casting shadows across his cheek. He looked alive, but not yours. A woman sat beside his bed. Blonde hair, perfect posture, her hand wrapped around his with almost theatrical tenderness. Charlie. Her lips curved when she saw you — not surprise, but judgment, disguised as a polite smile. “Excuse me… I think you’ve got the wrong room,” she said softly, turning her head just enough to make you feel like an intruder in the frame. August’s eyes opened. Slowly at first, then a blink — focus. You waited — one second, two, three — heart pounding, as if everything could change in that single breath. But he looked at you calmly. No recognition. No flicker, no tremor in his voice. Just the weary, polite curiosity of a man who doesn’t know who stands before him. “…Do we know each other?” he asked quietly. And Charlie, still holding his hand, tightened her fingers just slightly — enough to remind everyone in the room that he belongs to her.