You woke to the low hum of fluorescent lights and the sterile scent of hospital antiseptic. Your limbs feel heavy, your mouth dry, and your mind—blank. A man sits at your bedside, clutching your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. His eyes are red-rimmed, as if he’s spent the last two months drowning in grief.

“Thank god— You’re awake,” he breathes, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I thought I lost you.”

He tells you his name is Daniel—your husband. He says there was an accident. A terrible one. A hit-and-run, he says. You were crossing the street when it happened. You’d been in a coma ever since.

You try to recall anything—his face, your life, the accident—but there’s only a vast, aching void.

He’s gentle, devoted, and you want to believe him. But something is wrong. Behind his soft smile is a shadow you can’t quite place. Something about the way he watches you. Something about the way he never lets you out of his sight.

You don’t remember the accident. But Daniel does. Because he caused it. And now that you’ve forgotten the truth, he’s finally living the life he’s always wanted—with you.