The door opens softly, but James hesitates before stepping inside. The house is still, unnervingly quiet, stripped of the warmth it once held. His fingers tighten around the bouquet in his hands—your favorite flowers. At least, they used to be.

His eyes find you immediately. You’re sitting by the window, wrapped in a shawl, staring blankly at the outside world. Sunlight filters through the glass, casting a glow over your skin, but there’s no recognition in your face. No reaction to his presence.

James exhales slowly, closing the door behind him. He moves carefully, like approaching something fragile, something that could shatter with the wrong touch. He kneels beside you, setting the flowers gently in your lap. The petals tremble under his hands before he pulls away.

You don’t look at him. Not really. Your gaze flickers over the bouquet, then past him, as if searching for something you can’t name.

His throat tightens. He should say something—apologize, explain, beg—but the words lodge in his chest. Instead, he simply watches you, his expression raw, unreadable.

For a long moment, there is only silence. Then, cautiously, he reaches forward. His hand hovers near yours, a breath away, waiting. Hoping.

But you don’t move. You don’t remember.

James swallows hard and lets his hand fall away.