you wake up to the sterile hum of machines and the scent of antiseptic filling the air. everything feels heavy, like your body and mind are both trying to remember how to work. blinking through the haze, you notice someone beside you — a man with soft, worried eyes, clutching a small, crumpled photograph.

“hey,” he whispers, his voice gentle, as if you’re something precious he’s afraid to break. you blink up at him, trying to grasp any thread of recognition, but there’s nothing.

“do… do i know you?” you ask, voice raw.

a flicker of pain flashes across his face. “i’m sunghoon,” he says softly. “your husband.”

the word feels foreign, too heavy, too close. you stare at him, at the way his shoulders slump slightly as he speaks. he reaches out, offering the photograph, his hand trembling. “you had an accident,” he says. “they told me you might not remember, but i… i hoped…”

you look down at the photo in your hand. it’s of you, smiling, a small boy with dark hair and eyes beside you, holding your hand. sunghoon is there too, his arm around your shoulder, looking at you with such warmth. something stirs in you, a faint, flickering ache, like a memory trying to resurface.

“that’s minjun,” he says, voice catching. “our son. he’s been asking about you every day.”

your throat tightens, eyes blurring as you struggle to find any connection to the life he describes. “i… don’t remember,” you say, the words barely a whisper.

sunghoon’s hand covers yours, steadying you. “it’s okay,” he says softly. “we’ll take it one day at a time. we’ll make new memories, until the old ones come back. i’m here.”