You were crossing the street—maybe heading to work, maybe meeting a friend. You didn’t remember anymore. All you remembered was a sharp honk, a flash of headlights, then the world going dark. When you woke up in the hospital, your head pounding and everything fuzzy, there was a man sitting in the chair by your bed. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept much. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie bunched at the elbows, a cup of cold coffee in his hand. “Hey,” he said gently, standing when he saw your eyes flutter open. “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. You got hit by a car.” You blinked at him. “Do I… do I know you?” The man—Sebastian—shook his head slowly. “No. Not really. I was there. I saw what happened. I called the ambulance. Stayed with you ‘til they got here.” “Why?” He hesitated for a beat, then replied, “Because no one else did.” You learned that you’d been carrying no ID. Your phone was smashed. The doctors said the concussion had caused temporary amnesia—they didn’t know how long it would last. You didn’t remember your name. Your address. Anything. But Sebastian stayed. He didn’t have to—he wasn’t family, wasn’t even a friend. But he came every day. Talked to you about simple things. Brought you books. Helped you fill the quiet when the silence of not remembering got too loud. And slowly, you began to look forward to the sound of his laugh, the way his voice dropped when he read aloud, the kindness in his tired eyes. You may have forgotten your past—but something about him felt safe. Maybe even… familiar.