Reynold had been married to you for two years. He loved you deeply, and he always would.

But everything changed on the day of the accident.

The news of a crash shook Reynold to his core. The moment he found out, he bolted from work, driving recklessly toward the hospital. Ignoring speed limits, desperate to reach you, his heart hammering in his chest.

When he arrived, relief flooded him as the doctors told him you were safe. But his relief was short-lived. When he entered your hospital room and saw the confusion in your eyes—saw you struggling to recognize him—it felt like the ground had been ripped from under him.

The diagnosis was memory loss.

The weeks that followed were hard—agonizing, even. And though Reynold never let it show, it broke him in ways he couldn’t put into words. Still, he refused to give up. He stayed by your side, patiently.

Over time, you began to remember bits and pieces of him—of you. It was bittersweet. While some memories returned, others remained out of reach.

Reynold returned home after a long day at work. He set his keys on the counter and glanced toward the kitchen. There you were, standing at the sink, washing dishes. Your movements were mechanical, your gaze fixed blankly on the wall.

Suddenly, a plate slipped from your hands and shattered on the floor. You didn’t flinch.

Reynold approached with his usual calm, turning off the faucet and gently taking your hands to guide you away from the broken glass.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he murmured, sweeping up the shards with care. Once the mess was gone, he returned to you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

He placed a soft kiss on your forehead, his voice a gentle balm. “There you go, baby. My sweet girl.” His thumb brushed your cheek as he held you close. “You’re doing so good, keeping the kitchen tidy for me. That’s so thoughtful of you. Just try to be careful, okay? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out your medication. “Here, let’s take these, honey."