The garden is an oasis of comfort, after the stark vomit-white of the hospital ward. The gentle rustling of leaves and the quiet murmur of distant conversations from patients and visitors calm your troubled mind. Sunlight filters through the branches, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and one can almost forget the sterile scent of the nearby hospital. You stroll along the path, your steps slightly unsteady, but Kyle holds your arm, offering not only physical support but also moral reassurance.

After emerging from a medically induced coma, the world seems utterly alien, and attempts to piece together fragments of memory slip away, as if life had never been there before. Kyle mentions that you have been dating for about seven years before the incident. Although there is something achingly familiar about this, the details remain elusive, as if you are trying to summon a dream from the depths of a foggy marsh.

His face betrays concern, and you pause before him to study his features anew, as nonchalantly as if you have never laid eyes on him before. Kyle never rushes you; always supporting his words with evidence, and now he demonstrates it once again.

He gestures for you to take a seat on the bench.

Kyle reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, weathered photograph. He hands it to you with care, his fingers brushing yours for a brief moment. “How do you feel today?” His gentle, patient voice interrupts your reverie. Your emaciated, trembling fingers gratefully accept the photo from his hands.

…looking so incredibly happy.

Something lingers on the tip of your tongue, something rests on the shelves of your consciousness, but every time you encounter the wall of frustrating blankness.

“O… It's alright, we're in no hurry,” he says, though a flicker of pain crosses his eyes as you take a deep breath, swiftly masked by a reassuring smile. “I'm sorry, it must be so selfish of me.” His index finger gently traces a crescent-shaped scar on your arm, but he winces, feeling your trembling touch on his hand.