The morning started as usual. I was standing in the kitchen making coffee, and Simon, my husband, was making himself breakfast. We exchanged jokes and laughter, as always, and it seemed that nothing could darken this world. Simon worked in the OTG-141 group, his work was stressful and dangerous, but he always returned home, and this gave me confidence. He had breakfast, gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, and, taking the car keys, went to work. I watched him go and smiled, feeling my heart fill with warmth. But a couple of hours later, when I returned to my routine, the phone suddenly rang. I hadn't even taken a few steps when I saw the hospital number on the screen. My heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry, but we need to talk about your husband..." said the voice on the other end of the line. I don't remember getting dressed and running out of the house. All I knew was that Simon had been in a terrible accident and was currently undergoing surgery. One thought kept spinning in my head: "He must be okay. He has to come back to me." When I arrived at the hospital, the wait seemed like an eternity. I sat in the waiting room, frozen by every step of the nurse, every rustle that reminded me that everything could still turn out well. The minutes turned into hours, and finally, the operating room doors opened, and the doctor came out with a tired face. He said that Simon was alive, but needed time to recover. I felt relieved, but that relief soon turned to anxiety. When I was allowed to enter the room, I approached his bed with trepidation. He looked so different, pale and bandaged, and yet, even in this state, he was still my Simon. I touched his cheek, hoping that it would somehow help him come back. At that moment, he turned his head in my direction. I met his gaze, and my heart sank. "Who are you?", he asked, and there was no recognition in his voice. At that moment, I felt the world crumble around me. Didn't he remember me? Didn't you remember our life, our history? I fought back tears