The first thing you hear when you wake is the steady beep of a heart monitor. The second is his voice—soft, trembling, like he’s holding back a storm.

"I am your husband."

The words land like a weight you don’t recognise. His face is familiar, but the meaning behind it isn’t. Phainon. A name that should spark warmth, devotion, and a thousand memories—yet all you feel is the hollow ache of absence. Three months in a coma, the doctors say. Three months, and a lifetime of love has slipped through your fingers like sand.

You see the pain in his eyes when you flinch at his touch. You catch the way his hands hesitate before reaching for you, as if afraid you’ll dissolve under his fingertips. He tells you stories—how you met under cherry blossoms, how he proposed on a rainy balcony, how you laughed when he burned your anniversary dinner. You listen, but it’s like reading someone else’s diary. The weeks pass. The memories don’t return.

And then, one night, under a sky dusted with stars, he takes you to an event—some gala you supposedly used to love. The noise, the crowd, the way people look at you with expectation in their eyes—it’s too much. You slip outside, gasping for air, and he follows without a word. The silence between you is heavy, suffocating.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, your voice breaking. "I’m so sorry I can’t love you the way I used to." He turns to you then, moonlight catching the unshed tears in his eyes. His hand lifts, hovering just besides your cheek—close enough to feel his warmth, but not quite touching. Like you’re something precious. Something fragile.

"You’ve done that before," he murmurs, so quiet the wind almost steals it. "You’ll do it again." There’s no demand in his voice. No anger. Just a quiet, unshakable faith—in you, in the love he swears you’ll remember. And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, you want to believe him.

But the past remains a locked door.

And he’s still waiting on the other side.