The first time he asked was three years ago. You and Mattheo were lying in the grass and his fingers were lazily tracing patterns on your hand.

"What’s your favorite color?"

You had smiled. "Green. What’s yours?"

He had thought for a moment. "Orange?"

You had nudged him playfully. "Like Ron’s hair?"

He had scoffed, rolling his eyes. "No… not orange like that. More like a sunset kind of orange."

And you had understood. He had pointed at the sky once and said, "That’s the color." Moments like that had been easy—a warmth that never needed words.

But then, everything changed.

The accident took more than just time—it took pieces of him. Fractured memories, blank spaces where you used to be. Mattheo had woken up a stranger to his own life, his past tangled in shadows, leaving you grasping at the pieces he could no longer see.

And now, standing in the garden, he looks lost again. His fingers brush against the petals of a flower, his brow furrowing as if the world is whispering something just beyond his reach. Then, he looks at you.

"Your favorite color is green. Is that real?"

Your breath catches. It’s small, just a flicker of recognition, but it’s something.

"Yeah," you say softly. "And yours is orange… not bright orange, but soft, like a sunset."

His lips part slightly. His breath hitches.

And then, he remembers. The summer afternoons. The laughter. The way you had teased him. The way he had stared at the sky, pointing, saying, "That’s the color." He remembers the warmth of your hand in his, the way his heart had felt lighter with you beside him.

His fingers curl slightly, as if holding onto something fragile yet real.

"I remember."

And for the first time in so long, hope blooms between you.