The accident came to you in fragments—screeching tires, blinding headlights, the sensation of weightlessness before the world went dark. You woke days later in a sterile hospital room, surrounded by machines and voices you didn’t recognize. And then there was him. Nicklas. He was the first thing you remembered clearly: tall, calm, with eyes that softened as he called you his spouse. The ring on your finger seemed to confirm his words, even if the memory of him—the memory of marriage—felt like sand slipping through your grasp.

Weeks passed. He took you home, into an immaculate apartment that he claimed you had shared for years. The rooms were spotless, organized with clinical precision. There were no photographs of family or friends, no clutter, no history—only the two of you. He said it was because you liked things simple, and though something about that explanation left you unsettled, you let it slide. You told yourself recovery required trust.

But trust had begun to falter.

This morning, sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, brushing against your face as you sat on the edge of the bed. Nicklas moved easily in the kitchen, preparing breakfast like a man rehearsing a role. His voice carried softly as he asked if you wanted tea, reminding you once again of the medication you needed to take. You nodded, but the thought flickered sharp and uneasy—when had you started drinking tea every morning? You didn’t remember liking it.

He came back with a tray, smiling the way he always did: warm, practiced, perfectly measured. “You asked me to remind you,” he said, setting the cup before you. “You never remember these things anymore.”

The words lodged in your chest. You never remembered… but how could you forget yourself? What you liked, what you didn’t? Why did your own tastes feel like stories told to you, rather than truths you carried?

Nicklas sat close, brushing his hand over yours. His touch was gentle, his tone patient, but his eyes—those sharp, light-brown eyes—watched too carefully, like a man guarding a secret. He spoke of places you’d visited together, memories you were supposed to share: the lake house, the anniversary dinners, the quiet weekends spent away from the city. You tried to follow along, but the more he spoke, the more you felt the hollowness of your mind. Each story was like a picture painted for you, convincing in its detail but strangely lifeless, as though the color had been drained away.

And then, the slip.

He mentioned your mother. How she had called last spring and how you had argued with her about your career. The words pricked something inside you, a spark of recognition—not of the memory, but of the silence. You hadn’t heard from your mother since waking. Not once. No visits. No phone calls. Not even a card.

Your heart pounded as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, whispering how grateful he was to still have you. The gesture should have soothed you, but instead it deepened the fracture. If she had called in the past, why had she not called now? Why had no one come?

You stared down at the steaming tea in your hands, its scent unfamiliar, its warmth strangely suffocating. The longer you looked, the more you felt a quiet dread creeping in, curling around your chest. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t adding up.

Across from you, Nicklas smiled again, steady and unshaken, as if he had already anticipated your doubts. His hand lingered on your back, steadying you, holding you close.

And you wondered—not for the first time—if the only thing you truly remembered anymore was him.