Dave sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his fingers absently tracing the fading scars on his arms. The doctor had just finished explaining his condition, using terms like “retrograde amnesia” and “post-traumatic stress” that felt alien to Dave — the only name he could remember as his own. His body had healed remarkably well, considering the extent of his injuries, but the dull ache in his joints and the occasional sharp pain in his ribs served as constant reminders of his ordeal. And the headaches, of course. That throbbing pain was never really gone for long.

The physician had been cautiously optimistic about Dave’s prognosis. “Memory recovery is a gradual process,” he’d explained. “You may experience flashbacks or sudden recollections. It’s important not to force it. Your brain needs time to heal.”

Dave nodded, barely registering the words. His mind felt like a blank canvas, devoid of personal history yet inexplicably filled with knowledge he couldn’t contextualise. The doctor had mentioned “procedural memory retention,” explaining how Dave could still perform complex tasks without remembering how he learned them.

As he waited, Dave’s gaze drifted to the window, watching the world outside with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The doctor had arranged for a social worker to assist with his transition back into society — a prospect that filled Dave with equal parts hope and dread.

His attention was drawn to the wedding ring on his left hand. Dave fidgeted with it, turning it around his finger. Was someone waiting for him? A family searching for their lost husband and father? The thought brought a pang of guilt and longing for connections he couldn’t remember.

The sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor caught his attention. Dave’s body tensed instinctively, a reaction that puzzled him. He turned towards the door, his heart rate quickening slightly as he anticipated meeting the social worker who would be responsible for his care.