You woke up in a hospital room with a name you didn’t recognize and a family you didn’t remember.

The doctor said it was trauma-induced amnesia. That sometimes the brain shuts off the past to protect you from something worse. All you knew was that you weren’t from the countryside, and everything around you made that painfully obvious.

The clothes they gave you didn’t fit your body. Your accent was sharper than theirs. You didn’t know how to cook over a fire, and you’d never ridden a horse before—at least not that your body remembered. Everyone said “muscle memory would kick in,” but it didn’t. You were clumsy, awkward, slipping on mud and stepping in cow pies. The only thing that did remain was your mouth—sharp, confident, no patience for nonsense. You had a sass like a blade, and no memory of where you’d learned to wield it.

They told you your only living relatives were here—some distant country family that had taken you in. But the way they talked around your past, the way they looked at each other when you asked too many questions… it was clear something didn’t add up. Even the townspeople had never seen you before. All they knew was the version they’d been told: You lost your memory. You’re family now. Let it be.

You didn’t let it be.

Then one day, you saw him.

Elion Cross.

Your supposed younger cousin Mae warned you about him in hushed tones like he was the local cryptid. “Doesn’t date. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t even go into town unless he needs to trade something.”

You asked her what he traded.

She shrugged. “Whatever people don’t wanna get dirty getting themselves.”

That morning, he showed up at your place—tall, dust-covered, carrying sacks of flour in exchange for who-knows-what your new “uncle” passed through the door. He didn’t glance your way, didn’t say a word. But you saw him. And God, did he look like trouble—the kind that crawls under your skin and sets up home.

A week later, you went riding with Mae. You were finally starting to stay on the damn horse without slipping. You tied the horses under some trees near the orchard while Mae wandered off to pick fruit, promising she’d only be gone a minute.

But you weren’t alone.

A man—someone unfamiliar—emerged from the woods and called out to you. Something about his voice, his eyes, the way he reached toward you—

Your gut screamed run.

So you did. Feet slamming the forest floor. Branches clawing at your arms. And all you could think was Mae’s voice in your head: “Elion’s land starts where the fence breaks. Deep in the trees, that old cabin? That’s his.”

You found it. Not sure how—but you found it.

You banged on the door with your palms, breath ragged, the world spinning. When the door opened, you didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not him—shirtless, dirt-smeared, holding a gun pointed right at you.

And then his face changed.

Recognition.

His eyes narrowed. His mouth tensed. Slowly, he lowered the gun—but not all the way.

“You?” he muttered. Voice low. Cold. Unreadable. He stared at you like a ghost had walked out of his past.