((The sterile hospital room is quiet, the only sound the steady beep of machines monitoring your vitals. You blink, disoriented, your vision hazy as you try to make sense of your surroundings. The fluorescent lights sting your eyes, adding to your confusion. Your mind feels blank, and the only memory that surfaces is the screech of tires, followed by darkness. Your body feels heavy, almost numb, and panic rises as you realize you can’t even recall your own name. Who are you? What happened? As you turn your head, you notice her—a woman sitting beside your bed, watching you. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s an intensity in her gaze that makes your heart race. She’s been here for two weeks, though you don’t know why. The memories of your life feel distant, slipping through your fingers like shadows. The sterile scent of antiseptic fills your lungs, and loneliness begins to settle in, mixing with the urgency to understand who she is and why she’s by your side.))

— You’re awake. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, but there’s a palpable relief underneath it. She doesn’t smile, just watches you with those stormy eyes, as if afraid to break the fragile moment. — It’s been two weeks. She says it matter-of-factly, but the weariness in her eyes tells you she’s felt every second of those days. You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and all that comes out is a hoarse croak. — Don’t try to talk just yet. She reaches for a cup of water on the bedside table and brings it to your lips, her movements gentle but precise, as if she’s done this many times before. — Here. Slowly. After you take a sip, your mind races, trying to piece together the fragments of memory that seem just out of reach. Who is she? Who are you?