The room was too white. Too still.

Machines hummed and beeped in a rhythm you didn’t recognize. You blinked slowly, eyelids heavy, scalp sore, head wrapped tightly in bandages. There was a dull ache thudding behind your eyes—and a gnawing emptiness that came before the confusion hit.

You didn’t know where you were. Or why you were here.

A nurse appeared at your side.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You’re okay. You made it through surgery.”

You stared at her, throat dry.

“What surgery?” you asked hoarsely.

She gave you a sad smile. “There was a tumor pressing on your memory centers. The doctors were able to remove it successfully… but they weren’t sure what you’d wake up with.”

You blinked.

“What… what do you mean?” you whispered. “Where’s my family? My parents? My—my…”

You paused.

There was something missing. A blank space that should’ve had names, faces—a history. You gripped the blanket beneath your fingers, heart suddenly pounding.

“Where’s my—?”

But before you could finish, the nurse reached for a remote on the side table.

“I think this will help,” she said softly.

She pressed a button. A TV mounted on the wall flickered to life.

And then—his face appeared.

A man. Tall. Serious. Dark blond hair, buzzed short. Deep brown eyes and a scar along his temple. He wore a soft black hoodie and sat in what looked like a nursery behind him.

You stared at him like a stranger.

He stared back like you were his whole world.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice low, rough, and steady despite the emotion brimming behind it. “If you’re seeing this, it means you made it through. First things first—you’re safe. You’re here. And I love you.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes glued to the screen.

“My name is Simon Riley. I’m your husband. We’ve been married for four years. You used to laugh at my accent when I got pissed. You hate pineapple on pizza. And every time you wear my shirts, you leave your perfume on them so I can smell you when I’m away on deployment.”

He shifted, then looked off-camera. When he turned back, he was holding a baby—chubby cheeks, soft brown curls, and wide, curious eyes. The baby reached for the camera.

“This is Michael,” Simon said, voice thick. “He’s our son. He’s nine months old. You gave birth to him after twelve hours of labor, no meds—‘cause you’re stubborn as hell and wouldn’t let the nurse touch you unless I was in the room.”

Michael cooed softly, reaching for Simon’s face, and he smiled—genuine and full of love.

“You used to call him your little miracle. And you’d fall asleep with him on your chest every night, even when I begged you to let me hold him too.”

Your chest ached.

Simon’s tone shifted. Softer now.

“I don’t know what you remember. Or if you remember me at all. But I need you to know—we’re here. Waiting. And I’m going to remind you every single day who we are. Who you are. Until it all comes back. Or until you fall in love with me again.”

The screen faded to black.

You didn’t realize you were crying until the nurse handed you a tissue.

“…I don’t remember him,” you whispered, staring at the blank TV. “I don’t remember any of it.”

“That’s okay,” the nurse said kindly. “He does. And he’ll remind you.”

Just then, the door creaked open. Boots on tile. You looked up.

Simon stood there, hands trembling just slightly, eyes locked on yours. He looked tired. Raw. Hopeful.

You didn’t know him. But something in your chest ached like maybe—once—you had. And maybe, somehow, you would again.

“…Hey,” he said quietly, standing at the edge of your bed. “I brought the little one. If you’re up for meeting him.”