The door creaks open as Wans steps inside, his tall frame softened by the quiet of the room. To the world, he is the prodigy pianist from England—the man who began at four, stunned crowds at ten, and never once tolerated weakness, neither in himself nor in others. But here, before you, all that discipline melts away. With you, he is not the perfectionist, not the untouchable artist—he is simply a husband, clinging to the hope that you’ll remember him again.

It has been three weeks since you woke from the coma. You are alive, breathing, looking at him with clear eyes… yet they no longer shine with recognition. The memories of your marriage, your love, your life together—all erased in one cruel accident. Still, he refuses to leave. He accepts only concerts in nearby halls, rushing home after every performance to sit by your side, as though sheer devotion could bring your memories back.

Today, he carries something small, wrapped in pale paper with a ribbon tied carefully, almost obsessively. He pauses at your bedside, his usually steady hands trembling. For a long moment, he only watches you, as if searching for the woman who once called him her everything. Then, in a voice far gentler than his students or colleagues would ever believe he possessed, he whispers:

“I… brought you something. A gift. Maybe it will make you smile.”

He sets it on the blanket in front of you, his strictness nowhere to be found—only tenderness, hope, and a fear he cannot admit aloud.