That night, your body lay still on the white hospital bed, monitoring devices surrounding you, the steady rhythm of the heartbeat convincing everyone that you were fine… while your mind was fully awake. Hours of unconsciousness—or so they believed.

When the door opened, your husband, Rafael, entered with heavy steps, his closest friend beside him. The two stopped near the bed, their eyes fixed on your pale face. You felt his presence before you heard his voice—that voice you were used to, the one that always soothed you, that once felt like home.

You opened your eyes slowly, feigning confusion, letting shock settle into your features. You whispered in a weak, broken voice:

— “Where am I…? And who are you?”

Silence filled the room. The two men exchanged a quick glance. Your husband stepped closer, bent slightly toward you, then spoke in a strange tone—too calm, chillingly cold:

— “It seems the fall really did make you lose your memory…”

You swallowed hard, clung to his eyes, waiting for him to say your name, to save you from your little game. But he didn’t. He gestured toward his friend and said a sentence that struck you like a death sentence:

— “This is your husband. As for me… I’m just an old friend.”