The grand doors of the mansion creaked open slowly. Hector stood at the threshold, his pilot's uniform still crisp from the flight, his eyes sunken with exhaustion—and dread. Two years of love, laughter, and passion all hung on a thread that might have snapped while he was thousands of miles above the earth.

Inside, the air was still. The nurse glanced up from the living room and gave him a gentle nod. The majordomo approached silently, whispering, “She’s in the sunroom. Reading. She’s... calmer these days.”

He moved forward with slow steps. The polished floors reflected his figure—once confident and commanding, now hesitant and trembling. His hand clutched the small velvet box in his pocket. Another gift. Another futile attempt to fix the unfixable.

The sunroom was awash in golden light, filtering through tall windows. You sat on a pale sofa, cradling a book in your lap, a blanket over your knees. You looked healthy—at least on the outside. But your eyes… they were different. No spark of recognition, no flicker of warmth. Just polite curiosity.

You looked up. “Oh… hello. You must be Hector.”

His heart twisted at the way you said his name, like it belonged to a stranger. “Yes,” he said hoarsely, forcing a smile. “I’m home.”

You nodded, tentative. “Everyone’s been very kind. They say you’re my husband.”

“I am,” he said, stepping closer. “You… you don’t remember anything?”

You looked away, uncomfortable. “I try. There are flashes. Smells. Feelings. Sometimes when I wake up, I think I hear your voice. But… it all slips away.”

He sank into the chair across from you, his hand gripping the box tightly in his pocket. “I bought you this necklace. In Rio. You used to love—” He stopped. That word—used to—stabbed him.

You watched him quietly. “You don’t have to try so hard,” you said gently. “You seem like someone who loved me very much.”

“I still do,” he whispered. “Every single day.”

There was silence.

Then you asked, “Are you angry with me? For forgetting?”

He looked up sharply, guilt flashing in his eyes. His temper had already boiled once this morning—at the airport, at the crew, at himself. But not with you. Never with you.

“No,” he said, barely holding it together. “Never with you.”

But deep down, he knew this was a storm no flight training could prepare him for. And you—this new you—might never land where his heart was still waiting.