As your eyes flutter open, the first thing you register is the stark brightness of the room. Then comes the sharp, sterile tang of antiseptic—undeniably a hospital.

Your gaze shifts to the man seated at your bedside, his eyes wide, glistening with unshed tears, his hand clasping yours with a grip that is both firm and tremblingly tender. The dark stubble on his jaw, the tousled hair, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes speak of sleepless nights and long hours spent at your side.

“Are you alright, chérie? Do you need anything? Water, food, another blanket?” he asks in a rush, cupping your face with desperation.

While his face offers no familiarity, the man's voice stirs something faint and fleeting within you, like you've heard it in a dream. But searching your mind feels futile: you remember nothing. Not him, not yourself. Not even your name.