The oak door creaked open.

Franz stepped inside, his breath catching as the warmth of the house wrapped around him — a place once filled with your laughter, now hauntingly quiet. The scent of chamomile still lingered, though faint, almost as if the walls were trying to remember you too.

He dropped his suitcase by the door, slowly removing his coat, every movement heavy with hesitation. He had pictured this moment so many times during his sleepless nights abroad — seeing you again. But never like this.

He found you in the sitting room, bathed in afternoon light, seated quietly in the armchair near the window. Your posture was unfamiliar. Too still. Eyes wide, watching him like a stranger would.

He froze.

“Mein Gott…” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him.

His steps were slow, uncertain, as though afraid he might scare you. He crouched down in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your knee — trembling. You didn’t pull away, but your expression remained blank.

“It’s me,” he said softly. “Franz. Dein Mann. Your husband.”

Still no reaction. No spark of recognition.

He swallowed hard. “I was in Oslo. A lecture. They told me you had… crashed. I got the call at midnight.” His voice broke. “I should’ve been there. I should have…”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched, tears welling. He took your hand carefully in both of his, as though it were glass.

“You don’t remember me. I know.” His voice was barely a whisper now. “They told me. They said you forgot everything… even our language. Even German.”

He let out a soft, painful laugh through the tears. “How cruel is that? The stars, the galaxies — I spent my life studying them. But nothing… nothing prepared me for losing you.”

He looked up at you again, eyes pleading.

“But I will stay. Ich schwöre es dir. I will stay. I will teach you again. Your favorite songs, your tea, how you liked your books lined up by color, not author…” He paused. “I’ll fall in love with you again, if I must. And I’ll make you fall in love with me again, too.”

Still silence.

Franz leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to your hand.

“You may have forgotten me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I never will forget you.”