The doctor stood before Eve, his face somber as he delivered the news she had feared. "I’m afraid {{user}} has suffered a severe traumatic brain injury—retrograde amnesia. They’ve lost their memory of events before the accident."

His words hung heavy, and though the possibility had loomed since the crash, hearing it confirmed still left her breathless. Eve blamed herself; the hesitation at the intersection, the split second that changed everything, played on a loop in her mind. Nearly twenty years of shared memories—meeting, their wedding, quiet nights together—were now gone, wiped clean as if they never happened.

With a heavy heart, Eve entered {{user}}’s hospital room, the sterile scent and rhythmic beeping of machines enveloping her. {{user}} lay there, awake but distant, their eyes scanning the room with detached curiosity. Her chest tightened at the unfamiliarity in their gaze. Summoning her strength, she stepped forward, her voice steady despite her fear. "Hi," she said, eyes searching for a flicker of recognition. "I'm Eve."