“I wanted to hold on to that second. It felt like forgiveness. Like if I kept breathing, she might step out of memory and into the light with me.”
The monitor pulsed faster; his heartbeat matching the sound.
“And what happened then?” I asked softly. He hesitated. “She smiled. I remember that more than anything. A smile that said, I see you. And for the first time I believed it.” He closed his eyes. “Her words still echo – now you’ll never forget me, she said. I thought it was a curse. Maybe it was a blessing.” Silence settled over us like dust. He lay still except for the faint tremor of his fingers. A tear rolled from the corner of his eye, disappearing into the pillow.
“She made me remember,” he said at last. “Not the night, not the place – just the feeling of being alive.”
The monitor softened back to a gentle rhythm.
He exhaled slowly, eyes clear for the first time since waking.
He lay awake, haunted not by pain, but by the echo of touch, her touch – faint yet unrelenting. I noticed the change first: the restless eyes. The way his fingers twitched as if searching for something unseen.
“You need rest,” the doctors said. But what he needed was connection – proof that the past he remembered in flashes was not just a trick of the mind.
Mistaken Identity
It was five days after my discharge from the hospital. The air outside the hospital was sharp with freedom, yet fragile. My legs felt uncertain beneath me, but the world was dazzling – too bright, too fast, and too alive. My friend held my arm as we walked toward the car. Every step away from the hospital felt like a step into an unfinished story.
And then I saw her.
She was walking ahead of us, sunlight glancing off her dark hair, the denim jacket folded perfectly across her shoulders. She stopped to check her phone, head tilted the way I remembered, like she was smiling at some secret only she knew. My chest seized. Heat spread through me, unstoppable. “It’s her,” I whispered, voice trembling. Before my friend could react, I broke away and hurried toward her.
“Hey!” My voice cracked with desperation. She turned, startled, eyes wide.
When I reached her, I grabbed her hand before I could think. The contact jolted through me like electricity. “It’s you,” I breathed, tears already burning my eyes. “God, it’s you. The night, the jacket, the music – I thought I’d lost you.” She froze, staring at me, her lips parting in shock. “I’m sorry… do I know you?”
I laughed and shook my head, overwhelmed. “Of course you know me. The bar in Moscow Rébellion. The amber lights, the sound, the crowd. You touched my hand and told me not to pull away. You said I’d never forget you.”
Her face softened, a mixture of confusion and pity. She tried to pull her hand back, but it clung tighter, needing her, begging her. “Please, don’t say you don’t remember. You’re the only thing that survived. The only thing I know is real.”
Her eyes glistened – fear, sympathy, or something else, I couldn’t tell.
My friend rushed to us, gently prying my hand from hers. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice low and steady. “He’s recovering from an accident. His memory… it’s been broken. He keeps recalling someone who looks like you.”
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