Lana's Point of View

The door clicks softly, waking me up.

I sit up slowly in the hospital bed and pull the blanket closer to my chest. The room smells like lemon soap and cold metal, but then a sweet, soft, familiar smell comes in.

Blooms.

I blink at the tall person coming towards me. Adrian. He has a bunch of light pink roses tucked under his arm.

He smiles softly. "Good morning, Lana."

First, I look at the roses. Rose petals are like soft eyelids. Pink like the sun setting on a warm day. My chest hurts. I don't know why.

I swallow. "Why those flowers?"

He stops next to the bed and raises the bouquet a bit. "You've always loved these." Roses in the garden that are pink. You said they made your mornings easier.

My fingers curl up tightly under the blanket.

Always. Loved. Good morning.

He talks like he knows my heart better than I do.

I say softly, "I didn't say that."

"You used to," he says softly.

He puts the flowers on the little table next to me. He brushes a fallen petal with his fingers and watches it for a second, as if that little thing means something to him.

I pull back until my back touches the bed rail.

His eyes are on me again. "How did you sleep?" To your left, right? You always look to your left when you want to feel safe.

My breath stops.

My hands move under the blanket, pressing against my own legs as if I can hide the shaking.

I ask, "How do you know that?"

He seems shocked. "Lana... I'm your husband. Every night, I watched you sleep.

I can't breathe. A weird heat is creeping up my neck. Not mad. Not scared. Something that is mixed. Something is wrong.

He moves closer. "Sometimes you curl your fingers like this-"

He shows me by softly folding his fingers in like a little bird that is resting.

I do that. I saw it this morning.

My stomach hurts.

He shouldn't know these things.

"How-" My voice breaks. "How can you say it like you're sure?"

He sits down in the chair next to my bed. Slowly. With care. As if he doesn't want to scare me.

He says, "I'm sure because I lived with you." "I woke up next to you. I know how you act. Your scent. Your feelings. All of it.

The words hang heavy in the air.

I look at him. Look closely.

He keeps looking at me. They drink me in, soft and deep, as if he's trying to remember my face again.

It feels too close.

I put my hand behind my ear and lift it up without thinking. His eyes follow the movement, and something sharp flashes in them, as if he remembers something I don't.

I clear my throat. "Thank you for the flowers." Why?

He smiles again, this time a small, warm smile. "You always said that fresh flowers helped you breathe better in the morning."

I stop.

That word is always there.

I shake my head. "Stop acting like you know everything."

"I don't know everything," he says softly. "But I know you."

"No," I say quickly. "You know one side of me. Not me.

His smile goes away and is replaced by something sad. His fingers grip the chair's arm tightly.

He whispers, "You used to say the same thing when you were mad." "You would turn away and not look at me." Like this.

I quickly look up and meet his eyes.

He raises his hands softly, as if to calm a scared animal. Lana, I'm not trying to hurt you.

My shoulders get tight.

"I'm just being honest with you."

The room gets quiet. The only sound in the room is the soft hum of the air conditioner.

He leans forward a little. "Do you want your coffee?" I know you like your coffee in the morning to be strong. Two tablespoons of sugar. No milk.

My heart skips a beat.

I can almost taste the coffee in my mouth.

Very strong.

Nice.

Black.

How does he know that?

I swallow hard. "Stop. "Just stop for a second."

He stops moving. His jaw gets tense. A muscle near his temple twitches.

"Okay," he says softly. "I'll stop."

But his eyes-his eyes keep looking at me.

I don't know why, but it seems like he's looking inside me. Something from the past. A loss.

My chest goes up and down too quickly. I hold on to the blanket again.

I have a question for him. Something easy. Something that hurts. Something that will cut through this fog around me.

I whisper, "Adrian." "Are you telling me the truth?"

His whole body stops moving.

He blinks once. Slowly.

Then he sits back in the chair, straightens his shoulders, and speaks in a low, steady voice. "No." "I've never lied to you."

I frown. "But you could."

"Yes," he says in a low voice. "But I'm not."

I turn my head a little to watch him.

He doesn't move, but he does watch me.

This man knows how I sleep. I love the flowers. The way I drink coffee. The way I move my hands. How I look away when my chest feels tight.

He knows a lot.

And I don't know anything.

He suddenly reaches into a small bag that is next to his chair.

I can't breathe.

"What are you taking out?" I ask quickly.

He raises one hand to calm me down again. "It's fine." It's just your stuff.

My stuff?

He takes out a small hair ribbon that is cream-coloured. Gentle. Worn out on the edges.

A little spark inside me makes me jump.

He gives it to them. "You used to wear this every day."

I look at it.

My lungs feel tight. My fingers are twitching.

The ribbon makes me feel warm and shaky inside. Like a memory that tries to swim up but slips away before it gets to the light.

I shake my head. "No." I don't... I don't remember that.

His face drops. Just a little. But I can see it.

He wraps his hand around the ribbon and pulls it back to his chest, where he presses it for a moment. Like holding something close to your heart.

"I remember," he says quietly.

I quickly look away and focus on the pink roses. The small fan in the corner makes their petals shake.

Why do I feel like someone is watching me even when he isn't?

"Adrian," I say softly. "What if you're not right?"

He looks up. "About what?"

"About me."

My voice shakes. "About us."

Be quiet.

He gets up slowly. The chair makes a little noise on the floor.

He moves closer to the bed, but stops just short of it. His eyes soften again, but there is something dark hiding under the softness. Something deep down. Something from the past.

He says softly, "Lana, I loved you." I still love you. And you loved me too.

My stomach hurts.

I look at him and search his face.

He talks again, but this time his voice is lower. "And you don't forget love." Not really.

My fingers hold on to the blanket until it looks like crumpled paper.

"I don't remember anything," I say softly.

His eyes shine with pain and hope mixed together. "Then I'll help you remember."

He reaches out slowly and carefully, like he's touching a scared child.

His hand stops just a few inches from mine.

"Can I?" he asks.

I look at his hand.

At his long fingers.

At the ribbon still stuck between them.

My breath is shaking.

I don't know if I want him to be closer or farther away.

I don't know anything.

"Please," he whispers. "Let me remind you."

For a second, the room seems too small. It's too hot. Too much of him.

The way he smells. His voice. His past.

My head is spinning.

My heart is beating loudly.

My skin feels tingly.

This man, who says he is not a stranger, knows everything about me.

Everything but one thing-

The truth that I know.

I look at his hand once more.

Then I say something to answer-

And the door flies open.

We both jump.

A nurse runs inside, her face tight with worry.

She says, "Mr. Reyes, we need you outside right away," out of breath. There is a problem.

Adrian stiffens up.

He slowly turns to face the nurse.

But his eyes... his eyes stay on me.

I swallow.

He asks, "What problem?"

The nurse looks at me and then at him again. She lowers her voice.

"It's about her file."

My heart stops.

Her file?

My file?

The nurse steps back into the hallway and waves at him urgently.

Adrian stops for a moment.

His jaw gets tight.

His eyes narrow a little, as if something dangerous just brushed against the door.

He then steps out after her.

The door shuts.

And I sit there by myself, looking at the pink roses...

...wondering what is in my file that made Adrian's face go blank.

And I was wondering why... why the nurse looked scared.

(Adrian's Point of View)

The nurse hands me the papers with a small smile. "She's clear to go home today."

My fingers tighten around the folder. I nod, even though my chest feels tight. I look at the room door. Lana is inside, sitting on the bed with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she's freezing.

I walk in slowly.

She lifts her eyes when she hears my steps. Her face is soft for a second, then fear fills it again. She pulls her knees up and hugs them, like she wants to hide.

I stop a few steps away so I don't scare her.

"Lana," I say gently. "They signed it. You can come home now."

Her fingers squeeze the blanket. She lowers her head. "I... I don't want to leave."

My heart drops. I take a step closer. She leans back like I'm a flame.

"Why?" I ask, my voice small.

"I feel safe here," she whispers. "Here... people are around. Here... I can breathe."

"I won't hurt you," I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyes lift to mine. There's something sharp in them. Not anger. Not hate. Something like pain.

"You say that," she murmurs, "but I don't know you."

Her words cut through me. I swallow them down.

I move to the small closet and lift the bag I packed earlier. Her clothes. Her creams. The sweater she once loved. I hold it to my chest before I turn to her again.

"Everything is ready," I say.

"I didn't ask you to pack my things," she replies quickly.

"I know." I place the bag by the chair. "But I didn't want you to worry about anything."

She looks away.

The air between us grows heavy.

A nurse steps in. "Time to move her out."

Lana's shoulders shake. She stands slowly, keeping one hand on the bed for balance. I want to reach out to help her, but I keep my hands at my sides. She watches them, as if waiting for them to grab her.

I bite the inside of my cheek and step back.

She walks past me. Her steps are slow, uneven. When her knees wobble, I react without thinking and put my hand under her elbow.

She flinches so hard she almost falls.

"I'm sorry," I say fast, pulling my hand away and holding it up. "I'm sorry, Lana. I won't touch you. I promise."

She breathes fast, her chest rising and falling like she's running.

The nurse leads us down the hall. Lana walks beside her, a little closer to her than to me.

When we reach the exit door, the cold wind hits us. Lana sucks in a breath.

The black car waits at the curb. I open the back door for her.

She doesn't move.

"Lana..." I whisper.

She shakes her head. "I don't want to sit with you."

The words punch me. I blink it away.

"You can sit on the other side," I say gently. "I'll stay far."

She hesitates, then steps in. She presses herself close to the door, staring out the window like the world outside might save her. I close the door softly and walk around to the other side.

When I slide into the seat beside her, she stiffens. Every line of her body screams distance. She looks straight ahead. Her hands are tight fists on her lap.

I put on my seat belt.

"Ready?" I ask.

She doesn't answer.

I start the car.

The road stretches ahead, long and quiet. My hands lie still on the wheel. I keep my voice low so she doesn't think I'm pushing.

"If you're tired, you can rest," I say.

Her head snaps toward me. "Don't tell me what to do."

The words sting, but I nod. "Okay."

Silence fills the car again.

Her fingers tremble in her lap. Her eyes keep jumping from the window to the door. I see it-the trapped feeling crawling through her chest. Her breathing shakes. She looks like a small bird inside a box.

"Lana," I whisper, "you're safe."

Her body jerks like I hit her.

"Stop saying that," she says, her voice cracking. "You keep saying I'm safe, but I don't feel it."

My breath leaves me. I grip the wheel. "Tell me what you need."

"Space," she says fast. "Room. Air."

"You'll have it," I promise. "At home, you-"

"Don't call it home," she cuts in. "It's your home. Not mine."

I feel the words burn. But I nod slowly.

The light turns red, and the car stops.

That's when she turns. Her eyes go to the door handle. Her fingers move toward it-slow at first, then fast.

My heart slams.

"Lana-wait!"

She pulls the handle hard. The door clicks.

I reach out instinctively-not rough, not tight, just enough to stop her from falling onto the road.

My hand wraps around her wrist.

She freezes.

Her breath catches, sharp. Her eyes fly to where my fingers touch her skin.

"Don't-" she whispers like a broken sound.

I let go immediately and raise both hands. "I'm not holding you. I'm not stopping you. I just don't want you to get hurt."

The door stays half open. Cold air rushes in, blowing her hair across her face. She sits still, trembling as she stares at freedom outside and fear inside.

Cars behind us honk.

"Please," I say softly, "let me close the door. Just that. Nothing more."

She doesn't speak.

Her shoulders drop a little.

I lean forward slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants. She doesn't. I touch the door and close it gently.

Her breath shudders out. She leans her head on the glass, eyes shut tight.

I stay perfectly still.

When the light turns green, I drive again.

Fifteen minutes pass. She doesn't talk. She stares at her hands like she doesn't trust them.

"Lana..." I begin, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you. Even to stop you from falling."

Her lips press tight. She whispers, "I don't know what's real."

My chest twists. "I know."

"You say you're my husband," she says, eyes still on the window. "But I don't... feel it. I don't feel anything. I don't know you."

The words are soft. But they break something inside me.

"I'll earn it back," I say.

She shakes her head fast. "You talk like you own my life."

"I don't," I whisper. "I just... I care."

"That's what scares me," she says.

The car goes quiet again.

I pull into the underground garage of the building. She watches the walls closing around us. Her hands start shaking again.

"Please," she whispers, almost too soft to hear. "I don't want to be here."

"I know," I say gently. "But you need rest. I promise I'll keep distance."

I park and open my door.

When I walk to her side, she pulls her legs up like she wants to hide.

"I'll stand back," I say.

I take three steps away.

"Come when you're ready."

She opens the door slowly, her eyes always on me. Like a wild animal watching a hand it doesn't trust.

She stands on shaky feet.

I keep my hands behind my back so she sees I won't touch her.

When we walk to the elevator, she walks close to the wall, not to me. Her breaths are fast, short. Each step looks like it costs her something.

The elevator doors open.

She steps inside and stays near the corner. I stand near the door.

The doors close.

The quiet inside becomes thick.

She stares at the floor. Her fingers twist the bottom of her shirt. I want to speak, but my throat feels tight.

When the doors slide open again, she walks out fast, like she's escaping.

I follow her at a slow pace.

At the front door of the penthouse, she stops. Her shoulders lift and fall as she gathers air.

"Lana?"

She doesn't turn.

I reach forward, slow and careful, and place the key in the lock. The door clicks open. I step back again.

"You can go in first," I say softly.

She stands still for a long moment. Then she steps inside.

And freezes.

Her breath leaves her in a sharp, small sound.

I follow her gaze-and my heartbeat stops.

Because someone is standing inside the living room.

A woman.

Back turned.

Long dark hair falling down her back.

She turns slowly at the sound of our steps.

Lana takes a step back. Her hand grabs the door frame.

My eyes widen.

The woman smiles.

"Hello, Adrian," she says softly.

"As promised... I came back."

Lana's fingers dig into the wood.

My own breath stops.

Because the woman standing there is-

the last person Lana should ever see.

Point of View: Lana

I stand in the doorway and do not step in right away.

The house is quiet, but not empty. It feels like it is holding its breath. The air is cool and clean. Light slides across the floor and rests on white walls and glass. Everything looks sharp and smooth, like it was polished this morning.

It is too much.

Adrian waits behind me. I can feel him there without looking. He does not rush me. That makes it worse somehow. If he pushed, I could push back. His patience wraps around me like a soft rope.

"Take your time," he says.

I nod, even though my body feels stiff. I step forward.

The door closes behind us with a soft sound. It echoes longer than it should. My chest tightens.

The smell hits me next.

It is faint, but it is everywhere. Clean soap. Warm skin. A soft flower I cannot name. It is my smell. I know that without knowing how I know. My stomach flips.

I lift my hand and press my fingers to my wrist. My pulse is fast.

"This place smells like me," I say.

Adrian answers quietly. "It should."

I take another step. Then another. My shoes make a small sound on the floor. The sound feels wrong in such a big space.

The living room opens in front of me. White couches. Glass tables. A tall wall of windows. Outside, trees stand still like they are watching too.

I turn slowly, like the room might move if I do not watch it.

Photos line the walls.

Frames of all sizes. Black. Silver. White. Some simple. Some heavy and expensive. Every frame holds the same woman.

Me.

I stop breathing.

I walk closer, slow, careful, as the pictures might bite.

There I am, laughing on a beach. My hair is loose, my face open. There I am in a red dress, standing beside Adrian, my hand on his chest. There I am in a kitchen, barefoot, holding a mug, smiling like I am happy to be awake.

I touch the glass of one frame.

My fingers shake.

"That's... me," I whisper.

"Yes," Adrian says.

I do not look at him. I keep looking at her. At me.

She looks comfortable. She looks sure. She looks like she belongs.

I do not know her.

My throat tightens. "I don't remember being this person."

He does not answer right away. When he does, his voice is careful. "You don't have to remember yet."

I pull my hand back from the frame. My skin tingles where it touched the glass.

It feels like the house is watching me. Every photo is an eye. Every smile is a question.

Why don't you know us?

Why did you leave

Why did you forget

I step back. My heel bumps into a table. The sound makes me jump.

"I feel strange," I say. "Like I walked into someone else's life."

Adrian moves a little closer. Not too close. "It was your life."

I shake my head. "It doesn't feel like it."

He nods once. He looks tired. "I know."

I walk past him, deeper into the house. My fingers brush the back of a chair. The fabric is soft. Familiar. I move my hand away quickly.

The kitchen opens to my left. White counters. Clean lines. Everything in its place. A bowl of fruit sits on the island. I stare at it.

"Those," I say, pointing. "I like those?"

Adrian follows my gaze. "You used to. Especially in the morning."

My chest tightens again. Morning. He says it like he has seen many of mine.

I turn away before he can say more.

A hallway stretches ahead. Doors line both sides. I pick one at random and open it.

A study.

Bookshelves fill the walls. Art hangs in neat rows. A desk faces a window. On the desk sits a small plant, green and alive.

I touch one leaf. It bends under my finger and springs back.

"I kept killing plants," I say without thinking.

Adrian's eyebrows lift. "You said that all the time."

I freeze.

"How do I know that?" I ask.

He does not answer. He watches me, his eyes full of something heavy.

I step out of the room.

Another door. A guest room. Clean. Untouched. No photos.

I let out a breath I did not know I was holding.

"Whose room is that?" I ask.

"Ours is upstairs," he says.

Our.

The word lands between us.

I do not answer. I walk to the stairs. Each step is wide and pale. The railing is glass. My reflection moves beside me as I climb.

Halfway up, I stop.

My reflection stops too.

I look at her closely. At me. Pale face. Tired eyes. A small cut near my hairline.

"I don't look like her," I say.

Adrian stands one step below me. "You do."

I shake my head. "She looks... certain."

He says nothing.

The bedroom is at the end of the hall.

The door is open.

I step inside and feel the air change.

It is warmer here. Softer. The smell is stronger.

My smell.

The bed is large. White sheets. Pillows arranged just so. Sunlight spills across the floor. A chair sits by the window with a folded blanket on it.

I take one step in. Then another.

My body reacts before my mind can stop it. My shoulders drop. My breath slows.

I hate that.

"This was mine," I say.

"Yes," Adrian answers.

I walk to the dresser. On top sits a small tray. Jewelry rests there. Rings. Earrings. A thin chain.

I pick up the chain. My fingers know how to hold it. I do not.

"Did I wear this often?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "You touched it when you were thinking."

I put it down too fast.

"How do you know all this?" I ask.

His voice is low. "Because I loved you."

The word hangs in the air.

Loved.

Past tense.

My chest aches.

I turn to the bed and sit on the edge. The mattress dips under my weight as it remembers me. I press my hands into the sheets.

"I feel like I'm being watched," I say.

Adrian looks around. "By what?"

"By her," I say. "By the woman in the photos."

He does not argue.

I lie back slowly. The ceiling is white and smooth. I stare at it.

"I don't recognize myself," I say.

Adrian sits in the chair by the window. He keeps space between us.

"That doesn't mean she wasn't real," he says.

Tears slide from the corners of my eyes. I do not wipe them away.

"What if I never become her again?" I ask.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Then we learn who you are now."

I turn my head and look at him. His face is open. Honest. It scares me.

I sat up again.

"I need to see all of it," I say. "Every room."

He nods. "Okay."

We walk through the rest of the house. A bathroom with clean lines and soft towels. Another room filled with clothes I do not remember buying. Shoes lined up like soldiers. Bags hanging in neat rows.

My stomach twists.

"This is too much," I say.

"I know," he answers.

We return to the living room.

I stop in front of one photo.

It is large. Bigger than the others.

It shows me standing in the garden. My hair is longer. I am wearing blue. My head is tilted back as I laugh. Adrian is behind the camera. I can tell by the way my eyes look.

They are looking at him.

I stare at the photo for a long time.

"She looks happy," I say.

"Yes," he replied quietly.

I press my palm to the glass.

"I don't know her," I whisper.

The house stays silent but the photos keep smiling.

And for the first time, the fear sharpens into something clear and cold.

If I do not know the woman in these pictures, then I do not know the life she lived,

And I do not know what she may have given away before she disappeared.

The house knows me but I do not know myself and that feels like the most dangerous thing of all.