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And there’s more. Yesterday, I lay on crinkly paper while cold gel spread across my abdomen. The ultrasound technician pointed to the monitor, her voice bright with routine joy.

“There’s your daughter— see those tiny fingers?”

I nodded, watching the grainy shadow pulse and move. A baby girl. Growing inside me. Perfect and healthy. I should have wept or laughed or felt something profound. Instead, I stared at the screen like a tourist viewing someone else’s family video, wondering when the real mother would step in and claim this life that supposedly belongs to me.

Each afternoon finds me tracing the garden’s perimeter. My legs are steadier now but mind is still adrift. Today, I pause beneath a flowering dogwood to watch a middle-aged couple share sandwiches with their recovering son, memorizing how they interact, as if their normalcy might teach me my own.

The gardeners have created a sanctuary here— roses climbing trellises, jasmine spilling over stone walls, creating pockets of sweetness in the sterile hospital air. I’ve claimed a bench beneath the largest oak, where I sit with eyes squeezed shut, lungs full of fragrant air, waiting for the scents to unlock a birthday, a holiday, a single memory of before. Nothing comes but the distant laughter of families who remember.

The doctors run test after test— MRIs, CT scans, neurological examinations. They’re thorough, I’ll give them that. Every result comes back normal, except for one: my memory.

That remains stubbornly, terrifyingly blank.

What’s strange is that while I can’t remember facts or events, feelings linger like ghosts.

Feelings…

I glance over at the flowers at my bedside, the sweet scent of roses lingering. The man who calls himself Aleksei visits daily with small gifts and speaks to me in that low, careful voice. Asking me about my day. Telling me stories about things that I’m supposed to connect with… but don’t. It sounds like someone else’s world. Someone else’s stories.

But the feelings are always there.

My body responds to his presence in confusing ways— my heart rate quickens around him, my skin prickles with awareness. There’s definitely attraction there, a gut-wrenching pull I can’t deny. He’s undeniably handsome, with those dark eyes and broad shoulders, and the way he looks at me… like I’m something precious he’s afraid of losing.

Am I precious to him?

It’s a question I can’t help asking because beneath that attraction lurks something darker. Sometimes when he’s near, a chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with desire. It’s like my body remembers something my mind won’t let me access— something about him that should make me wary. Occasionally, when he mentions certain things or makes specific gestures, I get flashes of… not memories exactly, but emotions. Grief. Fear. Anger. They’re connected to him somehow.

Why?

Why does he make me feel anger?

Or fear?

He tells me he’s the father of my baby, and I believe him— there’s no way he could lie about that. But it’s frustrating not remembering how we met, or when we fell in love— did we fall in love?— or even the moment we created this child growing inside me. How can I not remember making love to him? The intimacy we must have shared?

I try to piece things together, but it’s like trying to complete a puzzle when most of the pieces are missing, and the few I have don’t seem to fit. Every time I think I’m close to remembering something, it slips away like smoke through my fingers.

Now, lying on my hospital bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to make sense of it all. The door opens, and Dr. Malhotra enters, tablet in hand.

“Good news, Miss Fermont,” he says. “All your tests have come back clear. Apart from the memory loss and some residual effects from the concussion, you’re perfectly healthy. We can discharge you today.”

I sit up slowly. “But my memory…”

“May return with time,” he says gently. “The brain is remarkably resilient. The important thing is not to force it. Memories often return naturally when the mind feels safe enough to process them.”

“So, I’ll need to feel safe?” I ask. How will I feel safe if I don’t know where I’m going, or recognize the people I’ll be with?

“You’ll settle in soon, dear. And then it will only be a matter of time. Temporary retrograde amnesia,” Dr. Malhotra says, tapping his pen against the chart, “is your mind’s way of erecting barriers against trauma.” He gestures toward his temple. “Memories could be triggered when you face familiar circumstances or emotions. That’s not going to happen here.” He smiles gently as if to take the edge off.

“What about my family?” I ask. “Surely I must have parents, siblings, friends?”

He consults his tablet. “Your primary contact is listed as Aleksei Tarasov.”

“Just him?” The question comes out small, vulnerable.

“Yes.” He looks at me sympathetically. “Would you like me to try contacting anyone else?”

I shake my head, not knowing who to suggest. The reality hits me hard— I’m about to leave this safe, sterile environment and go… where? With whom? I have no memory of any place feeling like home.