"Yeah… I think Grace has lost her memory temporarily, at least for now, due to the immense trauma from the car accident," the doctor says quietly, his voice low so it doesn't travel into the room.
Monica stands beside him in the dimly lit hallway, her eyes fixed through the window in the hospital door. Inside, Grace sits propped on the bed, her face pale but serene, gazing out at the faint dawn breaking over the city. The sky outside is still mostly dark, streaked with the first traces of early light. Grace's expression is strangely calm, almost peaceful, as if she's in another world entirely.
Monica draws in a slow breath and turns back to the doctor.
"I think so too," she says softly, her voice subdued yet steady. "She's probably had too much shock from the accident."
For a moment, her thoughts drift—to the countless patients she's seen in her own career as a doctor, to those who woke to confusion and broken memories. She knows this terrain, though this time it's far more personal.
"I think we should just give her time," she adds. "Let her rest, let her mind breathe. The memories… they can return in their own time."
"Right, I agree." The doctor nods, his gaze steady yet carrying an undertone of concern. "It must be tough for you, seeing your daughter like this."
Monica shakes her head slowly, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"I have this trust… that the Lord is protecting my daughter. So I'm not worrying," she replies, her voice quiet but composed, anchored by something unshakable. "Thank you."
The doctor returns her smile, then turns and walks down the hallway, his footsteps soft and fading.
Monica stays behind, her hands folded loosely before her, eyes returning to the clear window of the door. Grace is still there, sitting quietly, gazing at the dark horizon with a strangely peaceful detachment.
"It's a good thing you woke up…" Monica whispers under her breath, her eyes softening. A small, almost bittersweet smile finds its way to her face. "Maybe forgetting everything… Maybe this is what you needed, Grace. Maybe this time… it's a blessing in disguise. Everything will work out for the best."
Her words hang softly in the cold, quiet hallway, as the dawn outside slowly brightens the world.
"Yeah… I think Grace has lost her memory temporarily, at least for now, due to the immense trauma from the car accident," the doctor says quietly, his voice low so it doesn't travel into the room.
Monica stands beside him in the dimly lit hallway, her eyes fixed through the window in the hospital door. Inside, Grace sits propped on the bed, her face pale but serene, gazing out at the faint dawn breaking over the city. The sky outside is still mostly dark, streaked with the first traces of early light. Grace's expression is strangely calm, almost peaceful, as if she's in another world entirely.
Monica draws in a slow breath and turns back to the doctor. "I think so too," she says softly, her voice subdued yet steady. "She's probably had too much shock from the accident." For a moment, her thoughts drift—to the countless patients she's seen in her own career as a doctor, to those who woke to confusion and broken memories. She knows this terrain, though this time it's far more personal.
"I think we should just give her time," she adds. "Let her rest, let her mind breathe. The memories… they can return in their own time."
"Right, I agree." The doctor nods, his gaze steady yet carrying an undertone of concern. "It must be tough for you, seeing your daughter like this."
Monica shakes her head slowly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I have this trust… that the Lord is protecting my daughter. So I'm not worrying," she replies, her voice quiet but composed, anchored by something unshakable. "Thank you."
The doctor returns her smile, then turns and walks down the hallway, his footsteps soft and fading.
Monica stays behind, her hands folded loosely before her, eyes returning to the clear window of the door. Grace is still there, sitting quietly, gazing at the dark horizon with a strangely peaceful detachment.
"It's a good thing you woke up…" Monica whispers under her breath, her eyes softening. A small, almost bittersweet smile finds its way to her face. "Maybe forgetting everything… maybe this is what you needed, Grace. Maybe this time… it's a blessing in disguise. Everything will work out for the best."
Her words hang softly in the cold, quiet hallway, as the dawn outside slowly brightens the world.
Morning creeps in reluctantly, painting the world in shades of muted gray. It isn't fully light, nor fully dark—just that lingering in-between, as if the day itself is unsure whether to begin.
Alex stands stiffly by the hospital bed, staring at his younger sister as though she's a stranger. His brows knit together, disbelief etched across his face.
"Wait… you really don't remember me? I'm your brother!" His voice cracks with incredulity, a sharp edge of frustration creeping in.
Grace tilts her head slightly, brows furrowing. "You're… my brother?" she repeats, testing the words like they're foreign on her tongue.
Alex turns quickly to Monica, his expression a mix of confusion and alarm.
"Mom, how is this even possible?"
Monica remains composed, though her eyes betray the heaviness she carries. "Alex, your sister has temporarily lost her memories because of the trauma from the car accident. We just need to wait for her to remember things. It can take time… but memories often find their way back."
Alex digests her words slowly, his lips pressing together as he gives a small, reluctant nod.
"Yeah… I guess that's what we do then. We wait." He pauses, something crossing his mind, and he looks back at his mother sharply. "Mom, what about Julian?"
Grace watches them, her eyes wide and innocent, her expression devoid of recognition. She seems like someone dropped into a life she doesn't belong to, observing strangers who know her name.
Monica blinks, startled by the question.
"Right, Julian…" Her voice trails as she glances at Grace—her daughter's vacant look cutting deep. "Maybe… we should tell him later. It might be too much for him to see Grace like this, with all her memories gone."
Alex hesitates, then nods slowly.
"Right… It could be a shock. We'll wait. But, Mom…" He lowers his voice, as if speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile. "What if it takes too long?"
Monica says nothing at first. She just looks at her daughter, who's staring out the window as though searching for answers in the distant horizon.
Alex presses again, softer now. "Mom… what happens if it takes too long for Grace to remember?"
Finally, Monica turns to him, her voice steady but quiet. "Then… we'll wait. For as long as it takes. That's our role right now—to wait and to be here for her."
Outside, the hospital window frames a city still wrapped in the cold hush of dawn. The winter air hangs heavy, quiet and unmoving, filling the streets with a lonely stillness.
Grace shifts her gaze back to the view, her eyes narrowing slightly at the frost clinging to the rooftops.
The silence lingers until she murmurs, almost to herself, "This winter… It feels really long."
"What?" Alex asks, snapping his head toward her.
Grace looks back at her brother and mother, then shakes her head.
"No… nothing," she says softly, her tone unreadable.
The first dawn of the year creeps quietly over the horizon, its pale light barely touching the frozen world.
Julian runs.
The winter air bites at his cheeks and stings his lungs, but he doesn't care. Each stride pounds against the icy pavement of the lake park trail, echoing faintly in the stillness. Few dare to venture out on a morning like this—the air itself feels brittle with cold, and snow lies in thick ridges along the edges of the path. Yet Julian keeps running, faster, harder, as if something invisible chases him.
His breath comes out in sharp clouds, fleeting ghosts dissolving into the dawn. After twenty relentless minutes, he slows to a halt, bending slightly as his hands press against his knees. The silence of the lake spreads out before him, broken only by the distant caw of a crow and the crunch of snow shifting under his shoes.
Julian lifts his head. The lake is still, its surface sheened with frost, and beyond it, the horizon glows faintly with the newborn year's light.
But he isn't thinking about the cold or the quiet. He's thinking about that dream.
It clings to him like frost on glass—its vividness refusing to fade even now.
He sees Grace in it, standing across a pedestrian crossing, her hair caught by the wind, her eyes finding him as if no time has passed.
She called me June. And I called her Grace.
The memory feels real enough to make his chest ache.
"Why does it feel so real?" he whispers to himself, his breath swirling into the icy air like pale smoke. "Grace… are you all right?"
The words linger, fragile and unanswered, carried away by the cold wind sweeping across the lake.