The sky outside was a pale gray, the kind of light that made everything feel fragile. Rain had returned overnight, thin and insistent, drumming softly against the hospital windows. Iris woke to its sound and immediately felt a knot in her stomach. Rain had become a strange marker of memory sometimes comfort, sometimes warning, sometimes a weight she didn't understand.
She stretched her fingers slowly, wincing at the stiffness that had settled in overnight. The room smelled faintly of coffee and antiseptic, the combination oddly grounding. Noah wasn't in the chair today, but she could feel his absence, like the room had been holding its breath for him.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Morning," Lena said, stepping in, damp umbrella tucked under her arm. "Rainy day, perfect for hospital food."
Iris smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks. Did you have breakfast already?"
"Too early," Lena said, shaking out the umbrella. "I figured I'd bring you something to eat, and… maybe company."
They ate in silence, punctuated only by the occasional soft thud of raindrops against the window. Iris found comfort in the normalcy of it the way Lena talked about her commute, the way she described the barista getting the coffee order wrong, the small frustrations that seemed absurd but real.
After a while, the door opened again, and Noah stepped inside. Rain had soaked the bottom of his shoes, and droplets clung to his hair, but he looked as composed as always. He carried a small thermos and a paper cup.
"Good morning," he said softly.
"Good morning," Iris replied, noting the careful way he set the thermos on the table before sitting in the chair.
He poured the tea and handed it to her. "Chamomile, again. Not bitter."
She accepted it, warming her hands around the cup. She didn't remember why she liked it, but somehow, that didn't matter. The act itself someone thinking of her, caring enough to do something small was enough.
"I dreamt of the rain last night," she admitted quietly, almost to herself.
Noah tilted his head. "What kind of dream?"
"I don't remember much," she said. "Just… shapes, colors, and the sound. It felt like something I lost was there, but I couldn't reach it."
He nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Sometimes memory is like that it leaves echoes."
Iris sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread slowly through her chest. "Do you ever think about what we had before?"
He met her eyes. "Every day," he said softly. "Even if you don't remember it, I do. And it matters to me."
The weight of his words pressed into her. She wanted to reject it, to say that she couldn't feel it, but part of her wanted to believe him. Part of her wanted to trust that the connection they had wasn't lost completely.
"I'm scared," she whispered, her hands tightening around the cup. "Scared I'll never feel the same way. That I'll never be able to feel… anything about it."
"You will," he said. "It just takes time. Memory doesn't have to dictate feeling."
They sat in silence after that, the sound of rain filling the room. It wasn't heavy, not like yesterday, but persistent enough to remind her of everything she couldn't recall. Noah didn't move closer; he didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to anchor her.
Later, when her parents arrived, they brought quiet comfort, asking gentle questions and observing the subtle interactions between Iris and Noah. Her mother fussed, her father offered soft reassurances, and Noah remained composed, participating without overshadowing anyone.
After they left, the room was quiet again, save for the steady hum of machines and the patter of rain. Iris sat by the window, tracing the water as it ran down the glass. She realized something she hadn't before the past might be lost, but some things some people were impossible to forget.
Noah returned at the end of visiting hours, standing by the window, hands in pockets. He looked out at the rain, then back at her.
"You're still here," she said softly, a statement more than a question.
"I'll always be," he replied.
And for the first time since waking in this hospital room, Iris allowed herself to believe it. Not in memory, not in certainty, but in the small, stubborn truth of presence.
The rain outside fell steadily, but it no longer felt heavy. For the first time in a long time, it felt like a beginning.