The rain had stopped by mid-morning, leaving the air damp and heavy with the smell of wet pavement and earth. Sunlight struggled to break through the lingering clouds, casting pale streaks across the hospital room. Iris woke slowly, her limbs stiff and her mind foggy, like waking from a dream she couldn't quite remember.
Her eyes fell on the chair by the bed. Empty. Noah hadn't come yet, and for a strange reason, that made her chest tighten. She tried to tell herself it didn't matter, that he had other things to do, that she should be grateful for what she had but the thought wasn't enough.
A knock at the door drew her attention.
"Morning," Lena said, entering with her usual brisk energy, her umbrella still tucked under her arm. "I brought breakfast. Hospital toast again is boring."
Iris smiled faintly, accepting the plate. "Thanks."
They ate quietly, listening to the soft hum of the machines. Lena spoke about trivial things the neighbors, a barista getting a coffee order wrong, the stray cat she'd seen in the alley. It felt strange how these small moments grounded her more than anything else.
When Noah arrived shortly after, damp from the morning drizzle, Iris noticed how his eyes lingered on her briefly before he offered a cautious smile. He carried a small thermos and a paper cup, which he set gently on the table.
"I thought you might like some tea," he said, pouring a small cup and handing it to her. "Chamomile. Not bitter."
She accepted it, letting the warmth seep into her hands. "Thank you."
He nodded and took his seat quietly. For a few minutes, they sat together, neither speaking, letting the silence stretch like it could absorb the tension that neither of them admitted existed.
Finally, Iris broke it. "Do you ever… wish I remembered?"
Noah looked down at his hands for a moment before answering. "Every day. But memory isn't everything. The moments we have now they're real too."
She thought about that. Memories were gone, but the connection lingered. Small details, gestures, silences they were all threads tying her to someone she couldn't fully recall.
"I'm scared," she admitted softly, her fingers trembling slightly around the cup. "That I won't be able to feel what I'm supposed to. That I'll never feel… anything about us."
"You will," he said, his voice steady. "It takes time. Feeling doesn't require memory. And I'll be here."
She looked at him, trying to believe it, trying to anchor herself to the certainty in his eyes. His presence was a lifeline she hadn't realized she needed.
Later, her parents arrived again, quiet and careful. Her mother fussed over her blanket and clothes, her father offered soft words of reassurance. Noah remained patient, standing slightly back, participating without overshadowing them. His calm presence seemed to steady Iris in a way no one else could.
After they left, Iris sat by the window, watching the sunlight shimmer on the puddles outside. Each reflection seemed like a fragment of something she once knew. She realized then that the past wasn't just gone it was scattered, hidden in pieces she might never fully recover.
Noah returned at the end of visiting hours, standing by the window as she did, his hands in his pockets. He didn't speak immediately. He simply watched her, sharing the quiet without intrusion.
"You're still here," she said softly, almost as if stating a fact she needed to believe.
"I'll always be," he replied.
The words, simple yet steadfast, settled around her like a protective weight. For the first time since waking in this hospital room, she allowed herself to feel something steady amidst the chaos.
The rain had gone, but its echo remained in the way the air smelled, in the quiet hum of the hospital, in the lingering warmth of a hand offered and accepted. And in that echo, Iris found a fragile hope: that even without memory, some things some people were impossible to forget.
She closed her eyes, letting the quiet sink in, letting herself imagine a future where the fragments of her past could someday form something whole again.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel entirely alone.