The room smelled like plastic and lemon-scented bleach, too clean, too artificial, like even the air had been scrubbed sterile.
Kairo had been staring at the blinds for what felt like a lifetime. Sunlight slanted in through the narrow gaps, catching on dust motes that floated in slow spirals. His eyes followed them not because he cared but because it was easier than trying to think.
His neck hurt from the angle.
But everything hurt these days.
When the door creaked open, he turned his head slowly, like even that small act required permission from muscles that had forgotten their purpose.
The woman who entered wasn't a nurse.
No scrubs. No bright badge. No practiced smile meant to soothe.
She was tall, dressed in a fitted blazer and dark slacks. Her heels tapped softly against the tile, not rushed, but purposeful. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek bun so tight it looked like it might snap.
"Good morning, Mr. Lancaster," she said, stepping in like she owned the air between them.
She didn't wait for a response.
"I'm Dr. Alina Cross, your attending neurologist."
She lifted a tablet in one hand, stylus in the other, eyes not even on him as she spoke. Everything about her felt mechanical. Efficient. Like she'd long ago figured out how to offer concern without feeling it.
"We've been tracking your neural responses since your arrival," she continued, tapping something on her screen. "Let me be the first to officially welcome you back."
Kairo didn't answer.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he didn't trust himself to say what he wanted to.
Dr. Cross moved closer, eyes flicking over the monitors. Her fingers flew across the tablet again.
"You've stabilized well. You made it through the critical window. Scans show encouraging neural activity. Cognition is present, and speech recognition is operational. Given the nature of the trauma, that's promising."
Kairo's jaw tightened. "I don't feel promising."
She barely glanced at him. "You wouldn't. Not yet."
There was no empathy in her voice, just explanation.
"Memory disruption is not unusual. In fact, it's expected. Your brain was under sustained trauma and deep sedation. Think of it like a hard drive that's been dropped and rebooted. Some data is fine. Some will take time. And some may be lost entirely."
Lost.
There it was again, that word. So neat. So clinical. Like memory was a misplaced umbrella or a corrupted file.
But what he had lost didn't feel small.
He took a breath. "There's… someone," he said quietly.
That made her look up.
"Someone," she repeated.
Kairo's brow furrowed, searching for the right language when all he had were feelings.
"I can't explain it. It's not a face. Not a name. Just... this sense. A pull. Like something's missing. Or someone is. Someone important."
Dr. Cross stilled her hand mid-tap.
She didn't speak right away.
Then: "It's not uncommon to experience emotional hallucinations during cognitive recovery. Phantom memories. Misattributed longing. The mind invents comfort when the world goes blank."
He frowned.
"No," he said. "It doesn't feel invented. It feels like… grief."
She gave the barest sigh. "Grief is a chemical reaction, Mr. Lancaster. It doesn't mean the loss is real. Post-trauma patients often project feelings onto faceless figures. It's the brain's way of looking for something to cling to."
He looked away, jaw clenched. The words stung more than he expected.
"She laughed," he murmured, almost to himself. "That's what I remember most. Her laugh. It felt like light. Like home."
Dr. Cross didn't flinch. "You're describing a common emotional phenomenon. People imagine soulmates. Familiar smells. Voices calling them back. These are protective illusions."
His head snapped toward her, eyes sharp now.
"I didn't imagine her."
She raised an eyebrow, calm but firm.
"Then be patient. If she's real, and she matters, your memory will eventually tell you that. But obsessing over fragments…" She clicked her tablet shut. "That will only keep you in confusion longer."
Confusion?
No.
He wasn't confused.
He was certain.
Not of the facts.
Not of the timeline.
But of the feeling.
And that feeling hadn't been imagined. It was lodged somewhere deep inside him, humming like an old song.
She made a final note and stepped back. "Cognitive therapy begins in forty-eight hours. For now, rest. Your brain will do the work while you sleep."
And with that, she turned and walked out.
No further questions. No invitation to speak.
Just the click of her heels and the soft snap of the door.
Kairo sat in the quiet she left behind, staring down at his hands, hands that felt too still. He flexed his fingers slowly.
He didn't know what scared him more: that she might be right… or that he might never remember enough to prove she wasn't.
He closed his eyes, pressed the heel of one palm to his forehead.
And then,
The scent came back.
Soft. Familiar.
Not antiseptic. Not sterile.
Oranges.
Not sharp like the fruit, but gentle, floral. Like orange blossoms on a breeze.
And behind it, something warmer.
A laugh.
A hand brushing his jaw.
A voice. A whisper.
Kairo… come back to me.
His eyes snapped open.
Breath caught in his throat.
He knew that voice.
He knew it.
Not from a dream. Not from fantasy. From life.
With trembling hands, he reached for the clipboard on his tray and grabbed the nearest pen.
He turned the paper over and, ignoring the stiffness in his fingers, wrote two shaky words across the blank backside:
She's real.