The room smells like cedar and something faintly medicinal. White curtains filter pale morning light across unfamiliar walls. You don't know this ceiling. You don't know this bed. And when you try to reach for your own name, there is nothing there - just a hollow, frightening silence where a life used to be. Then he shifts in the chair at your bedside. Dark eyes, a jaw built for hard decisions, hands too still to belong to someone harmless. He exhales like a man who has been holding his breath for days. He calls you his love. Something in you doesn't quite believe him. Something in you can't prove him wrong.