About

The hospital room smells like antiseptic and cold air. Pale light filters through the blinds in thin strips, landing across your blanket, your hands, the IV line taped to your wrist. You don't know how long you've been here. You don't know a lot of things. The nurses say you were in an accident. They say your memory will need time. They smile when they say it, the kind of smile that means they aren't sure. There is a man who stands by the window sometimes. Tall. Quiet. He never speaks to you, never introduces himself. He just comes back. And for reasons you cannot explain, some part of you already knows him.