Chapter 2

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Julian hasn’t moved since the knock on the door. His jaw tightens, his eyes flicker toward the sound, and for the first time, I see something in him that unsettles me.

Not just concern. Not just hesitation.

Fear.

I swallow hard. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs.

“Julian?” My voice is quieter now, uncertain. “Who is that?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he turns, walks toward the door, and presses his hand against it, as if expecting it to burst open at any second. I watch the way his fingers tremble before curling into a fist.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Julian.” The voice on the other side is calm, steady. “Let me see her.”

A pause.

Then Julian’s voice—low, controlled. “Not yet.”

A deep sigh. A moment of hesitation. Then soft footsteps retreat down the hall, fading into silence.

Julian waits a moment longer before exhaling, pressing his forehead briefly against the wood. When he turns back to me, the fear is gone, replaced by the same unreadable patience from before.

“You should rest,” he says. His voice is too careful, too smooth. As if the last few moments never happened.

I wet my lips. “Who was that?”

“Someone who doesn’t matter right now.”

I frown. “It sounded like they knew me.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks toward me, his movements slow, measured, like he’s trying not to startle me. “Come on,” he murmurs. “You need rest.”

I don’t move. “I’m not tired.”

His lips twitch into the smallest ghost of a smile. “You don’t have to be tired to need rest.”

He says it like he’s said it before. Like he’s told me this a thousand times before.

The thought unsettles me.

Still, I let him guide me back to the bed. He pulls the silk covers over my legs, tucking them around me with a tenderness that should feel comforting. But it doesn’t.

Because something is missing.

I stare at his hands—the way they move gently, the way his fingers brush against my skin with caution, like I’m made of glass. Like I’m fragile.

I don’t know him. But I can tell, even without my memories, that this is wrong. That his hands should be bolder. That his touch should remember me.

And yet, it feels… hesitant.

Not like a lover touching someone he’s longed for.

Like a man afraid of waking a ghost.

I shiver.

Julian notices. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

A lie. But not because of the temperature.

Because something inside me feels hollow.

I hesitate before speaking. “You said my name is Ana.”

His gaze softens. “Yes.”

“Anastasia,” I murmur, rolling the name on my tongue. It feels… distant. Not wrong. But not mine.

I look at him again. “Who am I?”

A sharp breath escapes him. His fingers curl slightly where they rest on the sheets, like he’s bracing for impact.

His voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper.

“You were everything to me.”

Something inside me twists. A sharp ache, deep in my chest, as if the words should mean something.

But they don’t.

I blink at him, my mouth dry. “But I don’t—”

He shakes his head. “It’s alright.” A sad smile. “You don’t have to remember right now.”

But I want to.

I want to understand why his voice trembles when he speaks to me. Why his eyes follow my every movement like he’s memorizing me. Why he looks at me like I’m already gone.

I want to know why it hurts him so much that I don’t remember.

I grip the sheets beneath me, trying to steady myself. “How long have I been… like this?”

A hesitation. “A while.”

Not an answer.

I press my lips together. “And before?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Before?”

“Before I forgot. Before I lost…” I gesture vaguely, my frustration bubbling. “This.”

He watches me carefully. “What do you want to know?”

Everything.

But I don’t know where to start.

I shake my head. “Something. Anything.”

Julian studies me for a long moment. Then he exhales softly and reaches for the nightstand. I watch as he opens the drawer, pulling something out.

When he turns back, he’s holding a book.

My breath catches before I understand why.

The cover is worn, the edges frayed, the leather soft from use. Familiar.

Julian sees the shift in my expression. “You used to love this one.”

I stare at the book. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for it.

“I read it to you once,” he continues. “When you were sick. You made me read it three times in a row before you finally fell asleep.” A faint chuckle. “I thought my voice was going to give out.”

The story should stir something in me. But it doesn’t.

I stare at the book, unblinking. “I don’t remember.”

A flicker of pain crosses his face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “That’s okay.”

It’s not.

I reach out hesitantly, my fingers brushing against the worn cover. My stomach clenches. The texture feels wrong. The weight in my hands feels too unfamiliar.

I force myself to look up. “What else?”

Julian hesitates. Then, slowly, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You used to hum in the mornings,” he says quietly. “Right before the sun came up. A soft little tune, barely there. I don’t think you ever realized you did it.” His lips curve slightly. “It drove me insane. I could never figure out what song it was.”

Something stirs inside me. A flicker. The faintest shadow of warmth.

Not a memory.

Just… an echo.

I inhale shakily. “Did you ever find out?”

His smile fades. “No.”

I search his face. “Do I still hum?”

A pause.

And then—softer, like an ache:

“You don’t hum anymore.”

My stomach twists. I look away, staring at the book in my hands, my grip tightening. I feel like I’ve lost something I never knew I had.

I don’t know how long the silence stretches.

Julian exhales, his fingers dragging through his hair. “You should try to sleep.”

I don’t want to sleep.

I want to remember.

But the exhaustion is creeping in, heavy and unshakable. And maybe—just maybe—I’m afraid of what I’ll see when I do.

I let him take the book from my hands, setting it back on the nightstand. He stands, looking down at me, and for a second, I think he might touch me.

But he doesn’t.

His hands stay at his sides.

Instead, he just watches me, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Ana,” he murmurs.

He turns away.

I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because the room feels too big. Maybe because his absence feels too sudden.

But the words slip out before I can stop them.

“Stay.”

Julian freezes.

Slowly, he turns back to me, eyes searching. “Are you sure?”

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

I nod anyway.

He hesitates for only a moment before stepping back toward the chair beside the bed. He lowers himself into it, hands clasped, watching me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.

I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep.

I just listen.

To the quiet. To his breathing.

To the absence of my own humming.

And somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, the faintest sound of a melody lingers.

A song I used to know.