The cycle felt relentless: hospital, home, hospital again. Chuck shuffled through the front door with his wife, leaning heavily on her, the familiar scent of home -- lemon polish and baked bread -- a stark contrast to the sterile bleach and anxiety of the ward. His body felt hollowed out, thinner than before the latest round of treatment. The plastic hospital bracelet, usually snipped off immediately, still clung loosely to his wrist like a stubborn ghost of the IV lines. He sank onto the couch, the cushions sighing beneath him, exhaustion a physical weight pressing down. Inside, a dull ache pulsed behind his left temple, a constant companion now, a grim reminder of the unwelcome guest nestled in his brain.

Later, bathed in the softer light of the evening, he watched his wife move around the kitchen, preparing his medication. There was a curve to her cheek, a familiar grace in the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, that sparked a deep, undeniable warmth in his chest. It was her, the center of his universe. But when he tried to grasp the memory -- the specific shade of her eyes on their first date under the city lights, the sound of her laugh when he'd fumbled asking her out -- it slithered away like smoke.

"Darling love," he started, his voice rough. When she turned, he searched her face, the warmth in his chest battling the icy dread of forgetting. "I'm... I'm sorry," he whispered, the words thick. "Your... your name... what is it again?" He reached out, his hand finding hers, clinging to the tangible proof of her presence. "Just... please, tell me again? I'm sorry. Lately, things slip away. But you-- you are everything."