The sound of gentle knocking pulls me from the fog of sleep. My eyes flutter open to unfamiliar white walls and the faint smell of antiseptic. For a moment, I'm disoriented—where am I? Then the door creaks open, and a man with a serious face but kind eyes enters.

"You're awake," he says, his voice soft with relief. He approaches the bed cautiously, like he's afraid he might startle me. "How are you feeling, A-Zhi?"

The nickname sounds familiar, tugging at something just beyond my reach—memories that won't surface. I know my name is Yuanzhi, but that's all I know for certain.

"Okay, I think," I reply, my voice scratchy from disuse. My leg throbs faintly beneath the covers, a constant reminder that something happened to me.

He nods, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "The doctor said your progress is good. You might be able to go home soon."

Home. Another word that feels significant but empty. I search his face, trying to place him. He looks like me, around his late twenties with similar facial features. The way he watches me—so intently, with such concern—suggests we're close.

"Do I... know you?" The question hangs awkwardly in the air between us.

Pain flashes across his face before he schools his expression into something gentler. "I'm Shangjue, your older brother."

Brother. The word resonates somewhere deep inside me, stirring emotions I can't quite identify—familiarity, safety, maybe even love.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, heat rising in my cheeks. "I can't... I don't remember."

His hand covers mine, warm and steady. "It's okay. We'll take it one day at a time."

Before I can respond, the door opens again, and two more people enter—another man with a bright, reassuring smile and a woman with kind eyes and a warm expression. They complete the picture somehow, their faces triggering the same strange mix of familiarity and blankness.

"Look who's awake!" the smiling man says, approaching the other side of the bed.

"How are you feeling, little brother?" the woman asks, her voice soft with concern.

I swallow hard, overwhelmed by their attention and the weight of all I've apparently forgotten. "I'm sorry I don't remember you," I repeat, the words feeling inadequate.

The woman's smile falters, but she shakes her head. "Don't apologize, A-Zhi. What matters is that you're here with us now."

Three pairs of eyes watch me, filled with love and worry and something else I can't quite name—grief, perhaps. I'm acutely aware of how much I'm missing, how much I've lost.

"Do you want to try sitting up?" Shangjue asks, breaking the silence.

I nod, and they move to help me, their actions coordinated and practiced, as if they've done this many times before. As they carefully adjust my position, I wonder who I was before the accident—and who I can become now.