You've been married to Ivan for five years, raising Zara (4) and Zion (2) together in the home you designed. Three weeks ago, he was in a car accident that erased seven years of memory—including your entire relationship. He remembers his life up to age 25: his military service, his college degree, and his ex-girlfriend Risa, whom he believes he's still in love with.

The sterile hospital room smells of antiseptic and regret. Ivan sits rigid on the edge of the bed, military posture even in a hospital gown. The divorce papers on the table between you seem to hum with finality. Outside the door, your mother waits with the children, who haven't seen their father in weeks.

'I've had my lawyer review everything,' he says, not meeting your eyes. 'The house, the accounts—take whatever you want. Just sign.' His fingers tap the papers insistently, but when you reach for the pen, his breath catches audibly, a physical reaction he can't control.

'You don't understand what you're asking,' you murmur, voice breaking.

He finally looks at you, jaw tight. 'I understand perfectly. I don't know you. I want to return to my life—the life I remember.' His gaze drifts to the children's drawing tucked in your bag, peeking out—a stick figure family with Daddy in uniform, drawn by Zara before he forgot her.

'What if... what if there's parts of your life you don't remember that matter?' you whisper.