Forgotten Memories at the Twilight

Leona’s POV

My head is submerged in water.

I can’t breathe.

Everything’s murky — like the world has been dipped in the wrong color.

I blink slowly. Fluorescent lights buzz above me. A beeping machine pulses nearby.

I’m in a hospital. That much I know.

But why?

How?

I don’t remember. Not a single thing.

I’ve been sitting alone in this too-white room, trying to piece myself together.

I glanced out the window earlier — it was dark.

Night, I think.

Strange. I know what night is, but I don’t know if I’ve ever had a night before.

I look down at my hand. A ring catches the light — silver, delicate, a heart-shaped diamond.

It feels heavy. Like it doesn’t belong there.

I slide it off and examine it more closely.

Inside the band: a single letter.

D.

Is that me?

I dig through my brain, heart racing.

Nothing.

Just static.

A soft click — the door opens.

A woman in blue scrubs enters, carrying a small tray.

She freezes mid-step, gasping, a hand flying to her chest.

I jump.

“What?” I croak, voice rough like gravel.

“You’re awake,” she breathes.

She disappears.

A minute later, she returns — with him.

A man. Tall, glasses, perfect. Sculpted, almost. Like he was never meant to exist in a hospital.

He smiles at me.

It’s warm, but strained.

I smile back. I don’t know why.

He opens his mouth. One word:

“Leona.”

The name echoes strangely in the air. It doesn’t settle. Doesn’t fit.

I blink at him, confused.

He says nothing else. Just checks my pulse, shines a light in my eyes, listens to my breathing.

“Any pain? Nausea? Headaches?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“No. Not that I... know of?”

And still — I’m not sure if I’m lying.

“You’ve been in a coma for two months,” he says.

I stare at him.

Two months?!

He pulls out a clipboard. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Just answer as best you can.”

I nod.

“What’s your name?”

I search my memory.

Look for anything.

Blank. Empty.

“D?” I offer. It comes out like a question.

He scribbles something.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“My doctor?”

This time, his eyes soften. Pain. Pity.

“How did you get here?”

I shake my head.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He nods once. “Okay. Sandra here will take care of you,” he says, gesturing to the nurse. He backs out, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call your husband. Let him know you’re awake.”

Husband?

That explains the ring.

I nod, but something feels wrong.

Why can’t I remember anything?

Sandra sticks a needle in my arm, draws some blood, adjusts my IV. I don’t even feel it.

“You must be overwhelmed, sweet child,” she says gently.

I look at her, but I don’t think I see her. Everything feels too new. Too distant.

“You have to be strong now — for the both of you,” she adds.

“The both of us? My husband?”

She smiles faintly. “I meant your baby. Your husband’s handsome, sure, but… he barely visited while you were under.”

I blink.

A baby?

A husband I don’t know, and now a baby?

I look down at my stomach. I need to see.

I try to rise, but I’m too weak.

“Is there a mirror?” I ask.

Sandra studies me for a moment, then nods.

“I’ll get one.”

She leaves. I stare at the blanket covering my stomach, unsure what to expect.

When she returns, she’s pushing a full-length mirror on wheels.

“I had to dig this out of storage. It’s a bit dusty, but I cleaned it up the best I could.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I try to stand. My legs tremble.

She rushes to my side, helping me up.

I thank her again.

We face the mirror.

The woman staring back at me is a stranger.

Pale face. Disheveled hair. Sunken cheeks. Eyes too big for their sockets.

I look like a ghost. Or an alien. Or someone barely holding on.

I force my gaze down, but can’t bring myself to focus on the obvious — the bump.

Instead, I study my body. My posture. My hands. My hollow eyes.

It still doesn’t feel like me.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Sandra says softly. “Even after two months and a nasty accident, you still look like you walked off a runway.”

I smile weakly.

I don’t believe her.

“Can I go back to bed now?”

She smiles back through the mirror and helps me lie down again. My legs feel like jelly, but maybe with time, they’ll remember how to work.

The door opens again.

The doctor returns — and he’s not alone.

Another man steps in behind him. Tall. Broad. Beautiful.

His face steals the air from the room.

His expression is stone.

The doctor is talking, but the other man isn’t listening.

His eyes are locked on mine.

Something shifts inside me.

My chest tightens. A deep ache coils there, sharp and heavy.

I don’t recognize him.

But my body reacts like I do.

Tears blur my vision. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

I wipe my face quickly.

His jaw clenches. His fists, too.

The doctor notices and stops talking. He gives the man a firm pat on the shoulder, then looks at me with that same pity.

“Sandra?” he says quietly.

She leaves the room without a word, offering a sad smile as she passes me.

“Leona,” the doctor says gently, “this is your husband, Damon. He’s here to take you home.”

Husband?

Then why does it hurt so much to look at him?

Shouldn’t I feel safe?

“Leave us,” Damon says, voice low, commanding.

The doctor hesitates — but one look at Damon’s face and he backs down, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Now it’s just the two of us.

A man who’s supposed to be my husband…

And a stranger who looks at me like he wants to kill me.