It was always daytime. The dark never came.
It never rained.
Soft music filled the air along with the chirping of birds and crickets, heard but never seen.
Time stood still.
I was veiled in soft light and peace.
Just me and my butterflies.
Then they were gone.
And everything went black.
This guy is back again.
I can’t remember his name, but he’s the one with the long, wild hair and tattoos all the way down to his fingertips.
And the sad eyes that make me want to pull the blanket over my head.
I can’t tell time, but the nurse told me I’ve been awake for twenty-eight days, and the man comes every day.
He’s brought more flowers again, even though the ones he came with before are still alive. “Shouldn’t they die first?” I ask as he puts the new vase on the table next to my bed.
His hand hesitates over the old bouquet before he picks it up.
“Um...yeah. I guess you’re right. But I always bring you new flowers every day.”
“Why?”
“So you’d have something pretty every day to know I was thinking about you.”
“But I couldn’t see them.”
He shrugs. “I still wanted you to have them.”
“Do I like flowers?”
I watch him put what might be yesterday’s flowers on the table by the door. He’s smiling when he turns back around and walks toward the bed.
He takes up a lot of space. He’s tall and broad and...solid. But also, something else.
Calming.
He always smells good—like sandalwood, frankincense, leather, and nutmeg. It’s like he has his own unique scent. Like snow.
I don’t understand why I can remember smells but not anything about myself.
“You tell me,” he says with a grin. “Do you like flowers?”
Do I?
My mind immediately blanks out.
“I—I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Smiling, he sits on the edge of the bed where he usually does. “Instead of trying to remember, maybe try it this way. When you look at them now, do they make you happy?” He picks up the small vase and holds it so I can look at the flowers closely. “Do you like the colors, the shape of the petals?”
I stare at the little bell-shaped purple flowers and reach out to touch a petal. It’s soft and velvety.
“It’s nice.”
“Do you think you’d like to see more? Maybe different colors and shapes?”
“No.” I grab the vase from him and set it on my lap. “I want these to stay. I want to watch them live.”
“Okay, then they’ll stay right here with you.”
A nurse comes in to take my blood pressure and temperature. I watch the man when he moves to look out the window as the nurse checks me over. I’d like to move to the window too, but I’m hooked up to machines and a feeding tube—seemingly permanently attached to the bed. The doctor said I’ll be moving to a new room soon to start therapy and hopefully to begin eating on my own.
Everyone seems excited about food, but I don’t even know what I like to eat, so for now, I’m much more excited about keeping my purple velvet plant.
“How are you feeling today?” the nurse asks.
“Good.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
This question is asked every time a doctor or nurse visits me, and it always feels like a test.
Or a trap.
The answer doesn’t ever pop into my mind easily, or naturally, or without a quick zap to my head.
“Amber?” I say.
“Ember,” the nurse says with a smile. “But you were very close.”
“I like Amber. Maybe that’s my real name?”
“No, sweetheart. Your real name is Ember. I think it’s very romantic that you and your husband have names that go together.”
“What’s his name?”
She glances at the man by the window. “His name is Asher.”
I crinkle my nose. “Asher and Ember is dumb names.”
“You used to think it was fate,” the man says in his soft, deep voice. “You thought it was a sign our love would burn forever. No matter what.”
His voice matches his eyes now, and I don’t like the strange niggling feeling it stirs in my stomach.
The nurse smiles again. “Well, I’d say you two are an amazing example of love burning forever. I’ll be back in about an hour to check on you again.”
There’s a big clock on the wall, but the numbers mean nothing to me.
“Why are you still here?” I ask after the nurse leaves the room.
He blinks at me before he returns to his spot at the edge of my bed. I can’t decide if I like him there or not.
“I’m here because I love you.”
“I don’t know you.”
“But I know you. You’re my wife and my best friend.”
“So, you’re just always...here?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you have a job to be at?”
He laughs softly, and I don’t understand why. “Yes, but I don’t have to work every day.”
“Why?”
“I’m a musician. I have a little...” He tilts his head to the side, and his hair falls into his face in a way that should be messy but isn’t. Instead, it makes him look endearing. “Freedom to do what I want.”