And now he sees her, striding down the corridor, flesh and bone as real and solid as the building around her. Walking confidently toward the dayroom, toward him. He watches her from his safe position as she stops to talk to someone; she’s too far away yet to notice him. He studies the gentle swish of her chestnut hair, her face in motion, pale and strong. The clean lines of her jaw, her cheekbones. But it is her eyes he can’t stop looking at as they brush over the ward, over nurses, doctors, other patients. Her intelligent eyes, picking up everything, missing nothing. She’s stopped at the nurses’ desk just outside the dayroom. Surreptitiously, he scans the other patients around him. To see if anyone else sees what he sees. Do they too recognize her?
But the other patients are oblivious, they haven’t noticed. His eyes glide back to her, he watches her talking, listening, that open, beautiful face. It’s her. She’s come. For him. He doesn’t remember who she is yet but he knows she is the one he’s been waiting for.
His head wound prickles along his scalp, still not fully healed. With a shudder he remembers the word written on his hand in ink, the word he’d rubbed away.
A warm burst of laughter flutters and snaps him back to the here and now. She’s laughing at something one of the nurses is saying. It’s a generous laugh. He can tell from her body language that it’s not a great joke but she’s invested in them liking her. She wants them to know she’s not a threat, they are safe, all is well. The group she’s talking to relaxes, he watches it happen, they open to her, softening instantly.
And then a realization creeps over him: he can’t remember what it is he has to do. The panic he felt on the beach begins to flex inside him. She’s coming and he can’t remember who she is. All he knows is time is running out, he has to do something. Fear, cold and clinging, grips him as he struggles to remember what it is he’s supposed to do now that he has found her. He knows with crystal clarity this first meeting is crucial. It’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.
His eyes dart around the room again, searching for something to trigger a memory.
Remember! Remember something.
He looks back out to the hallway. She’s holding a file now, some notes, she’s nodding as she flicks through the sheets of paper. She’s a doctor. Okay. Is that good? She’ll be coming any second and he can’t remember who she is or why this is all so incredibly important.
Is she dangerous? Should I run?
He flicks his eyes across to the only other exit in the room. The large floor-to-ceiling windows, rain-spattered. He is on the second floor. Outside the insistent glow of the hospital the pale sky hangs listless. In the distance, the blur of dark treetops, a forest.
His breath catches in his throat. A forest.
And then it comes. A memory.
…the cold of a forest.
The tiniest flash of memory; he squeezes his eyes shut, chasing it. He’s running through a wood, at night, running fast over the slippery mulch of the forest floor, his chest heaving, his throat burning as he struggles to catch his breath. Underfoot twigs snapping, his clothes snagging on branches, the echo of his footfalls resounding through the deep chill of the night. His heart is pounding. And then he hears something else. Another person’s breath, right next to him, the soft gasp of it. A girl’s breathing. Labored, scared.
His eyes flash open.
Oh God. That doesn’t seem right. That doesn’t seem good. What does it mean? Why am I running?
Dread fills him. Something is very wrong with what he just saw. He looks up now at the hallway. Someone is pointing over in his direction, saying something he can’t quite make out, and suddenly she is looking straight at him. Her eyes locking with his. All her focus on him.
Her expression flickers, she seems to sense his fear, he can read it on her face, her concern, her empathy. But who is she? Her face shows the briefest flash of confusion.
—
Emma looks back at the patient sitting at the far end of the dayroom, silhouetted against the pale glass of the windows. Behind him the rain-soaked landscape rolls all the way to the North Sea. He is watching her. But it’s the way he is watching her. His expression. He recognizes her. She feels a flutter in her chest. Does she know him?
The look in his eyes, it reminds her of someone a long time ago—but it can’t be, it can’t be him. That would be impossible. She knows it’s not him. He’s gone. Long gone, one way or another. The patient doesn’t even look like him, he’s too young to be him, his features too dark, too chiseled. The man she knew was softer. But the eyes, the eyes have the same quality. She tries not to let herself think it but…but there’s definitely something about him. An understanding of what went before.
She then does something without even thinking: while the nurse beside her talks on, she nods back directly at the man. It’s almost imperceptible, but he sees it.
His breath catches in his throat.
He remembers the warning he was given.Don’t fuck it up.
Easier said than done.
You need to speak to her. So you have to remember.
She says something to the nurse, smiling, and she starts to make her way toward him.
She’s coming.
His heart is racing now, adrenaline sizzling through him. He rises from his seat as the prickle of pain in his skull spikes. A fresh throb of it rips through his head; the room spins out beneath him and suddenly he’s falling. His palms and knees smacking down hard onto the plastic flooring. The dayroom swirls around him, in and out of focus. His eyes find her somehow, her shoes nearing as she runs to him, then her hands touch his shoulder and finally her face comes into view, inches from his, the unexpected warmth of her breath on his cheek.
“Can you hear me, Matthew?” she says.
