Page 148 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

The room slowly lightened from pitch black to a deep, predawn grey. The bowl of water sat forgotten on the floor, the towel draped over its edge.

Exhaustion finally pulled at me. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against mine, the warmth, the quiet… it was a siren’s song my weary body couldn’t resist. My prayers turned to wordless hums in my mind, my stroking hand slowing, then stilling.

Without meaning to, without deciding to, I fell asleep. My chin came to rest against the top of her head, my arms still wrapped around her, holding her close even in sleep.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, my wife was in my arms again, and for a few stolen hours in the silent night, the world was exactly as it was meant to be.

Chapter 25

Iwas stirring the pot when the soft pad of footsteps sounded behind me.

“You’re… really here?” Alessia’s voice was clear, laced with genuine confusion.

I’d woken with her still curled in my arms, her breathing even, her skin finally blessedly cool beneath my hands. I stayed perfectly still, afraid that any movement might wake her, quietly absorbing the warmth of her body and the familiar weight against me.

After a long while, I eased myself free and reached for the thermometer. It beeped softly a moment later.

Normal.

My head bowed, my shoulders sagging beneath a rush of relief so deep it left me weak.

The fire was out.

I’d taken my bag to the guest bathroom, washed up, changed into the clean clothes I’d packed. When I returned to check on her, her temperature was still blessedly normal. That’s when she’d stirred, her eyes fluttering open, and she’d immediately pushed herself up and hurried to the bathroom without a word. I’d left her to it and come to the kitchen.

I half-turned. She stood in the doorway, freshly showered, her hair dark and damp against her shoulders. The fever’s flush was gone. The glassy, pained look from the night had vanished. It was the most jarring part of the cycle—the brutal, all-consuming sickness that left her utterly helpless, followed by a morning where she appeared physically untouched, as if the last twelve hours had been a shared, terrible dream.

Only the lingering weariness in her eyes, deep and shadowed, betrayed the ordeal.

Seeing her upright, clear-eyed, and whole again sent such a wave of quiet joy through me that her words didn’t fully land until she’d already taken a seat at the kitchen counter, tilting her head at me.

I blinked, processing. “Uh, yeah. I’m here.” I turned back to the stove to hide the stupid, relieved smile threatening to break across my face.

“I thought I was dreaming,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.

I glanced at her, a faint frown pulling at my brow. “You made eye contact with me before you went to the bathroom. You looked right at me.”

She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “I thought that was part of the dream.”

My mouth finally gave in and curved into a helpless smile as I turned off the burner. I took a bowl from the cupboard.

Behind me, I heard the soft thud of Alessia’s feet hitting the floor. “You can stay and have breakfast here. I need to get going. Just lock the door on your way out—”

She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze dropping to the bowl I’d just set on the counter.

The day after the fever, she always needed that soup. Not just any soup. The specific clear broth from a tiny family-run place across town. It was the only thing that seemed to bring her back to herself, to put some life back into her. They didn’t deliver, so every year, the morning after her fever broke, she drove across the city to get it.

Until we got married.

The first time I saw her sick, we were dating. It terrified me. Watching her struggle through that much pain left me shaken, helpless to do anything but stand there and see her endure it. And the idea of her, barely twelve hours past a fever that had stolen her strength, navigating the city sent a cold spike of fear through me. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t right.

So I made it my mission to ensure she would never have to.

Alessia stared at the steaming bowl in front of her, puzzled, then slowly sank back onto the stool. She studied it for a long moment before finally picking up the spoon. She took the first sip, and her eyes drifted shut in pure, unguarded relief.

A smile touched my lips.

She took a few more slow, savoring spoonfuls before her eyes opened and found mine, sharp with curiosity. “How,” she asked, “do you have this?”