Chapter 2

The woman who claimed to be Claire approached with red-rimmed eyes, her voice hoarse.

"It's okay."

"It doesn't matter if you don't remember me, as long as you're awake."

Then she began recounting those moments that belonged only to us.

"I really am Claire."

"Do you remember the Japanese restaurant we went to on our first date? You insisted on ordering the crazy spicy wasabi octopus and ended up crying from the heat."

"Do you remember the day our son was born? I was crying in pain in the delivery room, and you were so nervous outside that you dropped our documents down a drain. The building manager had to fish them out for half an hour."

"Have you forgotten all of this?"

She was trying to prove her identity through these details.

My brain exploded with a boom.

She was completely right.

These were intimate details that only Claire and I knew.

I stared at her hard, trying to find any flaw in her face.

Nothing.

Her eyes were filled with deep affection, pain, and the joy of recovery.

The little boy tugged at my sleeve, crying so hard he could barely breathe.

"Daddy, don't you want me anymore?"

"When you were sick, I drew pictures for you every day. The nurse said if you saw them you'd wake up. Will you look at them, please?"

I looked at the little boy's completely unfamiliar face, my heart twisting painfully.

Had I really gone crazy?

Had my brain really malfunctioned, replacing my wife and son's faces with those of strangers?

Dr. Thompson patted my shoulder.

"Mr. Wilson, there are many cases of post-traumatic sequelae in medicine."

"You just woke up. Cooperate with treatment and recover slowly."

"Claire, please take the child outside and let him rest alone for a while."

The woman nodded, wiped her tears, and bent down to pick up the little boy.

At the doorway, she looked back at me, her eyes full of longing.

The hospital room door closed.

I lay alone in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Everything around me seemed absurd.

Who were they?

Had I really lost my memory?

Over the next few days, I cooperated with all the doctors' examinations.

MRI, EEG, psychological evaluation.

All the reports pointed to the same conclusion: my brain had organic damage causing cognitive impairment.

To prove these conclusions, the doctors even showed me our photos and family portraits.

And videos of our past life together.

Trying to use these to reawaken my memories.

The woman claiming to be Claire came every day.

She cooked all kinds of dishes I loved in different ways.

Steak, sushi.

The taste was incredibly identical to what I remembered Claire cooking.

She would sit by my bed, holding my hand, telling me about what happened over these three years.

How she sought medical treatment everywhere, how our son was bullied at kindergarten, how she cried looking at my photos every night.

She spoke with such genuine emotion, tears streaming down her face.

Several times, I almost wavered.

Had I really gotten sick?

But one extremely small detail instantly brought me back to clarity.

That afternoon, she peeled an apple and handed it to me.

"Eat some fruit to get your vitamins."

I looked at the apple offered to my mouth but didn't take it.

The real Claire was severely allergic to apples.

If she touched even a little apple juice, her skin would break out in red rashes, and she could even have difficulty breathing.

So all these years, we never bought apples at home, not even apple-flavored drinks.

I deliberately pretended to have no appetite and pushed her hand away.

"I don't want any. You eat it."

Without the slightest hesitation, she pulled back her hand, took a big bite of the apple, chewed and swallowed it.

"It's sweet. Sure you don't want any?"

I watched her completely normal reaction, cold sweat instantly seeping from my palms.