Neva stands with her arms crossed before the glass wall, gazing out at the world.
The sky is a muted greyish blue, steeped in the hush of twilight—the vastness echoing the unknown melancholy in her heart.
Orange–tinted clouds smolder faintly above the tall skyscrapers, while the city below shimmers with light.
Vehicles glide past, while people swarm through the lantern–lit golden streets—tiny figures bundled in layers of warm clothes.
"Are you ready?" Ishmael's voice cuts through Neva's spiraling thoughts.
She glances towards him, where he lingers at the doorway. He has just returned after meeting her doctor to complete formalities.
She nods once as he approaches, a faint smile touching his lips.
He stands before her, tucking the loose strands of curls from her face behind her ear.
He caresses her cheek, his hand large and warm. Slowly, her eyes lift to meet the depths of his dark brown ones.
"Let's go home," he says, his voice deep and gentle.
Her gaze falls to his chest.
He curls a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face again.
Their eyes meet.
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.
"You'll be fine," he murmurs, before taking her hand and leading her toward the door.
The walk down the long hallway, pale walls streaked with faint blue.
There are no other patients in sight.
This hospital feel strangely empty.
Every nurse and doctor they pass lowers their head at once—reverent. Or perhaps... fearful. Of him.
Neva's brows knit at the eerie silence draped over the hospital.
She glances at him, curiosity stirring in her eyes—wondering who this man truly is, this husband she cannot even remember.
Outside, the sky deepens into darkness, the air steaming with white mist.
Neva is settled in the passenger seat as Ishmael drives—calm and unhurried—granting her space to take in the scenery as the world blurs past.
She exhales, fogging the window with warm breath. Outside, the curling mist mirrors her own on the glass. Leaning her head against the windowpane, she watches as the orange and red maple leaves drift through the air, falling gently to the ground.
A tiny, mysterious ache sparks in her chest—a low flutter in her belly.
Longing floods her. Her eyes glisten with sadness, wordless grief stirring inside her by such beautiful autumn.
She lifts her head, turning her gaze toward the pavement ahead, but the dead leaves refuse to let her go. They whisper to her—soft messages in motion—reminding her of something she's leaving behind.
The past—faded, drifting beyond the reach of her fingertips.
Crowds stroll along the park boundary. Parents laugh with their children.
She instinctively moves her hand to her swollen belly.
Since waking, everything has felt like a dream.
Ishmael told her about the accident—about the amnesia.
She remembers nothing of herself. Not her name. Not her parents. Not even the man beside her.
Yet, the babies in her womb are unharmed. Her body carries no wounds.
And the later aspect puzzles her most of all.
"How long have we been married?" Neva asks, breaking the silence.
He glances at her briefly, then back to the road.
"About two months," he says.
She frowns, the information not sitting right with her. "But you said I'm in my sixth month of pregnancy."
He hums in response.
"By the time we married, you were already four months along."
He knows that detail might strike her.
Even without memory, her morals would remain—her sense of right and wrong, of what should be.
"Are you upset by that?" he asks.
Neva presses her lips together, silent for a moment. "I don't know."
"Did I love you?" she asks again, watching the sharp line of his jaw tense.
"You did. But only you can uncover what's been buried inside," he replies gently.
She says nothing.
Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twirling the wedding ring on her fourth finger.
It tightens Neva's chest with fright—this abscence of warmth in her heart for him.
She's terrified of the days to come—of living under the same roof as a stranger who is, by law, her husband.
She swallows, palms slick with sweat.
"What about our families?" she asks.
Her glances at her, before fixating his gaze at the road again.
"We don't have any. You're all I have. And I'm all you have." He turns the wheel, guiding the car into a smooth left.
"Oh." Her voice falters, her eyes dimming.
The rest of the drive passes in silence.
The boulevard stretches ahead—trees lining the road with blackened branches and flaming orange leaves. Fog thickens, draping the scenery in shadow.
The road is clear. No headlights or other cars in sight. Not a single soul.
The headlights of their car glow on low beam, barely piercing the dense fog—like a metaphor for her white goneby and an unknown future waiting beyond.
Neva's lids grow heavy, head tilting slightly, half-asleep, when the enormous iron gate slowly opens before them.
Guards in black suits—armed and unmoving—stand at either side.
After several minutes along the winding driveway, the Rolls Royce pulls up to a massive mansion—white walls and a deep blue roof rising from the forest, something straight out of a fable.
She stares, awed, sleep fading from her eyes.
Neva flinches as Ishmael opens the door. She didn't even realise he had already stepped out and circled the car.
"You're planning to spend the night in here?"
His teasing voice brings her back.
She looks down, flustered, as he reaches in to unbuckle her seatbelt.
"Come on," he says softly, helping her out. He shuts the door behind them.
A cold gust sweeps over her, making her shiver.
She wears a beige cardigan over a long, fitted dress—light brown, patterned with soft pastel stripes. The knitwear hugs her bump, flaring at her ankles.
Without a word, he drapes his long black coat over her shoulders.
The warmth of it surrounds her.
She looks up and murmurs, "Thank you."
A man in a black and white striped suit approaches. Ishmael hands him the keys.
"Are you very rich?" Neva asks, studying him.
He arches a brow. "I am," he replies, intertwining their hands as they walk toward the grand doors of the mansion.
"What do you do for a living?" she presses.
He breaks into a smile. She's still the same—always so curious.
He gently squeezes her hand.
"Save your questions for later, love. I'll tell you everything—once you're warm and inside."