Noelle Reyes hadn't moved in hours.
She stood rooted just outside Room 308, back pressed to the cold wall, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her charcoal coat. Her fingers curled into fists, not from anger, but from effort like keeping still required more strength than her body had left to give.
The hallway buzzed quietly with hospital life: the low hum of fluorescent lighting above her, one of them flickering at irregular intervals like it couldn't quite decide whether to keep going. Somewhere down the corridor, the wheels of a supply cart squeaked in protest. An empty chair sat next to a forgotten linen trolley, and the vending machine across from her made its mechanical hum, trying to offer comfort with sugar and stale snacks.
But Noelle noticed none of it.
Her eyes were fixed on the door ahead, on the plastic nameplate that someone had updated that morning.
LANCASTER, KAIRO ICU, LEVEL 3
It looked sterile in print. Cold. Disconnected. It didn't suit him.
Nothing about the man behind that door had ever been clinical. Kairo had been fire and stillness, chaos and calm. He had a mind like steel and hands that held gently. His love had been fierce, sometimes frustrating, but honest, unpolished in the way that made it real.
And now?
Now he didn't even know she existed.
Noelle's throat tightened. She blinked quickly, forcing back the sting that had crept into her eyes.
To the nurses on this floor, she was Elle Soriano, part-time volunteer coordinator. Quiet, helpful, and punctual background.
Invisible by design.
No one questioned her anymore. Bea had worked the back channels, gotten her a badge, and built a cover. Hospitals were built on shifts, rotations, moving parts. As long as you kept your head down and moved like you belonged, people didn't look too closely.
But even if they did, they wouldn't find her name in any official file.
No emergency contact.
No next of kin.
No marriage license.
Nothing to prove what they had been to each other.
Because their wedding hadn't been about proof.
It had been about promise.
Morocco. A rooftop. Stars for witnesses. A silver ring he'd slipped onto her finger with trembling fingers and a vow whispered so softly it lived inside her now.
It wasn't legal.
But it had been true.
And right now, that truth was the only thing holding her together.
She glanced at the small rectangular window in the ICU door.
Through the glass, she could just make out the edge of his bed, a blurred silhouette sitting upright beneath the pale overhead light. He wasn't moving. Just… there. Awake. Alive.
Breathing.
She pressed her lips together, trying to steady the tremble starting in her chin.
He was awake.
Her heart lurched at the thought.
He was awake.
She hadn't heard his voice in over two months. Hadn't seen his eyes open. Hadn't touched his hand and felt him touch back. For weeks, she had sat beside him as if love alone could tether him to life.
And now… he had come back.
But not to her.
He didn't remember.
The truth of it cracked through her like ice underfoot, sudden and deep. They'd warned her about this, back when he was still unconscious. That head trauma and coma recovery didn't always come with memory. That even if his body healed, his mind might not.
She'd listened. Nodded. Prepared herself.
But nothing could have prepared her for the emptiness in his gaze. The way he'd looked at the nurses with curiosity, at the walls with confusion, and never once… at her.
She had stayed every night. Held his hand through every silence. Whispered pieces of their life back into his skin, like prayer.
She'd told him about the rooftop in Tangier, about how he'd danced terribly in a marketplace just to make her laugh. How he'd kissed her under a string of lanterns while cinnamon still clung to his lips. How he had called her his compass, his center when the rest of the world moved too fast.
She had given him everything.
And now… nothing in him reached for her.
Her hand drifted to her collarbone, where a chain rested against her skin. She pulled it out slowly, letting the pendant dangle from her fingers.
A silver compass, small and worn. The back was engraved with a single word:
"Always."
He had given it to her the night they exchanged vows, hands trembling, and hearts full.
"I don't know where I'll be tomorrow," he'd told her, voice low, "but I want you to always find your way back to me."
She had laughed at the time, teased him for being too poetic.
Now, she clung to it like it was the last piece of him that hadn't let go.
Her fingers closed tightly around the compass, her voice barely audible.
"I found my way back," she whispered. "But you're not there."
The words hung in the air, fragile and aching.
A nurse exited Room 308. Noelle startled, quickly stepping to the side and tilting her body just enough to become part of the wall. She pretended to check the clipboard in her hand, heart hammering in her chest.
The nurse didn't notice her. Just kept walking, chatting into a headset, lost in a conversation about shift changes and supply delays.
When the footsteps faded, Noelle exhaled shakily.
Her eyes moved to the door again.
She took one step forward.
Then stopped.
Her hand lifted, hovering near the handle. One twist. One push. That was all it would take. She could walk in, say his name. Maybe, just maybe her voice would spark something.
Maybe it would be enough.
Enough to unlock everything they'd built.
The rooftop. The vows. The laughter. The late-night arguments. The soft mornings.
Her.
But if it didn't work… if he looked at her and saw only a stranger…
Noelle pressed her palm gently against the door instead. Just long enough to feel the coolness of the glass.
Just long enough to let her heart ache where it beat the hardest.
Behind that glass was the man who once knew every corner of her soul.
And now, he didn't even know her name.