She hesitated, then nodded and walked back into the store, though I could feel her watching us. The silence she left behind felt fragile.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Everything you’re saying… it doesn’t match what I’ve been told.”
“Then don’t force it,” I said gently, even as my chest tightened. “Just… talk to me.”
He exhaled slowly. “If this is true… then I lost 14 years.”
“We both did,” I whispered.
He looked down at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. “I have memories,” he said. “But they only start after the accident. Before that, there’s nothing.”
“You had a life before that,” I said. “You had a home. You had me.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to see it. “I wish I could remember,” he said.
“Maybe you will,” I replied. “Not all at once. But little by little.”
He opened his eyes and studied my face again. “Why didn’t anyone find me?” he asked. “If I was missing… how did no one connect it?”
