Sleep didn't come easily.
It crept in like a stranger, uncertain of its welcome. Hesitant. Half-hearted. The kind of sleep that made you more aware of what was missing than what you were resting from.
It wasn't the bed though the hospital mattress was exactly what he expected: stiff in all the wrong places, too narrow for comfort, wrapped in sheets that smelled faintly of antiseptic and time. Nor was it the faint hum of machines, the soft shuffle of nurses in the hallway, or the distant clicks of automatic doors.
Kairo Lancaster had learned to sleep through worse.
He'd once napped on a boardroom couch between three-hour pitch meetings. He'd slept through sandstorms on military-grade bunk beds in Qatar. He'd passed out, face-first, on cold marble in a penthouse that hadn't had heat or furniture yet.
This wasn't about discomfort.
This was about absence.
Something inside him was missing no, someone. A presence. A rhythm. A warmth that used to press against his own like two lives knowing how to share the same space. And now, that presence was gone.
Not faded.
Erased.
He lay still under the scratchy covers, his muscles aching in quiet protest. The IV tugged lightly at the crook of his arm when he moved. His right hand was still wrapped in gauze, and it twitched occasionally, as if trying to remember something it used to do without thinking.
He stared up at the ceiling fan.
The blades spun slowly, casting shadows like gray petals across the pale tiles. They made no sound but the silence beneath them roared.
He closed his eyes.
And tried again.
To remember.
To feel.
There was a taste, faint but lingering.
Cinnamon, maybe. Or clove. Something warm. Something from a kitchen that wasn't his.
Then sound.
A laugh.
Not girlish. Not light. But full-bodied rich, deep, like it came from her chest and poured into the air like music she didn't need permission to sing. A laugh that refused to be polite.
He didn't know her name.
But he knew her sound.
Then scent.
Orange blossoms. Maybe jasmine. Floral but sharp. Alive. It wrapped around him in memory, like silk moving through sunlight. He could almost feel the breeze. Almost.
And then light.
She was standing in it. Golden behind her. Backlit by late afternoon sun or maybe lanterns strung over a rooftop. She was glowing, but not from anything artificial.
She had looked like peace.
Peace he hadn't deserved.
Kairo's breath caught.
And then the dream took him.
************************
He was barefoot.
The ground beneath him felt cool and smooth, tiled in intricate mosaics that pressed delicate shapes into the arches of his feet. Somewhere in the distance, waves rolled in and out like slow breathing. The air smelled of lemon, of cardamom, of something citrus and spiced and strange.
A breeze drifted through an open archway, lifting white curtains that danced without sound.
He moved forward through a corridor, arched ceilings above him, shadows stretching long and golden. Small lanterns flickered along the walls, their flames caught behind colored glass. The corridor opened up into a rooftop bathed in soft, flickering light.
There was music. no, not music. A voice.
A woman humming.
Somewhere just ahead.
The scent of orange oil and honey hung in the air, mingling with something smokier. He followed it like a compass he didn't know he still owned.
And then… the rooftop.
The lanterns above hung low, glowing like captured stars.
A low table sat near the edge, two wine glasses, half-empty. Cushions lay scattered around it. A breeze stirred the corners of a sketchbook lying open on the ledge nearby. He stepped closer.
It was his face on the page.
But gentler.
Drawn with softness in the eyes, softness he didn't recognize as his own.
And then he saw her.
She was standing at the far edge of the terrace.
Her back to him.
A white dress clung gently to her frame, moving like water in the wind. Her hair was long and dark, loose around her shoulders, the ends curling just slightly. She was still, her hands resting lightly on the rail, as if bracing herself against something only she could feel.
He didn't speak.
He just moved toward her.
Step by step, barefoot on tile.
And then, she turned.
He reached for her face, desperate to see her.
But her features blurred.
Unformed.
Like a memory almost remembered.
Still, her voice came clear, achingly clear.
"You found me."
His breath caught.
He stepped forward.
But she took a step back.
"But you forgot me."
"No, wait," he said, his voice thick with desperation.
But even as he reached for her, the wind came, wild and loud, and carried his voice away.
She slipped through his fingers like smoke.
The rooftop trembled beneath his feet.
Cracked. Split.
And then, he fell.
*******************
Kairo bolted upright in bed with a ragged gasp, sweat slicking his skin. His heart thundered in his chest. The sheets were wrapped around his legs like they'd tried to hold him still while he thrashed.
The heart monitor beside him shrieked once, then steadied.
He looked around wildly.
The dream clung to him like wet cloth. His hands trembled as he reached for the notepad on his bedside tray, the one the nurse had left to encourage him to practice his grip.
His fingers barely worked.
But he didn't stop.
He grabbed the pen and scratched out the only words that mattered, words he didn't remember learning but knew in his bones.
You found me. But you forgot me.
He stared at the sentence.
Breathing hard.
It didn't make sense.
Not to anyone else.
But to him, it was truth.
There was a woman.
Somewhere.
Who had once waited for him on a rooftop under stars.
Who had held his face like he was more than a name.
Who had laughed with joy in her throat and courage in her eyes.
Who had once whispered, "Always."
He didn't know who she was.
But she had been his.
And he had lost her.