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His mind was foggy.
Alex tried to open his eyes, but his consciousness hadn't fully returned. He felt as if his soul were upside down inside his body, unsure whether it was his eyes or his feet moving. He gave up, deciding to try opening them slowly later.
He heard someone speaking.
"Alex..."
Who was calling whom?
Then he felt a hand grasp his.
A warm touch, slightly rough fingertips, the hand trembling ever so slightly. The grip was firm, yet careful at the same time.
He seemed to rest his forehead against my knuckles
A voice came from beside him, as if emerging from a long silence—deep and hoarse.
"Alex, please... open your eyes and look at me."
Again. The voice pleaded. The trembling intensified.
Alex summoned every last ounce of strength, struggling to lift his eyelids.
Light flooded in once more, but this time he held on. His vision swayed, steadied, swayed again, and finally settled.
The ceiling. He stared at the ceiling light for a few seconds, then turned his neck with extreme slowness. Muscles protested with a sour ache, each degree of movement accompanied by the creaking of rusty gears. His gaze fell upon the person holding his hand.
First came the eyes. Sky blue, like the sky after a storm—clear yet heavy with moisture, now brimming with tears, their edges flushed red. The emotions churning within were too complex for Alex to decipher immediately—surprise, love nearly overflowing, and exhaustion impossible to hide.
For him... right?
His gaze drifted downward to the high, straight bridge of the nose, the thin, bloodless lips pressed tightly together, the jawline taut as if sculpted by a Renaissance artist's dream muse, yet rendered fragile and vulnerable by the intensity of emotion. Golden hair lay slightly disheveled, as if repeatedly tousled.
The man stared at him unblinkingly, as if Alex would vanish the moment he looked away.
"You're awake," the man said, his voice breaking into a whisper. Tears finally rolled down his cheeks, landing on Alex's hand—warm and real. "Thank God... you're awake..."
The voice was familiar, yet Alex couldn't place him. He tried to pull his hand away, but his fingers curled involuntarily toward the man's face, wiping away the falling tears. The man's body trembled at this response. He wrapped his hand around Alex's, letting him feel his warmth, then—brought it to his lips and kissed the palm.
Alex felt a slight tickle, but the gesture eased his tension a little.
"Do you remember who I am?"
Alex shook his head.
"I'm George, your husband. You had an accident—a serious one... You hit your head. The doctors said it might affect your memory... But it's okay, really okay." He lifted his head, cupping Alex's face with both hands, his thumbs gently tracing his cheekbones. "As long as you're here, as long as you woke up, nothing else matters. We'll take it slow, okay? I'll always be by your side."
Husband. Accident. Memory loss.
These words drifted through Alex’s blank mind, finding no anchor to hold onto. He looked into George’s eyes, where the love was so overwhelming, so unguarded, it nearly suffocated him. This must be real, right? Who would look at a stranger like that?
Not doubt, but emptiness. Regarding this face, this identity, everything the word "husband" represented—only a silent wasteland lay within him.
But his body seemed to remember.
"I know you remember," he choked out. "Even if you can't recall, your body remembers me. Let's go home, Alex. Let's go home. I'll take care of you."
Alex nodded. What else could he do? The pleading in those blue eyes made refusal impossible, and deep inside, a faint voice whispered: Yes, go with him.
The discharge process was surprisingly swift. George seemed to know the doctors here. A physician named Lewis Hamilton came for the final examination. "Memory recovery is unpredictable," Lewis told George. "I don't need to say more. Prepare yourself mentally."
Alex looked at George.
"I understand," George replied, his hand never leaving Alex's. "I'll take good care of him."
Lewis glanced at Alex, but only briefly. "Come back for follow-ups on schedule. Contact me immediately if anything unusual happens."
Seated in George's car, Alex watched the scenery rush past the window. Unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar buildings. He searched his mind for any recognizable landmarks, finding nothing. Only emptiness, occasionally punctuated by incomprehensible, contextless fragments.
"We're almost there," George's voice came from the driver's seat.
"Mhm."
The car turned onto a quiet tree-lined avenue, towering oak trees lining both sides, their branches intertwining to form a canopy overhead. Finally, they stopped in front of a two-story villa. White exterior walls, dark gray roof, a small garden in front with meticulously trimmed roses and lavender.
Alex stared at the house.
A strange, contradictory feeling washed over him. Visually, it was unfamiliar. Yet as he pushed open the car door and stepped onto the pebble path leading to the entrance, a deeper, almost instinctive familiarity rose from his feet. It was as if he knew which stone was slightly loose, knew the third step at the doorway required a bit more pressure to avoid a creak.
George gently wrapped an arm around his waist and whispered, "Welcome home, dear."
The door swung open. The sight inside made Alex's breath catch.
"Come, let me show you around." George took his hand and led him into the living room.
The walls were covered in photographs.
"This is what you prepared for us on our anniversary."
The first was their wedding photo. Two men in black suits, smiling radiantly in the sunlight. One held a bouquet of white tulips, tilting his head to look at George, his eyes curved like crescent moons. George gazed directly at the camera, yet his body leaned clearly toward the man beside him, his arm wrapped tightly around his waist. The backdrop was a garden, with a lake visible in the distance.
Alex stepped closer to the photo, studying his own face in it. Yet he felt like an outsider, observing someone else's happiness.
"This was taken on our third wedding anniversary," George says, standing behind him, his chin resting lightly on his shoulder as he points to another photo. "Remember? We went to Iceland. The aurora was breathtaking that night. You were so excited you nearly knocked over the tripod."
In the photo, they were bundled in thick down jackets against a backdrop of dazzling green lights filling the sky. Alex pointed toward the heavens, his mouth forming an O, while George gazed at him with eyes so tender they could melt glaciers.
"And this one," George led him to the mantelpiece. "The day we adopted Looky. You held him, trembling in your arms, your eyes red."
In the photo, Alex sat on the carpet cradling a tiny kitten, his expression a tender blend of joy and heartache. George crouched beside him, his hand resting on Alex's shoulder, smiling at the camera.
"Where's Looky?" Alex asked.
George sighed softly. "He passed away. Illness. We did everything we could." His voice grew quieter. "You were heartbroken. We buried him under the oak tree in the backyard."
Alex nodded, and they continued looking. The photos captured countless moments: exchanging gifts before the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, chasing each other on the beach in summer, picnicking in the park in autumn, Alex smearing cake on George's face during his birthday... In every scene, Alex was smiling, and George was looking at him.
"Is this all there is?" Alex asked, feeling somehow that there should be more photos.
A subtle shift crossed George's face. "We grew up together. How could there only be a few? Most are in albums. Only our favorites hang on the wall." He paused. "I worried too many images might overwhelm you. Let's take it slow, okay?"
The explanation made sense, and Alex nodded.
They continued their tour. The kitchen was spacious and tidy, fully equipped. In the study, bookshelves covered one entire wall, neatly categorized: on the left were George's professional texts—Advanced Physics, Applied Mathematics, Materials Science; on the right were leisure reads like fiction, history, and gardening books.
"What kind of books did I used to read?" Alex asked, pulling a novel from the shelf.
George walked over to him and glanced at the title. "You love novels, especially classic mysteries.
You've read this one three times, and each time you say you never guessed the killer." He smiled, his eyes softening. "But you hardly ever touch the gardening books—I'm the one who reads them. I like them."
Alex placed the book back on the shelf, his fingers brushing its spine.
"Did I used to work?" he asked.
"You quit after we got married," George said, taking his hand and leading him out of the study. "That was an important job in itself. My research work is demanding, often requiring overtime. You're the one who turned this house into a home." He paused, turned to face Alex, and cupped his face with both hands. "Now it's my turn to take care of you.Don't think about anything, don't do anything—just like you did for me before. Let me love you properly, okay?"
His gaze was so earnest, love nearly spilling over.
"We're happy, aren't we?" Alex asked softly.
George turned back, cupping his face with both hands, his blue eyes looking deep into Alex's. "Yes, Alex. We are very, very happy. And we will continue to be happy. I promise."
His kiss fell upon Alex, gentle and restrained, carrying the salty taste of tears. Alex accepted it passively, neither responding nor refusing.
That night, Alex lay in the master bedroom. The bed was large, draped in deep blue sheets. George emerged from the shower, carrying the same scent of his body wash. He slipped under the covers, instinctively pulling Alex into his embrace, his arm circling his chest, his chin resting on the top of his head.
"Goodnight, my love," George murmured, his voice thick with weary contentment.
Alex lay stiffly for a moment before slowly relaxing. His body's memory kicked in again—he knew the curve of this embrace, how to adjust their positions for mutual comfort, where George's heartbeat resonated.
Everything was etched into muscle and bone, requiring no conscious thought.
The breaths beside him grew deeper. Alex lifted his hand quietly, watching his fingers in the darkness. Today, these hands had wiped away tears from someone who didn't exist in his memory. What had these hands done? Caressed George's face? Groomed Looky's fur? Cooked the delicious-looking meals in those photographs?
He clenched his fist, then relaxed it.
No sense of reality.
Only the weight of George's arm pressed realistically against him, like a gentle shackle.
Alex drifted into a dazed sleep.
In the days that followed, Alex felt as though he were learning how to become a stranger.
In the mornings, George would wake first. Alex could feel his gaze upon him, heavy and focused, as if confirming he hadn't vanished overnight. Then George would kiss his forehead, tiptoe out of bed, and prepare breakfast. The aroma of fried eggs, bacon, and toasted bread would waft upstairs, mingling with the rich scent of coffee.
Alex would wash up on his own. In the bathroom, two toothbrushes nestled together in the same cup. The towels were matching. Razors sat side by side on the shelf. Everything pointed to an intimate, shared life.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror.
Brown hair, trimmed short during his hospital stay, lay softly against his forehead. Deep hazel eyes, dulled by confusion at this moment. Fresh stubble on his chin. Prominent collarbones, shoulders slightly narrower than George's. The face and body of an ordinary man, yet it felt so unfamiliar.
"Alex?" George's voice came from downstairs, gentle yet urging. "Breakfast is ready."
At the breakfast table, George would tell him the day's plans. "I need to be at the lab for a few hours this morning. There's an experiment I have to supervise. You stay home and rest, okay? Lunch is in the fridge. Just heat it up in the microwave. I'll be back this afternoon."
Alex nodded. What else could he do?
Before leaving, George would always cup his face and give him a long, deep kiss. "I love you," he would say each time, his gaze intense, almost obsessive. "Remember, no matter what happens, I will always love you."
The door closed. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed.
The house suddenly fell silent.
Alex stood in the empty living room for a moment, then began pacing aimlessly. He turned on the TV, flipping through channels—boring talk shows and reruns of soap operas. He turned it off, and silence washed over him again.
He was enveloped in a sense of unease. His world now revolved solely around George.
Alex had considered leaving, but every time he approached the front door—or even reached the garden's edge—his phone would ring. George's voice would come through, as gentle as ever, laced with subtle tension and pleading: "Alex, dear, it's windy outside/too sunny/I'm worried you're not adjusted yet... Please come back? I need you where I can see you."
Alex didn't quite understand, but when George added, "Just do it for me, okay?" Alex stopped trying and learned to stay indoors instead.
—because he never discovered the exquisitely concealed cameras. They were artfully integrated into decorative moldings, lamp bases, even picture frame edges. George’s surveillance system, personally designed by him, ensured seamless coverage while remaining utterly invisible.
One midday, while casually browsing the bookshelves in the study, Alex noticed one volume seemed slightly out of place—protruding a millimeter or two beyond the others. He pulled it from the shelf and discovered a miniature sensor concealed behind it. Staring at the tiny device for a few seconds, he couldn't make out what it was. He slipped it back in and returned the book to its spot.
That evening, George headed straight for the study upon returning home. He pretended to casually tidy the bookshelves while secretly checking the sensor's status.
Alex began attempting to cook. Whether it was because his body had fully recovered or not, when he first tried frying a steak, he clumsily flipped the meat, causing oil to splash and burn the back of his hand. The pain made him gasp, and he instinctively flung his arm out—a movement that knocked over the spice rack beside the stove. Salt, pepper, and various spice bottles crashed to the floor with a clatter, glass shattering and powder scattering everywhere.
He stood rooted to the spot, staring at the kitchen in disarray, feeling a wave of frustration wash over him.
Just then, George returned. Hearing the commotion, he rushed into the kitchen. Seeing the scene and the red mark on Alex's hand, his expression immediately darkened.
"Don't move!" He strode over, ignoring the shards on the floor, and pulled Alex to the sink. With practiced, gentle movements, he rinsed the burn under cold water. Then he fetched the first-aid kit, applied ointment, and secured a sterile dressing. The entire process was efficient and calm, without a single word of reproach.
"I'm sorry," Alex murmured. "I made a mess in the kitchen."
"The kitchen can be cleaned," George lifted his head and smiled at him. "Promise me you'll be careful next time, okay? Seeing you hurt makes it hurt here." He took Alex's hand and pressed it against his chest.
Alex felt the heartbeat beneath his palm. "Okay."
George kissed his forehead.
"Let's order takeout tonight," George said, wrapping his arm around Alex's waist. "What do you feel like eating?"
"You decide," Alex said.
Alex ate unfamiliar food, listened to unfamiliar stories, and felt like an outsider watching a meticulously staged play. But every glance, every touch from George told him: You are the protagonist. This is your life.
That evening, George worked in his study while Alex watched TV in the living room. He flipped through channels until settling on a nature documentary. On screen, a pack of wolves raced across snowy terrain, tracking their prey. Alex watched, suddenly feeling a chill.
He looked up and scanned the living room. Warm lights, a comfortable sofa—everything was perfect.
Too perfect.
Alex felt an inexplicable sadness wash over him.
He didn't know where it came from.
As the days passed, Alex gradually adapted to this life. The emptiness remained, the memories still blank, but George's love wrapped around him like thick cotton batting, cushioning the unease that hung in the air. He told himself: This is my life. This man loves me. I should feel lucky.
George's love manifested in every detail. Breakfast eggs were always perfectly fried, sunny-side up with crisp edges and runny yolks. The coffee was always served at just the right temperature. Every item in the house had its strict place. If Alex moved anything, George would always notice and gently correct him: "Honey, the bottle opener always goes in the second drawer on the left, remember?"
Alex didn't remember. But he nodded and did as George said.
He began trying to do more for George. Tidying the bedroom, he discovered his own clothes in the wardrobe, sorted by season and color, arranged as neatly as a boutique display. He ironed shirts, intending to practice on his own first. His movements were clumsy, and when he put one on, he found a scorched patch. But when George came home, he didn't get angry. Instead, he smiled and kissed him.
George helped Alex out of the ruined shirt. "It's okay. We can learn again."
He noticed a scar on his collarbone.
Late at night, lying in bed listening to George's steady breathing, he suddenly spoke: "George."
"Hmm?" George responded sleepily, tightening his arm around him.
"How did I get this injury on my collarbone?"
George's breath caught for a moment before he snapped fully awake. He rolled over and wrapped his arms around Alex, whose entire weight pressed down on him, one leg even resting on his thigh.
George's head was buried in the hollow of Alex's neck, his voice muffled. But Alex found himself liking the warmth of that breath and the tingling sensation spreading from his neck throughout his body.
"It's all my fault. We were riding bikes together, and you kept the one with the faulty brakes for yourself. Then you fell off it."
His voice grew increasingly choked with emotion. Alex felt a hot liquid drop fall onto his shoulder.
"Why?" he heard himself say. "Why do you think it's your fault?"
That golden-brown head nudged toward him twice, utterly aggrieved. "I should have checked it properly."
Alex lifted George's head, facing him, wiped away his tears, and gazed into his eyes under the moonlight. "But this was my choice."
George traced Alex's hand resting on his face, silent for a long moment. Alex couldn't read his thoughts. Then he heard him ask, "Why did you ask that?"
"Just to understand myself better?" Alex said.
George stroked his face gently. "There's no need to rush. Your memories will come back slowly. Even if they don't, we can create new ones together." He kissed the tip of Alex's nose. "Sleep now. I'll take you for a follow-up tomorrow."
Alex closed his eyes, his mind drifting to the stories George had told him, and it took him a long time to fall asleep.
Next day, They went to Dr. Lewis Hamilton's clinic. The examination was routine: nerve reflex tests, memory tests, brain scans.
"Recovery is stable," he said finally, studying the report. "No significant progress on memory, but neurological function is normal. Continue observation."
"Is there anything we can do to help his memory recover?" George asked, holding Alex's hand.
Lewis glanced at him, his expression complex. "Time is the best healer. Don't force it, don't put pressure on him." He turned to Alex. "If you experience headaches, dizziness, or any unusual memory flashbacks, contact me immediately."
Alex couldn't shake the feeling Lewis was indifferent toward him.
On the way back, George remarked, "Lewis is a good friend, but he's naturally reserved. Don't take it personally."
"I don't," Alex replied, shifting his gaze from the streets rushing past the window to his husband, who seemed to read his mind. Suddenly, he asked, "Were you there when I had the accident?"
The air in the car seemed to freeze for a moment.
"No," George's voice grew low. "I was working overtime at the lab. When the hospital called, I felt... like the world collapsed." His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. "If I'd been there with you, maybe I could have prevented..."
"It wasn't your fault," Alex said. The words came out as naturally as breathing.
George glanced at him. "Thank you for saying that."
That night, Alex had a dream.
In the dream, he stood in a white room wearing a lab coat, notebook in hand. Surrounding him were intricate instruments, screens scrolling with data. Someone stood beside him, their face blurred. He was explaining something rapidly, fingers swiping across the screen.
Then the scene shifted. He was running. The rain was heavy, the pavement slippery. Blinding headlights, the screech of brakes, the thunderous crash of impact.
He jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat.
"What's wrong?" George jolted awake, flipping on the bedside lamp to see his pale face. "Bad dream?"
Alex nodded, breathing heavily.
George pulled him into an embrace, gently patting his back. "It's okay now. I'm here. Just a nightmare."
"I dreamed... of the lab," Alex murmured. "And the car crash."
George's body stiffened for a moment before he held him tighter. "It's your memories reorganizing. That's a good sign. Just let it happen, okay?"
Alex nestled against him, listening to his steady heartbeat, gradually calming down.
Several weeks later, on an afternoon, George rushed off to an emergency meeting at the institute. He left in a hurry, but as always, he checked everything before departing: doors and windows locked, surveillance system operational, Alex's phone fully charged.
"I'll be back in about three hours," he said, kissing Alex. "There's lunch in the fridge—just heat it up. Call me immediately if anything happens."
"Okay," Alex replied.
After the door closed, silence returned to the house.
Alex ate lunch, watched TV in the living room for a while, then decided to tidy up the study. Though meticulous, George had been swamped with work lately, leaving a pile of papers on his desk.
He walked into the study and began organizing. Most were unimportant administrative materials from the research institute, which he sorted by date. Then he noticed the bottom drawer of the desk—the one that was always locked.
He'd never paid it any mind before. But today, that drawer caught his attention.
He crouched down, studying the small combination lock. Four digits.
As if compelled by some unseen force, he reached out and tried George's birthday.
wrong.
Then his own birthday.
Wrong.
He paused. Then, almost instinctively, he entered the wedding anniversary George had told them
"Click."
The lock clicked open.
Alex's heart skipped a beat. He pulled open the drawer, where several folders lay neatly arranged. He took the top one and opened it.
Property deeds, insurance policies, investment records. It all looked perfectly ordinary. He felt a mix of disappointment and relief—maybe he really had been overthinking this.
He started to put the folder back, but his hand froze.
The thickness of the folder felt off. He felt it carefully and discovered an almost imperceptible bulge at the bottom. He gently pried open the bottom panel of the folder, revealing what lay beneath.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Alex pulled out the paper, his fingers growing cold. He unfolded it and, under the study's light, made out the words written on it.
Death certificate.
His vision blurred; the letters danced and twisted before his eyes.
Name: Alex Russell
Date of Death: One year, seven months, and three days ago
Cause of Death: Severe traumatic brain injury and multiple organ rupture
Signing Physician: Lewis Hamilton
The paper slipped from his trembling hands, drifting silently to the carpet.
Alex stared at the paper, his mind blank. Then, all the sounds and sensations flooded back—the distant hum of traffic on the street, his own heavy breathing, the thudding of his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
One year, seven months, and three days ago.
That was precisely when George had said he'd "had an accident."
But this wasn't an accident report, nor a medical record—it was a death certificate.
He was dead?
Then who was he?
A wave of terror washed over him. He stumbled backward, his back slamming into the bookcase. Pain shot through him, but he felt nothing. His eyes were glued to the paper, the black letters crawling like worms into his eyes, burrowing into his brain.
Just then, the bookcase emitted a faint creak. The wooden panel behind him had dented inward slightly from the impact.
Alex stiffly turned to face the bookcase. It was a row of solid wood shelves, looking heavy and sturdy. But where he had struck, the panel seemed to... shift.
He reached out and pushed.
The panel swung inward, revealing a dark crevice.
A hidden door.
A cold draft poured through the crack, carrying the scent of some chemical preservative mixed with a deeper, unsettling chill. Alex stood there, staring into the darkness. His rational mind told him he should leave, should run, should flee this house immediately.
But his feet felt nailed to the floor.
Then, as if pulled by invisible threads, he took a step forward and pushed the hidden door open.
Inside was a small room, noticeably colder. Motion sensors activated the lights, casting a harsh, pallid glow across the space.
The room was small and nearly empty, except for a stainless steel table resembling an operating table in the center. A white sheet covered it, outlining a human form.
Alex's breath caught in his throat.
He knew he really should have turned and run, but his feet refused to obey.
Step by step, he drew nearer.
He stopped before the platform, staring at the human form beneath the white cloth. He could make out the outline—head, shoulders, torso, legs.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the coarse white cloth.
He yanked the sheet away.
Beneath it lay a man.
He had the exact same face, the exact same brown hair, the exact same body. Only that face was drained of color, lips blue-tinged, eyes tightly shut. His chest didn't rise or fall. His skin had an unnatural, waxy pallor, with slight discoloration and indentations in places.
A corpse. Dead for quite some time.
Alex's vision blurred, then sharpened. He saw the identical scar below the corpse's collarbone.
Every detail screamed at him: This is you.
No.
This was you.
Then who am I?
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
A silent scream exploded in his mind. He staggered backward, crashing into the wall. The icy touch pierced through his clothes, sending him into violent shivers.
He stared at the corpse, then looked down at his own hands—alive, warm, trembling hands
Clone? Copy? Replacement?
George's words echoed in his ears: "You had an accident..." "You abandoned your research..." "We were happy..." "I love you..."
All lies.
He had been dead all along.
He stumbled out through the hidden door, the bookcase closing automatically behind him, returning to its original state. He rushed toward the study door, his hand gripping the handle
The door opened.
George stood there.
He wore the lab's white coat, his face bearing the weariness of a long shift. Seeing Alex, he offered his usual gentle smile, but it froze when he met Alex's deathly pale face, terrified eyes, and trembling body.
Then his gaze shifted past Alex, landing on the unfolded death certificate on the floor and the open secret door.
Time froze.
A slow, terrifying shift came over George's expression. The gentleness vanished, the weariness faded, replaced by a deep, almost heartbreaking pain mixed with a kind of exhaustion and relief Alex couldn't comprehend.
"You saw it," George said, his voice eerily calm.
Not a question, but a statement.
Alex wanted to speak, to scream, to demand answers, but his throat felt constricted, producing only a broken gasp.
George walked into the study and closed the door. He didn't pick up the death certificate but instead approached Alex. Alex wanted to retreat, but the bookshelf was behind him, leaving no escape.
"Then... who was that?" Alex finally managed to squeeze out.
George didn't answer. He just looked at him, his sky-blue eyes churning with too many emotions—love, pain, regret, madness—until they settled into a terrifying calm.
"You are Alex," he said, reaching out, his fingertips brushing Alex's cheek. "My Alex."
"No!" Alex shoved his hand away, his voice sharp with terror. "That's Alex! The one lying there is Alex! What am I? A copy? A clone? Or which one am I? George Russell, what am I?!"
George's face drained instantly. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again, only exhaustion remained. "They... weren't good enough. Not like him. Neural integration failures, behavioral anomalies, memory collapse... But you're different." He reached out again, this time cupping Alex's face with an insistence that brooked no refusal. "You're the best. The most like him. I almost believed... you really had come back."
His thumb gently traced Alex's cheek, the motion as tender as ever, yet Alex felt only a chill run down her spine.
"Let go of me," Alex said, trembling, trying to struggle, but George's grip was as firm as iron.
"I can't," George murmured, pulling him into an embrace, holding him tight despite Alex's struggles. "I can't lose you again. You can't leave me, Alex. You can't."
"I'm not Alex!" Alex screamed, pounding fists against George's back. "Alex is dead! You saw him! He's dead!"
"You are him!" George's voice suddenly rose, filled with rage and despair. "You have his face, his body, parts of his memories... As long as you stay here, as long as you let me love you, you are him!"
His embrace tightened, nearly crushing Alex's ribs. Alex's struggles grew weaker, not from surrender, but from suffocation and an overwhelming, sudden drowsiness.
The drowsiness came too suddenly, too intensely, like a black tide engulfing him. His limbs grew heavy, his consciousness began to blur.
The last thing he saw was George's face mere inches away. That beautiful, David-like face was streaked with tears, the sky-blue eyes like shards of broken glass reflecting his own fading pupils.
"Sleep, my love," George's voice came from far away, gentle as a lullaby. "When you wake, everything will be all right."
Alex tried to speak, but his lips refused to move. Darkness swallowed him whole.
In the last flicker of consciousness, he felt George lift him like a child and carry him toward the bedroom. He felt himself being gently placed on the bed, covered with a blanket. He felt a kiss land on his forehead, warm and damp.
Then? Then there was nothing.
George sat on the edge of the bed, holding his still-warm hand, motionless for a long time.
Outside the window, the setting sun cast golden streaks through the blinds, casting striped shadows across Alex's face. He looked as though he were merely asleep—peaceful, serene, exactly as the real Alex looked when he slept.
George reached out, tracing the contours of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his lips with his fingertips. Every curve was so familiar, so perfect.
Alex, his Alex.
George leaned down, his forehead touching Alex's, and closed his eyes. Tears fell silently, dripping onto the pillow.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought this time I could. I thought I could finally keep you."
He remained like that for a long time, until the last rays of sunlight vanished below the horizon.
Then he stood up, walked to the window, took out his phone, and dialed a number.
The phone rang for a long time before being answered. A calm yet weary voice came through: "George. I knew you'd call."
"Lewis," George's voice was dry, "It failed. And of all people, he found out."
Silence hung heavy on the line for several seconds. "How did he find out? Surveillance showed no unusual behavior."
"The safe. I used our wedding anniversary as the password. He guessed it." George's voice carried a bitter smile. "He's still that sharp, even with only fragments of his memory left."
"I told you not to use any meaningful numbers." Lewis's voice carried a hint of reproach, but more fatigue. "Now what? How do you plan to handle this?"
"Proceed as planned." George said, turning to look at Subject Seven on the bed. "The sedative's taken effect. Vital signs stable. I'll perform the memory wipe and recalibration. This time I'll be more careful—change the password, upgrade the surveillance—"
"George," Lewis cut him off, his voice stern. "Stop. Seven times. Alex is dead. You can't keep doing this forever."
"I don't have 'forever,'" George murmured. "I just want him back. Just once. One successful attempt is all I need."
"Even if it works, it won't be him. It'll be a clone, a replica, a collection of memory fragments you implanted. The real Alex—the one who laughed, who was stubborn, who stayed up all night in the lab—is dead. You saw it with your own eyes—"
"I know!" George cut him off. "I know he's dead! But I can't... I can't accept a world without him. Lewis, do you understand? Without him, none of this matters."
A long silence hung on the other end of the line.
"I understand," Lewis finally said, his voice growing low. "But I can't help you anymore, George. End this experiment."
"No."
"You're crazy."
"Maybe I am." George laughed, hung up the phone, and tossed it aside.
The room had grown completely dark, with only the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the window.
—A few days later
His mind was foggy.
Alex tried to open his eyes, but his consciousness hadn't fully returned. He felt as if his soul were upside down inside his body, unsure whether it was his eyes or his feet moving. He gave up, deciding to try opening them slowly later.
He heard someone speaking.
"Alex..."
Who was calling whom?
Then he felt a hand grasp his.
A warm touch, slightly rough fingertips, the hand trembling ever so slightly. The grip was firm, yet careful at the same time.
He seemed to rest his forehead against my knuckles
A voice came from beside him, as if emerging from a long silence—deep and hoarse.
"Alex, please... open your eyes and look at me."
Again. The voice pleaded. The trembling intensified.
Alex summoned every last ounce of strength, struggling to lift his eyelids.
Light flooded in once more, but this time he held on. His vision swayed, steadied, swayed again, and finally settled.
The ceiling. He stared at the ceiling light for a few seconds, then turned his neck with extreme slowness. Muscles protested with a sour ache, each degree of movement accompanied by the creaking stiffness of rusted gears. His gaze fell upon the person holding his hand.
First came the eyes. Sky blue, like the sky after a storm—clear yet heavy with moisture, now brimming with tears, their edges flushed red. The emotions churning within were too complex for Alex to decipher immediately—surprise, love nearly overflowing, and exhaustion impossible to hide.
For him... right?
His gaze drifted downward to the high, straight bridge of the nose, the thin, bloodless lips pressed tightly together, the jawline taut as if sculpted by a Renaissance artist's dream muse, yet rendered fragile and vulnerable by the intensity of emotion. Golden hair lay slightly disheveled, as if repeatedly tousled.
The man stared at him unblinkingly, as if Alex would vanish the moment he looked away.
"You're awake," the man said, his voice breaking into a whisper. Tears finally rolled down his cheeks, landing on Alex's hand—warm and real. "Thank God... you're awake..."
The voice was familiar, yet Alex couldn't place him. He tried to pull his hand away, but his fingers curled involuntarily toward the man's face, wiping away the falling tears. The man's body trembled at this response. He wrapped his hand around Alex's, letting him feel his warmth, then—brought it to his lips and kissed the palm.
Alex felt a slight tickle, but the gesture eased his tension a little.
"Do you remember who I am?"
Alex shook his head.
"I'm George, your husband. You had an accident—a serious one... You hit your head. The doctors said it might affect your memory... But it's okay, really okay." He lifted his head, cupping Alex's face with both hands, his thumbs gently tracing his cheekbones. "As long as you're here, as long as you woke up, nothing else matters. We'll take it slow, okay? I'll always be by your side."
Husband. Accident. Memory loss.
These words drifted through Alex's blank mind, finding no anchor to hold onto. He looked into George's eyes, where the love was so overwhelming, so unguarded, it nearly suffocated him. This had to be real, right? Who would look at a stranger like that?
Not doubt, but emptiness. Regarding this face, this identity, everything the word "husband" represented—only a silent wasteland lay within him.
But his body seemed to remember.
"I know you remember," he choked out. "Even if you can't recall, your body remembers me. Let's go home, Alex. Let's go home. I'll take care of you."
Forever.
Forever
Forever