Lewis had searched all of Snowville and couldn’t find Sergio. If he hadn’t poisoned me, why had he vanished like someone with something to hide? I stood alone in the room with no one to answer me, and the silence had a weight to it.

The room was stocked — comic books, novels, art supplies, a tablet loaded with movies and games but no internet connection. Food appeared through a slot in the wall at odd intervals: afternoon tea, fruit, full meals, always balanced, always different. I didn’t touch it at first. But after a full day, I could feel the pups growing restless inside me, their movements sharper, more insistent. My instincts made the choice before my mind did. I had to survive. Survival was the only path back to Lewis.

So I ate. I rested. And I understood, slowly, what Sergio intended — lock me here long enough, keep everyone away, and the Scifen would do the rest. Eventually I would forget everything. Eventually, I would forget Lewis.

There was no pen, so I used the drawing board. I sketched Lewis from memory, one portrait after another, filling page after page. But even as I drew, his face was shifting, becoming harder to hold. At first I could see him clearly — every detail. Then it narrowed down to the line of his nose, the look in his eyes when he watched me. The stack of drawings grew beside me, and I kept going, my hand moving by memory even when my mind started to slip.

One month passed. I knew because I’d made a calendar on the wall.

That morning I picked up my brush as usual — and stopped. I couldn’t picture him. I flipped back through everything I had drawn, running my fingers over the lines of his face, and the tears came before I could stop them. "Carl, how could I forget you?" I pressed my hands to my head. The pain came sharp and immediate, the way it always did when I pushed too hard. But I dipped the brush anyway and wrote his name, over and over, filling the page with it. I couldn’t let go. I wouldn’t.

When I woke the next morning, the drawing board was gone. All the portraits — gone. I stood where they had been and felt the absence like a missing limb, reaching for something I could no longer name. A headache bloomed the moment I tried to remember what I’d been looking for, so I stopped trying. That was the cruelest part of it. The forgetting didn’t announce itself. It just made you stop reaching.

Then one morning, the door was open.

I pulled on my coat and stepped out slowly, scanning the space beyond. A large house, carpeted stairs, spotless and quiet, the ceilings high and the rooms wide. I didn’t know why I was here or where I was meant to go. A firm nudge from inside my belly made me look down. I was pregnant — visibly, heavily so, maybe five months along. I pressed my hand flat against the curve and tried to remember. Julian. His name surfaced first, clear and familiar. We’d known each other since we were eight. He had promised to propose at my coming-of-age ceremony, promised a world trip, promised everything. So why couldn’t I remember anything after that?

I found my way outside. The garden opened up in front of me like something from a dream — hydrangeas in full bloom, rose bushes, fruit trees, a wooden swing, a small mushroom-shaped structure near the hedges, and wild rabbits moving through the grass. The sea was visible in the distance, and on the hills beyond, white shapes grazed against green. The wind moved through everything, lifting my white dress, carrying salt and warmth. I stood barefoot in the grass and let it prick at my soles until I found the swing and sat down.

Then it moved.

Someone pushed it from behind, gentle at first, then faster. I gripped the ropes. "Slow down."

"Okay." A deep voice, calm and unhurried.

The swing eased to a stop, and the man stepped around to face me. White shirt buttoned to the collar, black trousers, silver-framed glasses, the kind of stillness that looked practiced. Something about him tugged at me — a feeling I couldn’t place.

"Who are you? How did I get here?"

He crouched slowly and reached for my feet. I pulled back on instinct, every nerve suddenly alert. He didn’t react to that. He simply held up a pair of white slippers, his voice even. "You shouldn’t walk barefoot, Elena. Not while you’re carrying."

I hesitated, then stretched my feet toward him. His hands were careful, unhurried, wiping the dirt from my soles without a word before sliding the slippers on. Clean hands. Deliberate movements. Nothing wasted.

"Who are you? Why am I here?"

He stood, adjusted his glasses, and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. "I’m your husband."

The word hit me like cold water. "No. That’s impossible. My boyfriend is Julian. We’re supposed to get engaged when I turn eighteen — "

"Elena. You’re already an adult. You’re carrying our pups — twins. A son and a daughter."

I shook my head, gripping the ropes of the swing. Julian had promised. He had been promising since we were children. The engagement, the trip, the future we’d planned. How was I pregnant? How was there a husband I didn’t recognize?

"You’re lying. I don’t know you."

"You’ve forgotten," he said, steady as ever. "Julian and you are finished. He betrayed you."

The pain came the moment I tried to pull on that thread — sharp, spiking through my skull, scattering everything before I could grasp it. He knelt in front of me, watching me with an expression full of something that looked like devotion.

"It’s okay that you’ve forgotten me," he said quietly. "We can start again. I’ll tell you everything." He paused, holding my gaze. "My name is Sergio. I’m your psychologist."

He let that settle before adding the last part.

"And I’m your husband."