Chapter 4

Two weeks in a hospital can stretch a woman thin.

By the fourteenth day, Ava felt like she was made of paper—creased, softened by tears she refused to let fall, held together by nothing but routine. Wake up. Shower in the staff bathroom. Sit by Matthew ’s bed. Smile when he looked at her with polite unfamiliarity. Answer the same questions. Pretend it didn’t hurt.

She learned the sounds of the ward by heart. The rattle of medicine carts. The murmur of late-night nurses. Matthew ’s breathing when he slept—steady, calm, nothing like the storm it caused inside her.

So when the doctor finally said, “You can take him home today,” Ava almost didn’t believe it.

Home.

The word landed strangely in her chest. Heavy, hopeful. and dangerous.

She drove.

Matthew sat in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly on his lap, staring out the window like everything was passing too fast. His parents followed behind in another car. Clara sat in the passenger seat with Ava, quiet, watchful, offering silent support in the only way she knew how—by being there.

Ava kept her eyes on the road. She was afraid that if she looked at him too long, she’d forget how to breathe.

“You don’t have to rush,” Clara said softly.

“I’m not,” Ava replied. Her voice was calm, too calm. “I know the road.”

Matthew turned slightly at that. “You do?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

He nodded, as if filing that information away somewhere he couldn’t access yet.

When they pulled into the driveway, Matthew leaned forward, peering through the windshield.

“Where are we?” he asked.

The question sliced cleanly through her.

Ava parked the car and turned off the engine. Took a second.

“Home,” she said gently. “Our home.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“Our,” he repeated, testing the word. “Home?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yours and mine. Ours.”

His brows knit together as he stepped out of the car, eyes roaming over the house—the wide porch, the flowerbeds he’d once planted himself, the front door he used to unlock without thinking.

He walked slowly, like someone entering a place he’d seen in a dream once and wasn’t sure was real.

Inside, he paused in the living room.

“This is… nice,” he said.

Ava smiled faintly. “You chose the couch.”

He glanced at it. “I did?”

“You said it was comfortable enough to fall asleep on during movie nights.”

Clara’s lips trembled into a smile. His mother clasped her hands together tightly.

Matthew nodded, though his eyes stayed distant.

He wandered down the hallway, opening doors. The study. The guest room, then the bathroom.

When he reached the bedroom, he stopped.

The room held them everywhere. The way the curtains hung. The throw blanket was folded at the foot of the bed. Her scarf draped over the chair, forgotten.

Matthew stepped inside, slow, cautious.

He opened the wardrobe. Ran his fingers over the suits. The shirts Ava had ironed a hundred times. He pulled one out, stared at it as if it belonged to someone else.

“This is strange,” he murmured.

Ava stood in the doorway, her heart pounding. “What is?”

“I feel like I should know this place,” he said. “Like my body recognizes it, but my mind doesn’t.”

That hurt more than if he’d said nothing at all.

She turned away before her face betrayed her.

“I’ll make something to eat,” she said quickly. “You must be hungry.”

In the kitchen, Ava moved on autopilot. She knew exactly what to make. She always did.

His favorite.

The meal she’d cooked for him on countless nights when he came home late. The one he used to joke tasted better than anything he’d eaten outside.

She plated it carefully. Garnished it the way he liked. Set it in front of him at the dining table.

Matthew stared at the food. He didn’t touch it.

Her chest tightened.

“Is something wrong?” she asked softly. “You don’t like it?”

He picked up the fork, hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t… remember liking anything like this.”

He took a small bite. He chewed slowly and swallowed.

Then nodded. “It’s fine.”

Fine.

The word felt like a dismissal. Not cruel, just empty.

She smiled anyway. Sat beside him and ate mechanically.

Conversation floated around the table—his parents filling the silence, Clara gently prompting him with stories.

“Do you remember your first bike?” his father asked.

“No.”

“Your childhood dog?”

He shook his head.

Ava stayed quiet. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers clenched together.

After dinner, Clara brought out the photo albums.

“This might help,” she said gently.

They spread them across the coffee table.

Wedding photos, childhood pictures, birthdays, holidays. Smiles frozen in time.

Ava watched Matthew's face as he flipped through them. Searched for something—recognition, warmth, anything.

“This is us,” she said, pointing to a photo of them laughing under fairy lights on their wedding night. “You stepped on my dress here.”

He studied it. Long and careful.

“I look happy,” he said finally.

“You were,” she whispered.

He nodded then turned the page.

Nothing.

Hours passed like that. Stories told. Memories offered up like fragile gifts.

But none of them landed.

Eventually, his parents rose to leave. Clara hugged Ava tightly before following them out.

“Don’t give up,” she whispered. “He’s still there.”

When the house finally grew quiet again, Ava stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

Matthew sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees.

“Where should I sleep?” he asked.

The question nearly broke her.

“This is your room,” she said. “Our room.”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “Okay.”

She changed quietly, turning her back to him. Slid under the covers, leaving space between them.

The bed felt enormous.

Matthew lay stiffly beside her, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

“For what?”

“For hurting you,” he replied. “I can see it on your face. Even if I don’t understand it.”

Her throat tightened.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said. “Just rest.”

Silence settled between them.

Ava stared at the darkness, her heart aching, her body exhausted.

I’ll stay, she promised herself again. I’ll be patient. I’ll remind you. I’ll love you enough for both of us.

Because even if he didn’t remember—

This was still her home.

And he was still the man she loved.