Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Keane
Every time the door opens, my chest tightens, bracing for whoever might come through. A nurse with another needle or some kind of test. A doctor ready to throw more questions at me, expecting answers I can’t give. It’s exhausting, never knowing what’s coming next, never knowing if they’re here to prod me, to analyze me, or to tell me something I’m not sure I want to hear.
The anticipation gnaws at me, leaving me on edge, helpless to control anything about my own life.
But this time, it’s not a doctor. It’s not a nurse. It’s a woman—a stranger, yet . . . not quite. She steps in slowly, her movements hesitant, like she’s preparing herself for something she isn’t ready to face. She stops just inside the doorway, one hand still gripping the handle as she stares at me, her gaze heavy, unreadable.
I squint, trying to place her. She looks familiar, but it’s like staring through fog. Her face, framed by long dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, feels like it should mean something. Like she belongs in some part of my life I can’t quite reach. Maybe this is her, those eyes are so familiar. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for.
I want to ask where the fuck she’s been and to tell me . . . well, why the fuck am I here? But not before she explains to me who she is though. I dig into the empty spaces of my memory, desperate to pull out something—anything—that explains why this woman, with her haunted expression and cautious steps, feels important.
She doesn’t move closer, just watches me, and I see something flicker in her eyes—a mix of sorrow, regret, maybe even fear. It’s as if she’s carrying something I should understand, something I should remember. But my mind refuses to cooperate, leaving me with nothing but fragments that don’t fit. I know I should know her, that there’s a reason she looks at me like I’m part of some story we shared . . . but I can’t find it. The harder I try to grasp it, the further it slips away.
Before I can process anything, another figure steps into the room—Dr. Lee, I think his name is. Yes, that sounds right. He’s accompanied by a nurse, and they both move with a calm efficiency that only deepens my frustration. I’m tired of being watched, analyzed, treated like I’m something broken. But I’m too tired to fight it, so I just wait, trapped in this body that won’t respond, in this mind that won’t remember.
“I’m Dr. Lee,” he says, nodding toward the woman, though his gaze eventually settles on me. “I’m part of the team overseeing Keane’s care since he regained consciousness.”
The woman nods, swallowing like she’s gathering herself before she speaks. “Ophelia Foster,” she says, her voice soft but clear.
There it is, that name—Ophelia—again. It reverberates in my mind, striking something raw, something buried. It stirs an ache I don’t understand, touching on a memory just out of reach. I know her name. I know her. But I don’t know why.
I stare at her, hoping she’ll give me some kind of hint, something that will untangle these thoughts and feelings. There’s an intensity in her gaze, a history I can’t remember yet feel in my bones. She looks at me like she’s been carrying something for both of us, and I’m powerless to help her bear it.
Dr. Lee’s voice drones on in the background, talking about therapy, recovery plans, things I can barely focus on. My attention stays on Ophelia, on her face, her eyes, the sorrow that seems to be woven into the very air around her. I don’t understand it, but I know it’s important.
She’s important.
Essential, even.
The one constant in this disorienting fog.
I open my mouth, struggling to form the words, to ask her to explain who she is, who we are. But nothing comes out, just the ghost of a thought lost in the empty spaces of my mind. I want to reach out, to bridge whatever distance lies between us, but the words, the memories—they’re all locked away.
Instead, I just watch her, feeling like I’m missing the most crucial part of myself, hoping she’ll say something, anything, to help me find my way back.
I try to say something, try to ask the thousand questions that are brewing inside me, but my throat tightens, the words vanishing before they reach my lips. I’m trapped, unable to bridge this gulf between us, unable to understand why she looks at me with such a mixture of longing and sorrow.
The doctor’s voice fades, leaving the room in a heavy, stifling silence. I watch her, searching her face for some hint, some word or gesture that might unlock this tangled mess of feelings inside me. There’s something there—a connection I feel down to my core, like she’s a part of me I can’t quite reach. But she just stands there, her gaze flickering with something unreadable, something that leaves me feeling even more unmoored. And as frustration coils tighter inside me, it hits me—she’s as lost as I am. Whatever history we share, she’s struggling to hold onto it, too.
“We’ll take him home,” Haydn says, his tone definitive, brooking no argument.
She shakes her head, her voice soft but unwavering. “No. I’ll stay.”
“Pia, you can’t do this on your own,” he insists, and there’s a raw edge to his voice, like he’s seen her carry too much before and won’t let her make the same mistake again.
“Haydn, you have a routine, a schedule,” she says, her words trailing off with the weight of something unsaid. “I can’t just pull you away from that.”
“You won’t have to,” he says, firm. “We’ll make him part of the routine. You can’t do this alone, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were thousands of miles away, trying to manage all this . . . by yourself.” His gaze flicks briefly in my direction, his jaw tightening. “What if he never . . . What if he can’t fully recover?”
“He will,” she says, her voice filled with a fierce conviction. “I’ll help him. It’s possible. He’s Keane Fucking Stone, and he can make it.”
The way she says it, like it’s an unshakable truth, stirs something in me—if I’m really the guy she’s talking about, then maybe there’s more to me than this shell lying in a hospital bed. Maybe there’s something worth fighting for, worth clawing my way back to. Her belief feels like a thread pulling me back.
“Of course you’ll make sure he recovers. I believe in you,” the man says, his gaze softening as he looks at her, like he knows just how much this matters to her. “And we’ll do this together. I’ll have my agent and the lawyer look into the guardianship, see what needs to be done so we can get him out of here. We’ll expedite his transfer to Portland.”
Portland. The name tugs at something buried, a flicker of familiarity that lights up a corner of my mind. Portland . . . it’s not far from home. Seattle. The thought surfaces, clear and insistent, one of the only things that feels real. Seattle is home. I can almost see it—my old apartment, the quiet street outside, the gentle rhythm of rain against my window. Some memories come back so easily, while others stay locked away, stubborn and unreachable.
Why can’t I remember it all? The frustration gnaws at me, leaving me aching for more.
Then, something else emerges from the haze—a softer memory, comforting in a way I can’t fully explain. My dog. I had a dog. I reach for his name, try to picture his face, the feel of his fur—but it slips away, like sand through my fingers. Still, the thought lingers, solid and real, something that was mine, something that made sense in a life I can’t quite touch.