Chapter Text
“‘Cause one day we’ll run of time
Memories we’ll leave them behind
Many things we can’t control.”
-Time, SB19
A low tremor blooms behind Lena’s eyes, a slow, pulsing ache that feels like it’s trying to push her back under—back into that thick, suffocating dark where time stretches and collapses and nothing hurts because nothing exists.
Except a hand. Warm. Trembling. Squeezing her right one like it’s the only lifeline left in the world.
And then—
A voice.
A soft, breaking voice, so full of love it feels like light trying to pierce through the black.
“I love you, I’ll be here the whole time… please wake up.”
Lena tries—God, she tries—to swim toward it, follow it, cling to it. But the darkness curls its fingers into her and drags her down again.
Voices swim in and out like she’s underwater.
“Subdural hematoma… severe concussion… we won’t know until she wakes—”
“We’ll extubate once she stabilizes—”
“She can still hear you.”
Her mind flickers, sparks, fades.
“P’Lena… the tubes are out… I love you. I’ll tell you every day. You’ve always been strong. Please—”
Then nothing.
— — —
When she finally claws her way back up, oxygen burns her lungs and her mouth feels like sand.
“Water.”
It’s barely a word—just a rasp.
The woman appears instantly, as if summoned by the sound of her breathing alone. Steady hands lift her, guide her, hold her. A cup at her lips. Eyes watching her like she might vanish if they blink too long.
Warm eyes. Wet at the corners. A smile trembling under the weight of its own relief.
Lena drinks until the tightness in her throat loosens, until the room sharpens into a sterile white blur. The hospital beeps. The bandage on her head throbs in time with her heartbeat.
Only then does she really look at the woman beside her.
She’s beautiful—painfully so. Poised. Dressed too elegantly for a nurse. Tears clinging to long lashes, then falling, soft and sincere, down high cheekbones toward lips shaped with worry.
“I’m glad you’re awake.”
Her hand rises, gentle and deliberate, brushing Lena’s cheek with a warmth that feels… familiar?
But not.
Not enough.
Lena stares. Her brows pinch. Her heart beats wrong—too fast, too unsure.
“I… sorry to ask but—who are you?”
The woman freezes. Her breath catches. Her hand snaps back like Lena burned her. Shock spreads across her face, then shatters into grief so raw Lena feels it like a physical hit.
“You… don’t know who I am?”
The words fall apart as they leave her lips. Tears slip freely now, streaking pink lips and hope with them.
“I—no?” Lena says, guilt twisting her stomach. “Am I supposed to?”
A fresh wave of pain surges behind her eyes, forcing her palm to her temple. A whimper escapes before she can help it.
The woman swallows hard. Breath shaking.
“My name is Miu… and I’m your wife.”
The world stops.
Not slows.
Not shifts.
Stops.
“What?” Lena chokes. “My—my wife?! I have a wife? I’m only eighteen!” Her voice rises, brittle with panic. “This isn’t funny—who hired you? Is this a prank?!”
The horror on Miu’s face is instant. And devastating.
“You… think you’re eighteen?” Miu whispers. Then steadies herself, voice soft but urgent. “Lena, wait—please. Let me call the staff.”
She presses the button with trembling fingers.
How does she know her name?
Why does she look at Lena like she knows every version of her?
Why can’t Lena remember a single thing?
A nurse rushes in as Lena’s breathing spirals. Miu tries to step near her, but Lena recoils, clutching her head as the pain returns in sharp, brutal pulses.
Her eyes dart around the room—curtains, machines, faces—and land on the TV.
The date flashes. Bright. Unforgiving.
10, November 2031.
Her stomach drops. Her pulse roars in her ears. Everything spins.
“Mirror…” she croaks. “Please—someone—mirror.”
A nurse fumbles through the bedside drawer and places it into her shaking hands.
Lena lifts it slowly.
Too slowly.
The face staring back isn’t hers.
It has her eyes—but older. Wiser. Worn.
Her mouth—but shaped by years she doesn’t remember.
Her skin—but carrying time she never lived.
It’s her. And not her.
A tremor runs through her chest, then breaks. Tears fall hot and helpless down her cheeks as she stares at the stranger in the glass.
The stranger she somehow became.
The stranger she doesn’t remember being.
And behind her reflection, blurred by tears, is Miu—hands pressed to her mouth, heart breaking silently in the background—watching the woman she loves look at her own face like it’s a ghost.