Chapter Text
The last thing Michelle Wheeler remembered clearly was laughing.
Not the accident.
Not the ambulance.
Not the bright hospital lights that came afterward.
Just laughter.
She and Willow were biking home beneath a sky painted orange by the setting sun. School had ended hours ago, and neither of them had been in a hurry to leave the little clearing near Lover's Lake where they'd spent most of the afternoon talking about absolutely nothing.
At least, that's what Karen kept telling her.
The details felt slippery.
Like trying to hold water in her hands.
Every time Michelle reached for a memory, it seemed to dissolve before she could fully grasp it.
"Do you remember your name?"
The doctor's voice sounded patient.
Michelle blinked.
The room smelled like disinfectant.
Everything was white.
White walls.
White sheets.
White lights.
A white ceiling she had spent the last ten minutes staring at.
Or maybe thirty.
Time felt strange.
"Michelle."
The answer came easily.
The doctor smiled.
"And your mother's name?"
"Karen."
"Good."
His pen scratched across a clipboard.
"What about your father?"
"Ted."
Another note.
"Your brother?"
"Nancy."
The doctor paused.
Michelle frowned.
Something about that seemed wrong.
"Oh."
A second later she corrected herself.
"I… don’t have a brother. She’s my sister."
"That's alright."
Michelle wasn't entirely convinced it was.
She felt like she should know these answers without needing to think about them.
Instead, every response arrived a second too late.
Like her brain had to search through filing cabinets before finding the correct folder.
The doctor continued asking questions.
Names.
Dates.
Addresses.
Most of them eventually surfaced.
A few didn't.
Each forgotten answer left behind a strange hollow feeling.
Like she had misplaced something important.
After another fifteen minutes, the doctor finally lowered his clipboard.
"You're doing well."
"I don't feel well."
A laugh escaped him.
"That's understandable."
Michelle glanced around the room.
"How long have I been here?"
"Three days."
Three days.
The number felt impossible.
Her stomach twisted.
"What happened?"
The doctor exchanged a glance with Karen.
Something passed silently between them.
Concern.
Carefulness.
The sort of look adults used when they were deciding how much truth a person could handle.
"You were involved in a bicycle accident."
The words settled heavily inside her chest.
"Bicycle..."
A flash of something appeared.
A road.
A sunset.
The sound of tires.
Then nothing.
Gone.
"Will I remember?"
The doctor's expression softened.
"Maybe."
Maybe.
Michelle hated maybe.
Maybe felt too much like no wearing a disguise.
After he left, Karen moved closer to the bed.
Her eyes looked tired.
Red around the edges.
Like she hadn't slept much recently.
Michelle immediately felt guilty.
She wasn't entirely sure why.
Then Karen reached over and squeezed her hand.
"You scared us."
The guilt doubled.
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, sweetheart."
Karen's voice cracked slightly.
"You don't have anything to apologize for."
Michelle looked away.
A strange pressure had appeared behind her eyes.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Quieter.
As if something was missing.
Someone.
She couldn't explain why.
The feeling vanished when the door opened.
A girl stepped inside.
Dark hair.
Soft eyes.
A nervous smile.
Something inside Michelle's chest immediately pulled tight.
The feeling was instant.
Powerful.
Familiar.
As though she'd been waiting for this person without realizing it.
The girl stopped near the doorway.
For a second neither spoke.
Then Karen smiled.
"Hi, Willow."
Willow.
The name echoed strangely inside Michelle's head.
Willow.
Important.
Very important.
But she couldn't understand why.
The girl offered a small wave.
"Hi."
Michelle stared.
She knew that face.
Didn't she?
The answer should've been obvious.
Instead it sat frustratingly out of reach.
Like a word on the tip of her tongue.
Willow shifted awkwardly.
"You don't remember me."
It wasn't a question.
Michelle swallowed.
"No."
The disappointment that crossed Willow's face lasted less than a second.
But it was enough.
Michelle noticed.
And for some reason, it hurt.
"Sorry."
Willow quickly shook her head.
"No, it's okay."
It clearly wasn't.
The silence stretched awkwardly between them.
Then Karen stood.
"I'm gonna grab a coffee."
Michelle suspected she was leaving on purpose.
The second the door clicked shut, the room became even quieter.
Willow sat carefully in the chair beside the bed.
For several moments she simply looked at her hands.
Michelle looked at her instead.
Something about Willow felt oddly familiar.
Not her face.
Not her voice.
Something deeper.
Like hearing a song she'd forgotten she knew.
"You visit a lot?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Willow looked surprised.
"Every day."
"Oh."
Another silence.
Michelle glanced toward the window.
Rain tapped softly against the glass.
The sky outside had darkened.
For some reason, the sight made her sad.
Then Willow reached into her backpack.
"I brought something."
She pulled out a small container.
Immediately a smell filled the room.
Warm.
Savory.
Comforting.
Michelle's stomach growled before she could stop it.
Willow laughed.
The sound hit Michelle with another wave of familiarity.
"So that's still working."
"What is it?"
"Hot pot."
Michelle frowned.
The word sounded funny.
Her brain snagged on it.
Hot pot.
Hospital.
Memory loss.
Somehow all three tangled together.
"We're having hot pot with long-term broth loss."
The words escaped before she could think about them.
Silence.
Then Willow blinked.
"What?"
Michelle frowned.
She wasn't entirely sure either.
"We're having hot pot with long-term broth loss."
Willow stared.
Then suddenly laughed.
Really laughed.
Hard enough that she nearly dropped the container.
Michelle found herself smiling too.
"Memory loss," Willow managed.
"What?"
"It's memory loss."
Michelle considered this.
"Close enough."
That only made Willow laugh harder.
For the first time since waking up, the strange emptiness inside Michelle eased slightly.
She still didn't know who Willow was.
She still couldn't remember why seeing her felt important.
But somehow, watching her laugh made the hospital room feel a little less lonely.