Day 25.
It was quiet.The kind of quiet that feels sacred.Like even the air was holding its breath.
She was flipping through the notebook again.Stopping on pages I'd written.Reading slow.Tracing words like they had weight.
I didn't expect anything.I'd stopped expecting weeks ago.
Then—she looked at me.
Eyes soft.
And said—
"Ren."
At first, I thought I misheard.
So I just… stared.
Frozen.
Then she smiled.
Small. Fragile. Real.
"Your name is Ren, right?"
I nodded.
My throat closed up.
Tears pricked behind my eyes.
"Yeah. That's me."
"I remembered."
I couldn't breathe.
I laughed—broken, shaking.
"How?"
She looked down at the notebook again.
"I don't know.It just… felt like your name.""And when I said it… it felt warm inside."
I wanted to cry.But I didn't.
I just said:
"You gave it back to me."
Day 24.
She said it again.
"Ren."
This time when I brought her tea.
She didn't flinch.She didn't ask.
She just said it like it had always belonged to her.
"Thank you, Ren."
Two words.
But I held onto them like they were air.
Day 23.
I caught her writing something in her notebook.
Then quickly closing it when I walked in.
I didn't ask.
But that night, when she fell asleep—the book fell open.
And I saw the words:
"Ren.If this is the only name I remember—I hope it's the right one."
Day 22.
She drew me.
Crude lines.Stick-figure hands.
But the smile was unmistakable.
Below the sketch:"Ren, with the tired eyes who stayed."
And for the first time in weeks—
I didn't feel like a ghost.
That night I wrote in her notebook:
"Day 22.She said my name again."
"And in that one sound,she gave me back everything I'd lost."