The next day, he went over to her house and the faint scent of baby oil lingered in the air as he stepped inside. She had just given birth and felt she couldn't handle it alone so she had to call him even though he was still sad over his wife disappearance. She stood by the doorway, watching his steps quietly. When their eyes met, she noticed how worn out he looked. His face was weary, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. For a moment, she felt a pang of pity.
"How are you holding up?" she asked gently.
"I am exhausted." he sighed.
"I'm sorry if I caused any offense. I never meant for things to turn out this way." she said.
"Well, it's partially your fault. You should've waited. I told you I'd handle telling her." he told her.
She stared at him in disbelief. "What do you mean? You weren't going to say anything. I saw it in your hesitation, so I helped you. Honestly, you should be thanking me."
He chuckled bitterly. "Oh, thank you? For driving Amoke away from me?"
"Stop it," she said sharply. "Don't make me feel like the villain here. It's not my fault. Instead of pointing fingers, we should be focusing on finding her."
He scoffed. "And what do you think I've been doing these past months? Every single day, searching, hoping, praying."
His voice cracked as he added, "She chose to vanish. No explanation. No note. Just... gone. She didn't only leave me, she left her daughter too."
She looked away, her jaw tightening. The room was silent for a moment, except for the distant cry of the baby in the background.
"I didn't think she would go that far," she murmured. "I thought maybe it would force her to confront the truth. I didn't expect her to disappear."
"You don't know Amoke," he said, his voice low. "She's not the type to fight for attention or cling to anyone. She would rather walk away than create a scene."
"She didn't even tell her daughter..." he whispered, almost to himself.
"Semi's been calling me day and night. I don't have any answers. What do I tell her? That I—" His voice broke again. He turned away, running a hand down his face. "God, I feel like I'm losing my mind."
She walked slowly to the table and poured him a glass of water. He accepted it without a word.
"You're not the only one hurting," she said. "I've had to raise this baby alone all these months, listen to his cries, pretending everything is okay."
He nodded slowly. "I know. And I'm not here to argue with you or push blame anymore. I just want my life back or at least a part of it."
She sighed. "Do you think she'll ever come back?"
He stared at the floor for a long moment. "I don't know. But if she does, I just want a chance to explain."
"Do you regret everything?" she asked, looking him in the eyes.
"I regret hurting her. I regret not telling her the truth myself. I regret making a mess of everything," he said. "But I don't regret my son. He is innocent in all this."
"He misses you," she said quietly.
He smiled faintly. "I miss him too."
"I also miss you," she said, her eyes searching his face.
He was still smiling at the baby when she said it, so softly he almost missed it.
His hands froze.
He looked up at her slowly, unsure of how to respond. The room felt smaller, the air heavier.
She stepped closer. "Amoke hasn't been found for months now. You've tried, you've searched everywhere but she's gone."
He opened his mouth, but she raised a hand.
"I'm not saying give up on her," she continued. "But can't you just… let go for a while? Just a little. Come stay with us. Be here for your son. Be with me."
He looked at her, torn.
"You're asking me to forget her," he said quietly.
"No," she whispered. "I'm asking you to live. To stop drowning in guilt and emptiness. To take care of what you still have… what's still standing."
He turned away, pacing a few steps, emotions tightening in his chest.
"I made a vow," he said, his voice low. "To love her, protect her… even if she's not here, I feel like I'm betraying that vow."
"And what about me?" she shot back. "What about the promises, the time, the home we built here?"
He faced her, eyes burning with conflict. "I never promised you forever"
Her expression fell, but she nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"I know," she said. "But it still hurts."
Silence.
Then she spoke again, softer this time. "Just stay the night. You don't have to decide anything. Just be here. For him, for me. Even if it's just this once."
He looked toward the baby and then back at her
"I'll stay," he said at last, barely audible. "But just for tonight."
And with that, something fragile hung between them, not love, not quite forgiveness but something that felt like the edge of both.
The morning sun filtered gently through the curtains. He stirred on the couch, the blanket she had covered him with slipping off his shoulder. For a moment, he forgot where he was, then it all came rushing back, the conversation, the guilt, the weight of the choices he had made.
She stepped out of the kitchen holding a tray full of bread, eggs and hot tea. She paused when she saw he was awake.
"I thought you might be hungry," she said quietly. He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks."
She placed the tray on the table and sat across from him.
The silence stretched between them, full of things neither knew how to say.
"I didn't sleep much," he admitted after a while.
"Neither did I," she replied.
He picked at the bread but didn't eat. "It felt wrong being here, but I didn't want to leave."
She nodded. "I know."
She hesitated before asking, "Do you still love her?"
He looked at her, honest and tired. "Yes. But that love doesn't erase what I feel here either. It's complicated."
She breathed in slowly, as if trying to steady her heart. "So what happens now?"
"I don't know," he said. "But I know I can't keep floating between two lives. I need to find answers… closure."
"And what about me? What about us?" she asked.
He looked away. "I don't want to make more promises I can't keep. But I also don't want to hurt you more than I already have."
Her eyes welled slightly, but she blinked it away. "Then don't make any promises. Just be honest."
He finally took a bite of the bread, chewing slowly and silently. She stood and turned toward the baby's room.
"Are you leaving today?" she asked without turning back.
"You don't have to decide everything at once," she said softly. "Just don't disappear too."
After breakfast, he stood quietly, his eyes lingering on the tray of half-eaten food. He walked into the living room, kissed his son on the forehead, and whispered, "I'll see you soon."
He returned to the sitting room, where she stood leaning against the wall, arms folded across her chest, not in anger but in quiet restraint.
"I should go," he said.
She nodded, though her eyes begged him to stay. "Okay."
He walked to the door. His hand rested on the knob for a moment too long.
"Thank you," he said without looking at her. "For the night… for everything."
"I didn't do it for thanks," she replied. "I did it because I still care."
He finally turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Take care of my son"
"I always do." she said.
Then he opened the door and stepped out.
He slipped into his car and just sat there, hands on the wheel, eyes staring at nothing.
He didn't start the car.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a worn photograph. A picture of Amoke, Semi, and him, smiling in better times, the edges were creased from how often he had held it.
"Where are you, Amoke?" he whispered.
His phone buzzed. A message from Semi:
"Daddy, have you heard anything yet?"
He typed back:
"No but I'm still looking."
He paused, then added:
"I promise I won't stop."
This time, when he started the car, he didn't drive home.
He headed back to the police station , to reopen the file they had long grown tired of following up on.
Amoke told her friend about her outing but avoided packing her small bag, fearing it would raise questions. She set out with the hope of going to the mall to buy some clothes. She hid the truth from her friend, her escape. That night, she wandered along the road, her mind tangled in a web of thoughts. Lost in them, she paid no attention to her surroundings until the distant roar of an engine grew louder. A speeding car was hurtling towards her but she didn't see it. The car's headlights blinded her, freezing her in place. In a split second, the impact sent her body tumbling onto the asphalt. Pain shot through her like fire before darkness swallowed everything. By the time people rushed to her side, blood trailed from a cut on her forehead, her breaths were shallow, and her eyes fluttered without recognition. Somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, her mind let go of the last thread of memory it held. The driver slammed on the brakes, heart pounding as he stumbled out of the car. Panic gripped him at the sight of her limp body sprawled on the road, blood seeping from a gash above her brow. Without wasting a second, he lifted her into his arms and rushed her into the back seat. The tires screeched again, this time toward the nearest hospital. In the emergency ward, nurses wheeled her away as the driver paced the corridor, his clothes stained with her blood. Hours later, a doctor emerged, his expression grave.
"She lost a lot of blood but we managed to keep her alive," he said slowly, "but i doubt she can remember anything due to the emergency surgery she had."
The man pushed the door open quietly, the faint smell of antiseptic filling his lungs. Inside, the ward was dim, the steady beep of a monitor breaking the silence. She lay motionless on the narrow bed, her face pale, a bandage wrapped around her head. Her eyes shut as though locked in a deep, unreachable sleep.
He stood by her side, guilt gnawing at his chest.
After looking at her closely, he left.
He continued checking up on her in the hospital, sat by her side and apologizing. He knows she can't see him but he knows she can hear him.
Few days later, he was called by the doctor and he was informed that she had finally opened her eyes.
He went to her ward and met her eyes opened, fixed blankly on the ceiling as though searching for something invisible.
"Can you hear me?" he asked softly.
Slowly, her gaze shifted to him. There was no recognition in it, only the vacant confusion of someone who had been stripped of every memory they ever owned.
Her lips parted slightly, and after a moment, she blinked as though shaking herself free from a fog. Slowly, she turned her head toward him.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice low but steady.
The question hit him like a cold slap. For a second, he just stared, unsure if she was joking or if the doctor's words were true.
"I'm the one who brought you here," he finally said, his tone careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter her all over again.
Her brows knitted together. "Brought me… from where? What happened to me? Why am I in an hospital?"
He hesitated.
"I hit you with my car so I brought you here, I don't know where you were coming from. Don't you remember anything?"
She tried to reach for the fragments of her past, but every attempt felt like pressing on a fresh wound. The harder she searched her mind, the sharper the pain, until it was all she could feel raw, throbbing, and relentless.
He realize she truly didn't remember a thing.
Seeing the strain in her eyes, he placed a cautious hand on the bed's railing.
"Don't force it," he said gently. "The memories will come when they're ready."
She looked at him, searching for something familiar in his face, but found only a stranger's kindness.
"I don't even know where I belong," she murmured.
He took a slow breath. "When you're discharged, I'll take you to my home. At least until you remember or until we find your family."
Her lips parted in hesitation, but there was nowhere else for her to go. After a moment, she gave a faint nod, trusting the only person who seemed willing to help her.
Suddenly, he recalled the doctor's words about her condition. A quiet heaviness settled over him as he wondered if she would ever be able to reclaim the fragments of her lost memories.
His mind drifted back to the night everything changed. He had just returned from abroad to visit his mother. For months, she had been urging him to settle down, to find a wife and bring her along. That night, his friends had thrown a party for him at the club. The streets were almost deserted when he drove home. The silence of the night tempted him to press harder on the accelerator. He didn't see her until it was too late. By the time his foot reached the brakes, the thud had already sounded. Panic seized him. The thought of being accused of murder made his hands tremble as he stepped out of the car. She lay motionless, her breathing faint but present. Without wasting another moment, he decided to rush her to the hospital. At the hospital, he paced the corridor like a man trapped between two worlds, one where he could walk away and pretend it never happened, and another where the weight of his actions bound him to her fate. When the doctor finally emerged, relief washed over him at the news that she would live, though her memory had been affected. From that moment, guilt rooted itself deep in his conscience. It wasn't just an accident anymore—it was a debt, one he couldn't repay with money or apologies. So when she was discharged, he promised himself he would take her in, protect her, and perhaps in caring for her, find some way to forgive himself. Every time she looked at him with unfamiliar eyes, he was reminded of the night that bound their lives together. And every day, he wondered if the return of her memories would set her free or tear them both apart.
Days passed, and she was finally discharged from the hospital. True to his word, the man took her home with him. His apartment was modest yet warm, a place that seemed to quietly invite her to stay. At first, she moved about cautiously, unsure of her place in his life. But each day, his small gestures like pulling out a chair for her at the table, leaving her favorite tea by the window which made the unfamiliar walls begin to feel like shelter.
With time, her health improved, and the glow she once carried began to return. Her laughter became lighter, her steps more confident, and her beauty, now fully restored, seemed to brighten every corner of the house. The man noticed. He often found his eyes lingering on her longer than he intended. A thought began to take root in his mind: since she remembered nothing of her past, perhaps she could be his not just in his home, but in his life. He never voiced it, but the thought followed him everywhere. Sometimes, he would catch himself imagining her in white, her smile directed only at him. Then he would quickly look away, afraid his gaze might betray the longing he kept locked inside. She, unaware of the storm within him, simply carried on with her new life, grateful for the man who had given her shelter.