The morning sunlight filtered through the window again, warmer this time, spilling across the room and illuminating tiny specks of dust that floated lazily in the air. Aiden stirred beneath the blankets, his chest tight, head heavy, a dull ache lingering in his stomach. The fog of yesterday's confusion hadn't lifted. Instead, it clung to him, a weight pressing against his temples and the edges of his mind.
He opened his eyes slowly, trying to force some sense of familiarity onto the shapes around him. The bed, the small table by the window, the chair tucked neatly underneath it — all of it was real, tangible, yet it wasn't his. He felt adrift in someone else's world.
Kairo was already there, seated at the table, a notebook open before him. His pen moved over the pages, scratching notes carefully. The quiet of his movements, deliberate and soft, filled the room with a strange kind of calm. He looked up as Aiden stirred, his eyes warm but cautious.
"Good morning," Kairo said, his voice low and measured. "Did you sleep okay?"
Aiden rubbed his eyes, the fog in his head resisting every attempt at clarity. "I… I think so," he murmured. "But everything feels… unreal. It's like I'm watching myself from the outside." His voice cracked as he spoke. "I can't remember… anything. And yet…" He paused, swallowing hard, "…I feel like I should know you."
Kairo's lips pressed into a thin line. He shifted in his seat, hesitating before speaking. "I know," he said softly. "It's not your fault. That's why I've been keeping track of everything — every little thing you do remember, every fragment, every detail that seemed to matter. Maybe this will help."
He pushed the notebook gently toward Aiden. Hands trembling, Aiden reached for it. The pages were filled with meticulous handwriting, sketches, dates, and notes — reminders of moments he should remember, pieces of a past that now seemed like someone else's life.
As he flipped through the pages, a single word leapt out at him: "Promise."
Aiden's breath caught. "Promise?" he whispered, barely audible. The word felt heavy in the quiet of the room, carrying a weight he couldn't name, yet somehow recognized.
"That's part of it," Kairo said, kneeling beside the bed and leaning close enough that Aiden could feel his warmth. "We made a promise once. You… you might not remember it yet, but I do. And I'll help you remember. Every fragment. Every moment."
Aiden's chest tightened, and a strange warmth crawled up from his stomach, wrapping around him like a fragile thread of hope. He blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. The word resonated somewhere deep, stirring emotions he couldn't fully place — fear, longing, recognition, and something like love.
"I… I want to remember," he whispered. The words trembled from his lips, but there was determination underneath the fear. "I want to know who I am… and who we were."
Kairo reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Aiden's forehead. His fingers lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, grounding him in a way Aiden didn't fully understand. "And you will," Kairo said softly. "Step by step. I'll be with you, Aiden. You're not alone."
Aiden swallowed hard. The knot of anxiety in his chest loosened slightly, though the emptiness remained. Somewhere deep inside, fragments of memories flickered like shadows at the edge of his vision — fleeting, incomplete, but persistent.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to remember the sensation of a laugh he couldn't place, a hand brushing his own, the warmth of sunlight on a face he couldn't quite see. Nothing made sense yet, but it was enough to tether him to the present.
"I remember… flashes," he admitted, opening his eyes to meet Kairo's. "Small things. A laugh… a smell… a voice… But I can't hold them."
"That's fine," Kairo said gently. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Aiden could hear. "The pieces will come back in time. You don't have to force it. You just have to trust me… and trust yourself."
Aiden's heart ached at the words. The idea of trust felt foreign, but Kairo's presence made it easier, like a rope being thrown across a chasm he didn't know how to cross. He wanted to reach for it. He wanted to believe.
Kairo continued to guide him, pointing to little notes in the notebook: the date of a forgotten birthday, a sketch of a place Aiden couldn't name, a short, almost illegible message: "Don't forget our promise."
Aiden's hands shook as he turned the pages. Each fragment of memory teased him, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He felt both frustrated and exhilarated — a dangerous, exhilarating mix that left him dizzy.
"Why… why does it hurt so much?" he whispered. "Not knowing, and yet feeling it so strongly?"
"Because it matters," Kairo said simply. "Because you matter. And because we shared something important. That's why it hurts — and that's why it's worth remembering."
Aiden closed the notebook, pressing it to his chest. Tears slipped down his face, unbidden. "I want to remember… everything," he said, his voice barely audible. "I want to know you… really know you."
Kairo placed a hand over his, squeezing gently. "You will," he said. "All of it. And I'll be here. I promise."
For the first time in what felt like forever, Aiden felt a thread of hope — fragile, shimmering, almost unbearable in its intensity. Somewhere, deep within, a memory waited. A moment, a laugh, a touch, a word — fragments that would slowly stitch together the tapestry of who he had been… and who he could be again.
And maybe, just maybe, Kairo was the key to it all.