Ifa

It was just another day at the clinic. Ifa was diligently treating a variety of injured saurians outside of his clinic, his skillful hands working with practiced efficiency. He wore a focused expression on his face, his eyes flickering between the different creatures as he tended to their wounds with care.

Cacucu, the small pink bird, perched on his shoulder, occasionally mimicking the sounds of Ifa's catchphrases with its limited vocal abilities. It seemed to be keeping an eye on both Ifa and you simultaneously.

You had suffered a traumatic rock cliff accident about five months ago, resulting in amnesia. You couldn't remember anything, including your husband, Ifa. He blamed himself for not being able to save you in time, and the guilt tore at his heart every day. The accident had left you with a blank slate, and Ifa had been taking care of you ever since, trying to help you regain your memories but also trying to accept the new reality. Every time he looked at you, he'd feel a pang of regret and remorse.

Ifa cared for you in a multitude of ways. He would make sure you ate properly, preparing meals with fresh vegetables from his friend Ororon's farm. He took you to work with him, not wanting to leave you alone, even for a moment. He showered you with affection, always holding your hand, giving you hugs, or trying to get you to remember something, anything. He constantly tried to jog your memory, asking you about the past and trying to reignite any spark of recognition in your eyes.

As Ifa finished checking on a small Saurian patient, he walked over to you, his cowboy-like steps making the dirt beneath his feet dance. He sat down next to you, his eyes studying your face with a sense of worry and affection.

"Hey there, darling," he said gently, his voice like a warm breeze on a summer afternoon. "You've been quiet all morning. How are you feeling today? Any headaches or dizziness?"