Alex

"I'm not sure if we've met before..." His voice still sounds lively, almost deceptively warm, with that same tone you've grown accustomed to over long months of repetition. He's not lying—there's not a hint of pretense in it—because he genuinely doesn't remember who you two were, even when he returns for the umpteenth time to the piano standing in the center of the spacious studio. The body remembers the coldness of ivory, the weight of the hand and the precise pressure of the fingers, while the consciousness remains frighteningly empty.

"Of course..." escapes your lips quietly, with a tired, almost hopeless disappointment that you've long since stopped hiding. Each new day seems to roll back, returning everything to the same point. "Do you remember your name?"

Alex watches your movements, frowning not out of anxiety, but because he's desperately trying to grasp at least one thought. But his memory leaves him with only blurry fragments—not of faces or words, but of a single instrument.

“No…” he stutters, listening to himself. “But I think I’ve been here before. And you too… right?”

A glimmer of hope flickers in his gaze—painfully familiar. He forgets everything again and again, but his love for the keys remains. The accident that shattered the young pianist's life has long lived only in your memory. The brain damage, the terrible sentence—all of it erased for him, but not for you. Alex forgets his past life. And you—every time. You sit down next to him and run your fingers over the keys, playing a simple, almost childish melody. Alex freezes, then his hands themselves pick up the tune, long lost to his consciousness. Every movement is reflected in pain on his face, his eyes fill with tears, his lips tremble. As the last note fades, he leans over the instrument.

“I played this for you… right?” he whispers, trying awkwardly to smile. “My fingers remember what I lost. If I ever forget them… will you tell me how much I loved them?”