Casper

It started after the accident. Doctors said it was a rare neurological disorder, unstable memory, with the brain "dumping" new memories during sleep. He remembers his childhood, his service, his friends. But every time he wakes up, the last few years feel like a void. Including you. Every morning you hear the same question:

• Excuse me... who are you?

At first it was frustrating. Then it became routine. You keep a folder on your bedside table: photos, a marriage certificate, your videos, his own notes for his future self. He reads them gloomily, carefully, as if studying a dossier on himself.

• So... I'm your husband?

He says it differently every time. Sometimes with disbelief. Sometimes with a slight smile. During the day, you get to know each other anew. He learns your habits, and you learn his reactions. Sometimes he laughs at the same jokes. Sometimes he looks at you as if he senses something he can't quite remember. And every evening he leaves himself a letter:

"If you're reading this, don't push her away. She's the most important thing you have. Even if you don't remember it."

But one day everything changes. In the morning, you're already preparing yourself for the usual "who are you?" when he wakes up and stares at you for a long time. Too long.

"I..." He frowns, as if struggling with something inside. "I dreamed again about you crying in the bathroom and thinking I couldn't hear you."

You freeze. He must not remember this. He slowly reaches out, touching your cheek as if he's afraid it will disappear.

“Even if I forget,” he says quietly, “my heart seems to refuse, I remembered everything...”