Chapter 112

~ Franklin ~

After the meeting with Mr. Carter, I returned to the hospital, relieved to find that Clinton had finally left. Octavia was sleeping peacefully. Ben told me he needed to head home to shower and rest, so I offered to stay with her until they returned with her dinner.

I sat beside her bed and watched her. She looked calm, angelic, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The sight brought back memories of our night on the beach—her in my arms, the way she had smiled up at me, the way we had confessed our feelings and felt truly happy for the first time. Now she had no memory of that night. No memory of me at all. The thought shattered something deep inside my chest.

It hurt even more knowing she remembered Clinton but not me.

"I wish you could just remember me, Octavia," I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

I stayed with her as dusk settled outside the windows. When her parents finally returned with her dinner, Octavia’s face lit up. She ate the homemade chicken soup and sourdough breadsticks her mother had made, chatting happily with them. A nurse came in to change her IV bag while they talked. I lingered a little longer, then announced I was leaving—I was exhausted.

Ben, Patricia, and even Octavia wished me goodnight. I left the hospital with a heavy heart.

The next morning, I went straight to the doctor’s office before seeing Octavia. I needed answers. The door was slightly ajar, but I knocked anyway.

"Come in," the doctor called.

I stepped inside without waiting. "Doctor, I need to understand something."

Dr. Aris looked up from his desk, calm and composed in a way that only made my frustration feel louder. "Mr. Flemington, please have a seat."

"I’d rather stand," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

He nodded patiently. "What’s on your mind?"

"You told us my wife has amnesia," I began.

"That’s correct."

"Then explain this to me." I leaned forward, palms pressing against his desk. "A man who is her friend came to see her, and she remembered him. She remembers him, but not me—her husband."

The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

The doctor leaned back in his chair and studied me carefully. "Mr. Flemington... may I ask you something personal?"

"Go ahead."

"I know this isn’t my place, but it may help me understand your wife’s condition better. Throughout your marriage... did you treat her well?"

The question hit me like a punch to the gut. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Memories flashed through my mind—me yelling at her, the cold silences, the hurtful words I had thrown at her, the way I had pushed her away and made her feel small. I swallowed hard.

"At first..." My voice dropped. "I mistreated her in the beginning of our marriage. But that’s not who I am anymore. I love her now."

The doctor nodded slowly. "I believe you."

"Then why doesn’t she remember me?" I asked, confusion and pain twisting together.

He folded his hands on the desk. "Mr. Flemington, sometimes when the brain experiences trauma—especially when it’s combined with emotional distress—it tries to protect the person. If your wife associates you with pain from the past, her mind may be suppressing those memories for now. It doesn’t mean they’re gone forever. It simply means her brain is prioritizing her emotional safety while it heals."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "That doesn’t make sense. I know I hurt her, but we moved past that. She loves me."

"Love doesn’t erase pain," the doctor replied gently. "The two can coexist, and sometimes the pain leaves a deeper imprint."

His words sank into me like slow poison. I ran a hand through my hair and began pacing.

"So you’re saying she would rather remember her friend than me?"

"I’m saying her memories of him may not carry the same emotional weight. Familiarity without pain is easier for the brain to access right now."

I stopped pacing and stared at him, fear tightening my chest. "Is there a way to fix this? Can I help her remember me?"

The doctor paused, studying me before answering. "There is a possibility."

Hope flickered in my chest.

"You can spend time with her. Reintroduce yourself. Create a safe, positive environment. Sometimes memories return gradually through emotional reconnection."

"I’ll do it," I said without hesitation. "I’ll do anything."

He raised a hand. "But there are conditions."

"Which are?"

"You must not force her to remember. Her head injury is still healing—stress or pressure could worsen her condition."

"I understand."

"You will also need permission from her parents and from Octavia herself."

I paused. "She’ll agree," I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure anymore.

"Then you may proceed."

Octavia’s parents were seated outside her private ward when I approached them. They looked up immediately. Patricia’s eyes softened, and she smiled. Ben gave me a slight nod.

"Good morning, Franklin," they said in unison.

"Good morning." I glanced at the closed door. "Is Octavia awake?"

"Yes," Patricia replied. "The nurse is helping her with a bath right now."

I nodded. "I wanted to ask you both something. Would it be okay if I spent the day with her alone?"

They exchanged a quick look, then turned back to me.

"That decision isn’t ours alone, Franklin," Ben said. "You’ll have to ask her."

"Okay. I will."

That was as much permission as I was going to get from them.

I waited outside until the nurse stepped out of the ward.

"Can I go in now?" I asked.

"Sure, of course," she said with a smile, then walked away.

My hand hovered over the door handle. For a second, I couldn’t move. Then I pushed the door open.

Octavia was sitting up in bed, looking alive, awake, and heartbreakingly beautiful. Her eyes met mine with nothing but polite curiosity—no warmth, no history, no recognition. I was still a stranger to her.

"Hello, Franklin," she said softly.

"Hi, Octavia." I forced a small smile. "How are you doing?"

"Just... there," she shrugged.

"Still no memories of me?"

"Nope. It’s zilch."

"It’s okay," I mumbled, stepping closer. A brief silence stretched between us before I spoke again. "I was wondering... if you’d be willing to spend the day with me."

Her brows lifted in surprise. "With you?"

"Yeah."

She glanced toward the door, as if silently checking with her parents outside, then looked back at me. "Well..." She hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "I guess it makes sense."

"What?"

"If you really are my husband and my parents say so too, then why not?"

I stared at her, stunned. "Are you sure? I don’t want to force you."

"That’s fine," she said. "We can spend the day together."

For the first time since she had woken up, I felt a flicker of real hope—fragile, but real.

"Okay," I said softly.

This was my chance. Not to force her to remember, but to make her feel something again. To show her that even if her mind had forgotten, her heart had once known me.

And maybe, just maybe, it still did.