The drawer stuck.
Michael had to pull harder than expected, the wood catching against itself with a faint complaint before it gave way. Inside, the contents were unremarkable—papers neatly stacked, a pair of cufflinks, a charger he didn't recognise.
And a phone.
Old. Slimmer than the one Samantha insisted he use now. The glass was scratched near the edge, the case worn smooth by years of handling. He stared at it for a long moment, a strange tightness forming behind his ribs.
He didn't remember owning it.
Which, somehow, felt like a lie.
His fingers closed around it before he'd made a decision. The weight of it settled into his palm with a familiarity that sent a shiver through him. Muscle memory, maybe. Habit.
Or something deeper.
He pressed the power button.
Nothing.
He frowned, then plugged it into the charger in the wall. The screen stayed dark for a few seconds—long enough for him to consider putting it back, pretending he'd never found it—then flickered to life.
A low battery symbol. Then the lock screen.
A photograph filled the display.
Michael's breath left him in a rush.
It was a woman standing in front of a brick building dusted with snow, black hair loose around her shoulders, blue eyes bright even in the dim light. She was smiling—not wide, not performative—but soft, like she'd been caught mid-thought.
Like she was looking at him.
Something inside his chest fractured.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the phone trembling in his hand. His heart hammered, sudden and violent, as if it had recognised something his mind had lost.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
The phone unlocked without a code.
Messages filled the screen.
Dozens. Hundreds.
All from the same name.
Willow ??
He scrolled.
Dates stretched back months. Years.
The most recent messages were unanswered.
I know you can't reply, but I'm still here.
I hope you're warm today.
The oven's behaving. I swear it misses you.
You don't have to remember me. I'll remember for both of us.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
His throat tightened painfully.
Further back, the messages changed.
Laughter. Arguments softened by care. Late-night photos of half-finished dishes. Voice notes he didn't dare play yet.
And beneath it all—threaded through every word—was a devotion so steady it hurt to read.
Michael pressed the phone to his chest, breath coming shallow and uneven.
This woman—this Willow—had known him.
Not the man Samantha curated. Not the hollowed version who drifted through meetings and nights.
But him.
A tear slipped free before he noticed it forming.
The door opened behind him.
Samantha froze when she saw the phone in his hand.
"Where did you get that?" she asked, too quickly.
Michael looked up, eyes dark and searching. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"
Samantha's smile was immediate, controlled. "Because she's confused you before. The doctors said—"
"She keeps messaging," he interrupted, voice shaking despite his effort to steady it. "Even when I don't answer."
"She's obsessed," Samantha said softly. "She doesn't understand boundaries."
Michael's gaze dropped back to the screen.
I'll keep the fire going.
His body reacted before his thoughts did. A sharp, aching pull—northward. Toward something warm and real and alive.
"She doesn't sound dangerous," he said.
Samantha stepped closer, placing her hand over his. "She doesn't want what's best for you."
Michael didn't pull away.
But for the first time since the crash, he didn't believe her.
Willow's Diary
I don't know if he's reading.
I don't know if he's remembering.
But I keep writing.
Because love doesn't stop
just because it's forgotten.
And if there's even the smallest part of him
that still feels—
then maybe this will find it.
Poem — The Phone That Still Breathes
If memory is taken,
let the body speak.
If the mind forgets the way,
let the heartache loud enough to be heard.
I left my name in his pocket of time.
I pray he opens it.
