David's hand instinctively flew to his chest, as if to physically hold together the shards of his heart. He slumped into the chair in the corner of his room, his face buried in his left hand.
The words he'd overheard in training still echoed in his mind - "she's getting better" - but the truth was a harsh reality.
Her memory, once a fragile thread connecting them, had snapped, leaving him with nothing but shattered hopes and unanswered questions.
Not recognizing his face or uttering his name was a fate worse than death.
David's heart twisted in anguish, pleading with her to recall something, anything, that could bridge the chasm between them.
Every beat felt like a desperate cry, a longing for a glimmer of connection, a spark of memory that could revive their messy bond; it was a selfish wish.
David's eyes burned as memories of his mother's struggles flooded his mind.
