Gale sat by the window of the private cabin Anthony had arranged, watching the soft morning light spill over the lake. The water shimmered with gentle ripples, reflecting the pale gold of the rising sun. It was beautiful, serene, but Gale barely noticed. His fingers loosely cradled a steaming cup of coffee, though he hadn’t taken a sip in minutes.
His gaze kept drifting to Leila, who sat on the deck wrapped in a thick shawl. Her back was to him, her slender frame slightly hunched, as though weighed down by the burden of her fragmented mind. She stared out at the water, her expression unreadable.
She didn’t know he was watching.
It had been two weeks since their reunion—the moment when she told him she saw him in her dreams. It had ignited a fragile hope in him, a flicker of belief that somehow, her heart still recognized him, even if her mind did not. But the road to recovery was slow and uncertain.
Now, Gale was patient, tender, and deliberate. He had made a silent vow that he would help her remember—step by step, piece by piece. He would not overwhelm her. He would be a steady presence in her life, gently guiding her back to him.
Because he loved her. And he always would.
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When he finally walked out onto the deck, Leila didn’t turn. She was lost in the sight of the lake, her delicate fingers tightening around the ceramic mug in her hands. Gale approached quietly, not wanting to startle her. He came to sit beside her, leaving a respectful amount of space between them.
"Morning," he said softly, his voice low and gentle.
She glanced at him, blinking as though pulled from a daydream. A small smile touched her lips. "Morning."
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The stillness of the lake mirrored the fragile peace between them.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes attentive.
Leila shrugged slightly. "I had another dream," she murmured.
His heart jumped. "Was I in it?"
A faint, wistful smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She turned her face slightly toward him, but her eyes remained on the water.
"Yes," she whispered. "You always are."
He exhaled softly, his chest tightening.
Without pushing further, he leaned forward slightly and plucked a small wildflower from the planter on the deck’s railing. He gently held it out to her.
"For you," he said softly.
Leila stared at the flower for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the simple gesture. Slowly, she took it from him, her fingers brushing against his. She brought it to her nose, inhaling its soft scent, her lips parting slightly.
"You used to love wildflowers," Gale murmured, his voice almost a whisper. "You’d fill every vase in your house with them, even though you were allergic to the pollen."
She glanced at him, startled. A faint crease formed between her brows, as though she were straining to remember. Her lips parted, but she said nothing.
It was a small thing, he reminded himself. A single memory wasn’t enough to shatter the wall in her mind, but it was a tiny crack. And tiny cracks could grow.
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That afternoon, Gale invited Leila to cook with him. She seemed surprised by the suggestion, but she agreed with a soft nod. In the small kitchen of the cabin, he moved carefully—giving her space, letting her set the pace.
"Do you want to cut the vegetables or stir the sauce?" he asked casually, holding up a wooden spoon and a knife.
Her lips twitched faintly. "Stir the sauce," she replied.
He smiled, handing her the spoon. As she slowly stirred the fragrant tomato sauce simmering on the stove, Gale moved beside her, slicing bell peppers with practiced ease.
"You’re really good at that," she observed softly.
He glanced at her and shrugged lightly. "You used to tease me about my knife skills," he said with a small smile. "You’d say I’d make a terrible chef because I was too slow."
Leila’s eyes widened slightly. She stared at him, a faint spark of recognition flickering in her gaze. She looked down at the sauce, stirring slowly.
"I said that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Gale’s breath caught. He nodded. "Yeah," he murmured. "You loved to cook. You were… terrible at it."
To his surprise, she laughed, a soft, musical sound that made his chest tighten.
"Was I really that bad?" she asked, glancing at him with an amused glimmer in her eyes.
Gale chuckled softly. "You once tried to make lasagna and forgot to cook the pasta. You nearly broke a knife trying to cut through it."
Leila let out a breathless laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. For a moment, her eyes sparkled with genuine amusement, and Gale's heart clenched painfully.
For that brief moment, she was his Leila again.
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Over the next week, Gale carefully and deliberately brought her to places from their past, hoping to stir dormant memories.
He took her to the meadow where they once spent an entire summer afternoon lying on a blanket, watching the clouds roll by. Leila stood in the tall grass, her fingers brushing the wildflowers, but her expression remained blank. Gale watched her carefully, searching for the tiniest flicker of recognition.
"Do you remember this place?" he asked softly.
She shook her head. "No," she whispered, her voice tinged with quiet disappointment.
Gale didn’t push. Instead, he smiled softly and took her hand.
"That’s okay," he murmured, his fingers lacing with hers. "We’ll make new memories here."
And they did. They sat on the grass and talked—about nothing and everything. They watched the clouds drift by, just as they once had. And though she didn’t remember the past, she created a new memory with him in the same place.
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One evening, Gale led her to the small living room of the cabin, where a vintage record player sat in the corner. Without a word, he pulled a vinyl record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable.
Soft, lilting music filled the room—a haunting melody from their song.
Leila’s head tilted slightly at the sound, and she turned to face him.
"I know this song," she whispered, frowning slightly.
Gale’s heart skipped.
"You do?" he asked softly, his voice hopeful.
She nodded slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I… I think I’ve heard it before. Somewhere. I…" She faltered, her eyes clouding with uncertainty.
Without a word, Gale gently took her hand, guiding her into a slow dance.
"May I?" he asked softly, his eyes locked onto hers.
She stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded.
They moved slowly, their steps unhurried and gentle. Leila’s arms slipped around his neck, and she rested her head against his chest. Gale closed his eyes, holding her close, his hands trembling faintly as he ran his fingers over her back.
For a moment, it didn’t matter that she didn’t remember.
For a moment, she was simply his.
As the song faded, she lifted her head, her eyes heavy-lidded with emotion. She stared at him, her gaze lingering on his lips.
"I feel like we’ve done this before," she whispered.
Gale’s throat tightened. He nodded. "We have," he murmured. "Many times."
Her hand came up, tracing the line of his jaw. Slowly, tentatively, she leaned forward. Their lips met softly—her kiss uncertain, his trembling.
When they parted, she stared at him, her eyes filled with confusion and longing.
"I wish I could remember," she whispered.
He smiled softly, brushing her hair from her face, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It’s okay," he promised. "I’ll remember for both of us."
And as he held her close, Gale knew that he would be patient.
Step by step.
Day by day.
He would help her find her way back.
Even if it took forever.