Lost and Found In Love

Chapter 2

William woke to the muted sound of voices outside his hospital room. He blinked against the harsh fluorescent light filtering through the blinds and stared at the ceiling, trying to orient himself. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was a steady companion, almost soothing in its monotony. But as soon as he moved, the dull ache in his ribs brought the reality of his situation crashing back.

The accident. The hospital. The blank slate where his memories should have been.

His frustration simmered just below the surface, ready to boil over. Every time he tried to remember something—anything—his mind hit a wall. He closed his eyes tightly, as if the effort would force the answers to surface, but it only made the headache behind his temples throb harder.

"Good morning," Clara's familiar voice interrupted his spiral.

He turned his head toward her, relieved to see a face he recognized, even if only from the past twenty-four hours. She stood at the foot of his bed, clipboard in hand, her ponytail as neat and precise as yesterday. There was something about her presence that was grounding, a steady point of focus in the swirling chaos of his thoughts.

"Morning," he muttered, his voice rough from disuse.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, stepping closer to check the monitors.

"Like I was hit by a truck," he replied dryly.

Her lips quirked into a faint smile. "That's a pretty accurate description."

"Any news?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

Clara hesitated, her expression softening. "Nothing definitive yet," she said. "But Dr. Patel is optimistic. Sometimes memory takes time to come back. The brain has a way of protecting itself after trauma."

"Protecting itself," William repeated, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable. "Feels more like it's punishing me."

She didn't respond immediately, letting his words hang in the air. Instead, she adjusted the IV drip with practiced efficiency before turning back to him. "I brought something that might help," she said, holding up a small object wrapped in a plastic bag.

William frowned as she placed it on the rolling table beside him. Through the clear plastic, he could see a battered leather wallet, its edges scuffed and worn.

"This was found at the accident site," Clara explained. "It's in rough shape, but I thought it might trigger something."

He stared at the wallet, his chest tightening. The idea that something so small could hold the key to his identity was both hopeful and terrifying. With a shaky hand, he reached for the bag, his fingers fumbling with the seal. Clara stepped closer, helping him open it without a word.

The wallet felt oddly familiar in his hands, the leather soft from years of use. He flipped it open, his heart pounding as he searched for a name, a photo, anything to tether him to himself. But inside, there was only a handful of faded receipts, a blank business card, and a folded $20 bill.

"No ID," he muttered, his disappointment palpable.

Clara's brow furrowed as she leaned over to look. "The business card," she said, pointing to it. "Does that mean anything to you?"

William pulled it out, turning it over in his hand. The card was unmarked, its surface smooth and pristine, save for a faint logo embossed in the corner: a simple triangle with the initials 'W.H.'

"W.H.," he murmured, the letters stirring something faint and elusive in the back of his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing all his energy on the fragment, but it slipped through his grasp like sand.