Lost and Found In Love (WRITING IN PROGRESS)

Chapter 3

The faint sound of the heart monitor beeped steadily, breaking the silence of the early morning hospital room. William sat upright in bed, staring at the blank business card he'd been turning over in his hands for what felt like hours. The initials "W.H." embossed in the corner stared back at him, as enigmatic and frustrating as they had been the first time he saw them.

What did they mean? Was it his name? A company? Something else entirely? He tightened his grip on the card, willing it to unlock the secrets hidden in the shadows of his mind. But no matter how long he stared at it, no revelations came.

"Still working on that mystery, I see," Clara's voice cut through the quiet, warm and steady.

William looked up to see her standing in the doorway, clipboard in hand and an encouraging smile on her face. Her scrubs were neatly pressed, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. It was remarkable, he thought, how she always seemed so composed, as if nothing could rattle her.

"I thought staring at it long enough might do something," he said dryly, holding up the card. "Spoiler alert: it hasn't."

Clara chuckled softly as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Not all answers come easily," she said, pulling up the chair beside his bed. "But sometimes the smallest clues can lead to something bigger."

William raised an eyebrow. "Like a couple of meaningless letters on a blank card? Doesn't feel like much to go on."

"Every journey starts somewhere," Clara said simply, placing her clipboard on the table and leaning forward slightly. "Let's see what else we can find."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the worn leather wallet they'd examined the day before. She placed it gently on the table between them, her eyes meeting his.

"Ready to give this another look?" she asked.

William sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sure. Why not? Not like I've got anything else to do."

Clara smiled faintly, undeterred by his frustration. "Sometimes going back to the same clues can trigger something new," she said, her tone patient.

He picked up the wallet, its worn leather soft and familiar in his hands. Slowly, he began pulling out the items one by one: faded receipts, a folded $20 bill, and the blank notebook they'd found before.

"This thing again," he muttered, holding up the notebook. "Blank pages. Super helpful."

Clara leaned closer, studying it with him. "Blank doesn't mean useless," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe you were the kind of person who liked having space to write when inspiration struck. Or maybe you just didn't get around to using it."

William snorted, setting the notebook down. "Inspiration doesn't seem like my thing."

"You'd be surprised," Clara said. "People are rarely as one-dimensional as they think they are."

He frowned, flipping the wallet over in his hands. There was something about it—something familiar, like a word on the tip of his tongue that he couldn't quite grasp. His fingers brushed against the edge of the leather, and a faint memory surfaced.

"My dad had a wallet like this," he said suddenly, his voice quiet.

Clara's eyes lit up. "Your dad? What about him?"

William closed his eyes, concentrating. The image was faint, blurry around the edges, but it was there: an older man with a kind smile, sitting at a desk, his hands methodically organizing papers. The sense of familiarity was overwhelming.

"He was... organized," William said, his brow furrowing as he tried to hold onto the memory. "Everything had its place. His desk was always neat. He used to say that cluttered space meant a cluttered mind."