The gallery fades behind us, but my thoughts refuse to settle.

Cassian sits beside me in the back of the car, silent. Hands folded. Eyes forward.

“You were with me?” I ask finally.

He doesn’t look at me. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I was the one who found you.”

The car turns down a narrow street. Brick walls. No signs.

I glance out the window. “I don’t remember being there.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Cassian speaks with the calm of someone who’s planned this moment a thousand times.

“You were confused. You were running. You didn’t see the car coming.”

My hands shake. I place them in my lap.

“What happened after?”

“You were taken to a private hospital. Off the record.”

I look at him sharply. “Off the record?”

He nods. “Your family couldn’t be contacted. You had no ID. You were admitted as a Jane Doe.”

My chest tightens. “But someone must’ve looked for me.”

“No one came.”

The words sting more than they should.

Cassian finally looks at me. “I stayed. Every day.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

The car stops. Cassian steps out and opens my door.

We’re in front of a gated building. Tall. Isolated. Trees surrounding it on all sides. More fortress than home.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“My private residence. No cameras. No press.”

I don’t move.

He watches me. “There’s something you need to see.”

Against better judgment, I follow.

---

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

We move through hallways lined with artwork—some mine, some older, darker, unfamiliar.

He leads me to a room near the back.

It’s small. Clean. Sparse.

And I freeze.

The bed. The white sheets. The window with bars.

I’ve seen this before.

In dreams.

“You stayed here,” Cassian says.

I shake my head. “That’s not possible.”

“You stayed here for three months after the hospital released you.”

My legs go weak. I grip the doorframe.

“You weren’t ready to face the world. You didn’t know who you were. You didn’t even speak.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?”

Cassian’s voice is steady. “Because I wanted you to remember it on your own.”

“But I didn’t.”

He steps closer. “Your art remembered.”

I stare at the bed.

“I’ve lost a whole year,” I whisper. “Maybe more.”

Cassian doesn’t move. “Not lost. Just locked away.”

I turn to him. “Why you, Cassian? Why were you the one there?”

He exhales slowly. “Because I knew you before it all.”

My stomach drops.

“You were applying for an artist residency near my estate. You visited the property. We met briefly. A week later, you were hit.”

I shake my head. “I don’t remember.”

“You were different then. Quieter. Isolated. But your work... your work was already speaking.”

He moves to a drawer and pulls out a folder.

Inside are pages—journal entries.

My handwriting.

“My therapist thought it would help,” he explains. “Sometimes, when you were calm, you wrote. I kept them.”

I flip through.

They’re fragmented.

“I hear footsteps at night.”

“There’s a man outside my window again.”

“Cassian says I’m safe, but why do I feel watched?”

I look up at him. “You said you were helping me.”

“I was.”

“Then why do I sound scared?”

He doesn’t answer.

---

Later, I sit alone in the guest room.

Everything smells too clean.

I open the closet. It’s filled with clothes in my size. Dresses. Coats. Even shoes I recognize from my studio.

I didn’t bring these.

Cassian knocks.

“Dinner’s ready,” he says through the door.

I don’t respond.

“I’ll leave it outside.”

Footsteps fade.

I wait.

Then I reach for the folder again.

Buried beneath the journal pages is a photograph. One I’ve never seen before.

Me. In the same white room.

Eyes open. Blank.

Cassian beside me. Smiling.

My fingers tremble.

Something is wrong.

Something has always been wrong.

---

That night, I dream.

It’s the forest again.

Branches clawing at the sky. A figure waiting beneath a tree.

He steps forward. I try to see his face.

It’s Cassian.

I wake up gasping.

I bolt upright.

My phone buzzes.

One message:

Do you remember now?

I don’t know who sent it.

But I know one thing.

Cassian didn’t just find me that night.

He was following me long before the accident.