The white gone by and the forthcoming morrow

Neva stands with her arms crossed before a transparent glass wall, gazing out at the world.

The sky is a greyish blue, steeped in the hush of twilight.

It feels sad.

Orange clouds glow dimly above tall skyscrapers, the city below glittering with light.

Streetlamps glow golden.

Vehicles glide past, people swarm through the streets—tiny figures bundled in warm clothes.

"Are you ready?"

Ishmael's voice slices through Neva's spiraling thoughts. She glances over her shoulder at him.

He has just returned after meeting her doctor to complete formalities.

She nods once, and he approaches her, a faint smile touching his lips.

Standing before her, he tucks the loose, wavy strands from her face behind her ear.

His large, warm hands caress her rosy cheek. Her eyes rise slowly to meet his dark brown ones.

"Let's go home," he says in his deep, soft voice.

Her gaze drops to his chest.

He curls a finger under her chin, lifting her face again.

Their eyes meet. He leans in and presses a brief kiss to her lips.

"You'll be fine," he murmurs and kisses her again, gently, before taking her hand and leading her toward the door.

Her luggage is already packed and loaded into the car by his guards.

They walk down the long hallway, the pale white streaked with faint blues.

No other patients in sight. The halls feel strangely empty.

Every nurse and doctor they pass bows their head immediately—reverent. Or perhaps... fearful. Of him.

Neva's brows knit at the eerie silence draped over the hospital. She glances at him, curiosity rising in her eyes—wondering who this man really is, this husband she doesn't even remember.

Outside, the sky darkens.

The air steams with mist.

Neva sits in the passenger seat as Ishmael drives, calm and unhurried—giving her time to take in the scenery as the world rushes past.

She exhales, fogging the window with warm breath. Outside, the curling mist mirrors her breath on the glass.

She leans her head against the window. Orange and red maple leaves float through the air, drifting gently to the ground.

A tiny, mysterious ache sparks in her chest—a flutter in her belly.

Longing floods her. Her eyes glisten with sadness. There's a wordless grief stirring inside her by such beautiful autumn.

She turns her head away, focusing instead on the pavement ahead, but the dead leaves won't let her go. They write to her—soft messages in motion—reminding her she's leaving something behind.

The past. Faded.

Drifting away from the reach of her fingertips.

Crowds stroll along the park boundary. Parents laugh with their children.

Her hand moves instinctively to her swollen belly.

Since she woke, everything has felt like a dream.

Ishmael told her about the accident—about the amnesia.

She remembers nothing of herself. Not her name. Not her parents. Not even the man beside her.

Yet the babies in her womb are unharmed. Her body carries no wounds.

And the later aspect puzzles her most of all.

"How long have we been married?" Neva asks, breaking the silence.

He glances at her briefly, then back to the road.

"About two months," he says.

She frowns. The information is not sitting right with her. "But you said I'm in my sixth month of pregnancy."

He hums in response. "By the time we married, you were already four months along."

He knows that detail might strike her. Even without memory, her morals would remain—her sense of right and wrong, of what should be.

"Are you upset by that?" he asks.

Neva presses her lips together, silent for a beat. "I don't know."

"Do I love you?"

She watches the sharp line of his jaw tense.

"You did. But only you can uncover what's been buried inside," he replies gently.

She says nothing.

Her hands rest on her lap, fingers playing with the wedding ring on her fourth finger.

It frightens Neva. That there is no warmth in her heart for him.

She's terrified of the days to come—of living under the same roof as a stranger who is, by law, her husband.

She swallows, palms slick with sweat.

"What about our families?" she asks.

"We don't have any. You're all I have. And I'm all you have." Glancing at her, he gives her a soft smile. He fixes his eyes on the road again, turning the steering wheel as the car makes a smooth left.

"Oh." Her voice falters. Her gaze dims.

The rest of the drive passes in silence.

The boulevard stretches ahead—trees lining the road with blackened branches and flaming orange leaves. The fog thickens, casting the scenery in shadows.

The road is clear. No headlights, no other cars. Not a single soul.

Their headlights glow on low beam, barely piercing the dense fog—like a metaphor for her white goneby and an unknown future waiting beyond.

Neva's lids are heavy, head tilting slightly—half-asleep, when the enormous iron gate slowly opens before them.

Guards in black suits—armed and unmoving—stand at either side.

After several minutes along a winding driveway, they pull up to a massive mansion—its white walls and deep blue roof rising out of the forest like something out of a fable.

She stares, awed, sleep fading from her eyes.

Ishmael has already stepped out and circled the car.

He opens the door. She flinches.

"You're planning to spend the night in here?"

His teasing voice brings her back.

She looks down, flustered, as he reaches in to unbuckle her seatbelt.

"Come on," he says softly, helping her out. He shuts the door behind them.

A cold gust sweeps over her, making her shiver.

She wears a beige cardigan over a long, fitted dress—light brown, patterned with soft pastel stripes. The knitwear hugs her bump, flaring at her ankles.

Without a word, he drapes his long black suit jacket over her shoulders.

The warmth of it surrounds her.

She looks up and murmurs, "Thank you."

A man in a black and white striped suit approaches. Ishmael hands him the keys.

"Are you very rich?" Neva asks, studying him.

He arches a brow. "I am," he replies, intertwining their hands as they walk toward the grand doors of the mansion.

"What do you do for a living?" she presses.

He breaks into a smile. She's still the same—always so curious.

He gently squeezes her hand.

"Save your questions for later, love. I'll tell you everything—once you're inside, warm and safe."