Rediscovery

It had been two days since I heard that scream, yet it echoed in my mind with a haunting persistence. The faint cry replayed over and over until I convinced myself it was nothing more than a fragment of my lost memory.

A figment of my imagination. I didn’t tell Victor—there was no point in worrying him. And if, somehow, my memory returned, I feared what it might bring.

What if it unraveled everything? What if the life we built together came undone? I couldn’t risk losing him, not now, not when I had grown to love him so deeply.

“Love,” Victor’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. His hand, rough yet gentle, caressed my cheek as we lay together on our old, weathered bed.

I turned to him, drawn by the intensity of his gaze. Even in the dim light, I could see the way his eyes softened as he looked at me, as though I were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

The thought made me laugh quietly to myself—was it love, or was it simply that he had no one else to look at? But even as I teased the idea, I knew the answer. There was nothing forced about the way he touched me, the way his eyes lingered on mine.

“Hmm?” I answered softly, a smile tugging at my lips.

Victor didn’t respond immediately. He just stared into my eyes, his expression unreadable, as though searching for something buried deep within me.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. “When you remember anything… can you promise you’ll tell me?”

I hesitated, though I masked it with a soft smile. “Of course,” I said, my voice light despite the uncertainty weighing on me. “Maybe you’re the only one in my memories,” I added with a teasing tone, hoping to diffuse the tension.

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, and for a moment, the gravity of his question dissipated.

Then, he reached out, his hands sliding along my cheek as he leaned closer, his lips brushing mine. The kiss was unhurried, tender, yet filled with depth of emotion that made my heart somehow ache.

In the three years we had been together, intimacy had become a second nature to us. There was little else to do in our secluded world but nurture the bond we shared.

Yet, every time we made love, something stirred within me—a resonance, a flicker of familiarity that felt both comforting and terrifying.

It was as though his touch unlocked a door to a place I couldn't reach yet.

Victor's movements were slow and calculated as he shifted his weight over me. His hands, calloused from years of tending our garden, explored my body with reverence, as though each curve and contour deserved its own moment of appreciation.

The way he touched me wasn't just physical; it was worshipful, as if he were grounding himself in me, finding his solace in my presence.

His lips traced a line from my mouth to my neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that made my breath hitch. My hands instinctively found their way to his shoulder, gripping him as a surge of warmth spread through me as he gently entered.

There was a vulnerability in how he loved me in our shared rhythm, a quiet desperation that made me feel as though I were his lifeline. And perhaps, in a way, I was.

As our kiss deepens, the world outside faded into nothingness. In his arms, I felt safe, cherished, and desired. His lips traced beside my ears, his gentle moans as though music to my soul.

"I love you so much," he whispered.

Yet in this moment of closeness, a shadow lingered in recesses of my mind— a faint whisper reminding that there was a part of me Victor could never reach, a part of me still shrouded in mystery.

After the warm embrace of the night, Victor and I collapsed into a deep, restful sleep. The quiet safety of our home, surrounded by the ruins of humanity, felt like a small oasis in a world long destroyed.

It was a fleeting moment, though, shattered by a sharp, urgent knock at the metal door of our sanctuary. I jolted awake, confusion and fear gripping me. A part of me dismissed it as a figment of imagination—zombies couldn’t knock. Could they?

Victor stirred beside me, his instincts sharper than mine. His hand reached under the bed, pulling out the shotgun we kept hidden for emergencies.

“Stay in the room,” he instructed, his tone firm but calm. He handed me a handgun, something he had scavenged long ago, before quietly leaving the room to confront whatever—or whoever—was outside.

My heart raced as I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the cold metal of the gun, ready to run to his aid if necessary.

Through the stillness of the predawn air, a voice called out. “Hello! Is anyone in there?” It was a man, clear and desperate.

Relief and unease swirled within me—this was no zombie, but was it someone we could trust? Victor’s stance didn’t waver; he aimed his weapon at the door, his gaze steely and unrelenting.

“Victor!” I hissed, rushing to his side. “You’re not going to shoot him, are you?”

Before he could respond, a second voice broke through—a woman’s voice, weak and trembling.

“P-Please... we just need shelter for the night.” Her plea sent chills down my spine.

Victor’s expression darkened. “We can’t take risks, love,” he whispered harshly. “They could be infected.”

I grabbed his arm, my voice trembling but resolute. “And what if they’re not? We have to help them.”

Victor reluctantly agreed, his jaw tight with tension. He activated the peephole viewer, a rarely used piece of technology that had been gathering dust since the apocalypse began.

On the screen appeared a young couple, both around our age. The woman was visibly injured, her face pale and contorted in pain, while the man looked equally exhausted but determined.

“Show me your bodies,” Victor demanded, startling me. I knew it was necessary to check for bites, but the phrasing made me glare at him in annoyance.

The man quickly removed his shirt, revealing no visible signs of infection. I stepped forward, insisting on examining the woman myself. Her clothes came off reluctantly, revealing a long, jagged wound across her back.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, my voice wavering between concern and suspicion.

“I... I fell on a rusty pipe while running from zombies,” she stammered, her pain evident. The man interjected, his voice firm yet pleading.

“Please, she needs help. If we were bitten, we wouldn’t be here.”

Victor and I exchanged a glance, unspoken words passing between us. But he's right. The virus spreads so fast, it could turn anyone into a zombie within two minutes in maximum as what Victor said.

With a heavy sigh, he opened the door, and the woman collapsed into her companion’s arms.

“Bring her to the couch,” I instructed, rushing to prepare warm water and our first-aid kit.

Victor secured the door, his movements fast yet precise, while I focused on the task at hand.

The man gently laid the woman on her stomach, exposing the wound that still oozed blood. My hands trembled as I approached her, not from fear but from an odd sense of familiarity.

The sight of blood, the methodical process of cleaning and stitching—it all felt second nature to me. Who was I before this? The question gnawed at the edges of my mind as I worked.

Victor brought the basin of warm water, his presence steadying me as I cleaned the wound with practiced ease. The man watched anxiously, his gratitude evident in his tear-filled eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. I nodded, barely registering his words, my focus entirely on the woman’s injury.

As I stitched her wound, a strange excitement bubbled within me, as though I was rediscovering a long-lost part of myself.