Chapter 95 – Pieces of the Past

The days after waking up were a blur of fluorescent lights, unfamiliar faces, and the constant rhythm of beeping machines. Ryan Whitmore lay in his hospital bed, staring at the ceiling like it might hold the answers. People came and went—some with tears in their eyes, others with cautious smiles—but none of them sparked anything in him.

None of them felt like home.

What did, however, were the flashes.

Sudden bursts of memory, like photographs pulled from an old box—grainy, warm, and unmistakably from another life.

The echo of ocean waves. Laughter in the backseat of a car. A yellow surfboard. The sound of a woman's voice—his mother's—calling him from a balcony as the California sun dipped below the horizon. Friends with half-shaven heads and worn skateboards. Late-night music echoing from garage speakers. His old dog, Taco.

It all felt so real. So recent.

And yet, everything here—this town, these people—felt like someone else's dream.

He didn't remember Rosehill. Not the café. Not the school. Not the Wolves. Not Ben. Not Savannah. Not… Anna.

Especially not Anna.

That was the hardest part for everyone else.

Anna had only come by once since his outburst. She sat by the door for less than five minutes. She didn't say much—just stared at him, her lips slightly parted like she was holding back a thousand unsaid words. Then she left.

And he couldn't blame her.

Dr. Marlow entered the room on a cloudy Wednesday afternoon, his coat crisp, clipboard in hand, and face unreadable. Sarah and Jack were already in the room. Sarah sat rigid, like her spine was carved from stone.

"Hey, Ryan," the doctor greeted gently. "Mind if we talk for a bit?"

Ryan nodded slowly. "Sure."

The doctor moved to the foot of the bed, taking a breath. "We've gone through your latest scans and neurological assessments. There's good news—we're seeing steady recovery in terms of brain function, memory pathways, even some signs of motor awareness in your upper body."

"So… I'm gonna walk out of here?" Ryan asked, trying to sound casual, but his throat went dry.

Dr. Marlow paused. "Ryan… the accident caused a severe spinal injury. Your lower spine absorbed most of the impact. For now, your legs are unresponsive."

Ryan stared at him.

"For now?" Jack echoed gently, but hopeful.

The doctor glanced at him, then back at Ryan. "We can't make any promises. There's a possibility you may regain partial mobility with intense rehabilitation. But there's also a very real chance… you may never walk again."

The words hung like an axe in the air.

Ryan's hands clenched around the blanket.

"You're saying… I'm stuck like this?"

"We're not saying it's permanent. Just that recovery will be uncertain. Difficult. And slow."

"What about basketball?" Ryan asked. His voice was sharp now, angry. Desperate. "I play for the team here. Or—I guess I used to. The Wolves. I—" He stopped himself. "Can I ever play again?"

Dr. Marlow exhaled softly, his eyes gentle.

"Ryan… even in the best-case scenario… competitive basketball isn't likely to be part of your future."

Silence.

Sarah covered her mouth with her hand, eyes glistening.

Jack looked away, jaw tightening.

Ryan said nothing for a long time. His throat burned. His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with broken bones.

His whole identity—whatever it was supposed to be here—shattered in an instant.

He didn't remember playing on the court with Ben. He didn't remember the tournament or the jersey or the coach's words. But he remembered the way it felt to hold a basketball. To dribble in rhythm. To drive the lane. To shoot with the clock winding down.

And now?

Gone.

All of it.

That night, Sarah sat beside him quietly, her hand wrapped around his.

"I know it's hard," she whispered. "I wish I could take this pain away from you."

He looked at her, and for a moment, the frustration melted just enough for a sliver of vulnerability to shine through.

"Why can I only remember California?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "Why can't I remember anything here?"

Sarah brushed a hand through his hair gently, as she'd done when he was a child.

"Your mind is protecting itself," she said softly. "Sometimes trauma does that. But… maybe it's also trying to lead you back slowly. Give it time."

He turned his face toward the window, the moonlight spilling across his pillow.

"Mom," he said, "what kind of life did I have here?"

Sarah swallowed hard.

"One worth remembering," she said, her voice breaking.

And Ryan, though he said nothing, felt a sting in his chest he couldn't quite explain.