For a long, stretched moment, she simply stared.

The room was wider than she’d expected—so much wider than the narrow cell-like chamber she had left behind—and though shadows filled most of its corners, it still felt strangely vast, almost cavernous. The glow of the small fireplace was the room’s only real source of light, painting everything in flickers of orange and muted gold.

And there he was.

A man sat on the couch near the fire, a casual sprawl that seemed almost careless. Yet there was nothing ordinary about him.

Her eyes caught first on his hair. Long, unnaturally pale—platinum, almost blonde. It spilled over his shoulders in smooth strands, catching the light so that parts of it shimmered like molten silver… or maybe white gold? Against the dimness, it seemed almost to glow, marking him as something otherworldly, too vivid for the shadows that tried to contain him.

Then his eyes.

Silver. Not gray, not blue, but truly silver, like molten metal cooled into stillness. He caught her gaze across the room and held it, unblinking, steady. Not hostile—but full of something unreadable.

He was pretty more than handsome, if such a thing could be said of a man. His features were refined, fine-boned, almost delicate in their construction: high cheekbones, a sharp jaw softened by the curve of his mouth. His skin was pale, catching the light of the heater in a way that gave it depth and warmth but never quite banished its ethereal pallor. He looked, she thought with a shiver, like a portrait half-finished, too beautiful to be real, too strange to be entirely human.

Her breath caught. For a moment, she thought perhaps she saw a vision—some echo of the dream she had already forgotten. But no. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint shift of one hand resting against the couch’s arm, were proof enough of his reality.

Still, she did not move closer.

Instead, she clutched the doorframe behind her, knuckles white, her body tense as if ready to flee at the first hint of threat. The silence stretched, taut and expectant, filled only by the ceaseless hammer of rain against unseen windows.

Her voice cracked when it came. “Who… who are you?”

The words sounded too loud in the stillness, fragile as glass. She swallowed, forced herself to continue, though her throat ached with dryness again. “What is your name?”

It was a small question, the simplest she could offer, but it carried all the weight of her confusion.

The man blinked. For the first time, his expression shifted, the faintest crease in his brow. He straightened slightly on the couch, his posture less careless now, though still unhurried.

“My name?” he echoed, as though testing the question on his tongue. His voice was low, smooth, carrying the strange cadence of someone unused to speaking aloud. He tilted his head, silver hair falling across one shoulder. “You… don’t know me?”

The question struck her like a blow. She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. Her heart pounded, loud in her ears. She wanted to tell him the truth—that she didn’t know anything. Not him, not herself, not the storm-filled world outside. But to confess it aloud seemed impossible. To admit it was to make it real.

She forced the words out, halting. “I… I don’t remember.”

Confusion rippled across his features then, a genuine bewilderment that softened his pretty, fae-like face. His silver eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but in incomprehension. He sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, studying her as though she were a puzzle piece that had been placed in the wrong picture.

“You’ve forgotten,” he said at last. Not a question—an observation, flat and strange.

She nodded, though the movement felt heavy, as though her very skull resisted the acknowledgment. “Everything,” she whispered. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am. I…” Her voice broke. “I don’t even know if I should know you.”

The heater crackled, throwing sparks of orange across the curve of his cheek, the pale curtain of his hair. He leaned back slowly, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“That… it might be for the better.” he murmured after like an eternity, more to himself than to her.

Her pulse quickened. 

“What do you mean?”

He lifted his gaze back to hers, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of uncertainty there. 

“You’ve been asleep.” he said, careful, as though the words themselves were delicate.

 “Longer than you should have been. I… “

Her hands tightened against the doorframe.

His lips pressed together in a line, and for a heartbeat, silence swallowed them again, save for the rain. The storm battered against the walls as though demanding entry, drowning out the softer sounds of their breath.

At last, he said, “You don’t need them anyway.”

The words landed heavy, weighted with meaning she could not grasp. Her chest tightened, her throat constricted, and though she wanted to demand more—wanted to beg him to explain—she found she could not speak.

Instead, she took a step forward, cautious, bare feet touching across the cold wood. The shadows shifted as she moved closer to the firelight, closer to him. Her body trembled, but not entirely from fear.

“…Why?” she asked, voice thin, desperate.

The man’s silver eyes lingered on her face, searching, as though he might find the answer written there if only he looked hard enough. But in the end, he shook his head slowly, strands of pale hair catching in the glow of the fireplace.

“Trust me, its for your own good.” he admitted.

….just why? I feel so empty, with no purpose in life whatsoever. How could I get rid of this emptiness when this man refuses to speak. 

“Then, tell me the importants things at the very least, like, who are you, what’s my name, and where we are and how we ended here…”

His body shifts on the couch, slightly closer, resting his head into his hand. Warm, orange light flickered onto his hair, so it would look like its more orange than anything else–not the blonde platinum she thought it was.

But his face was shadowed as he looks in the opposite direction of the light.

“…Come here first. Dont stand for too long. After all, you are sick.”

‘Am I?’

Her knees weakened. She caught herself on the arm of the couch, lowering onto it as though her body had decided without asking her. The rain pounded harder, the storm swelling, until it seemed the world beyond the walls had become nothing but water and sound.

He did not move away as she sat. He only watched her, still and quiet, the way one watches something fragile—like a bird that might shatter if touched.

Silence stretched between them like a rope pulled too taut.

The rain pressed on against the windows, drowning the world in its relentless weight, and the fireplace crackled and hissed, throwing out small sparks of light that played across his pale features. He hadn’t moved since he had said I ‘sit down’, but there was something in his stillness—too measured, too careful—that unsettled her.

Her fingers twisted into the coarse fabric of the couch, gripping it as though it could steady her spinning mind. She tried to piece together the fragments of her situation: a strange house, a storm without end, a man who looked like he belonged to another world. And no memory—nothing to cling to but thirst, a headache, and the sound of her own trembling breath.

He watched her. Quiet, unblinking.

It was unbearable.

“Tell me something,” she whispered, her voice frayed. “Anything. A name. Mine.”

He flinched. Subtly, but enough for her to see it. His silver eyes lowered for a moment, as if the act of looking at her had suddenly become difficult. She held her breath, waiting, heart pounding so loud it seemed to join the storm outside.

At last, he spoke. The word was almost reluctant, as though dragged out of him.

“Your name… is Aisa.”

Her breath stumbled.

The sound of it felt strange in her ears—foreign, yet not entirely so. As if it belonged to her and yet had been spoken in a dream she could not fully recall. She repeated it softly, tasting the syllables on her tongue. “Aisa…”

He nodded once, his eyes bending, giving him a kind appearance.

“Is that… me?”

“Yes.” The answer came quickly, firmly, as if he could not risk leaving room for doubt.

She let the name roll in her mind, searching for some spark of recognition, something that might ignite and anchor her. Nothing came. The emptiness remained, vast and cruel.

“And you?” she pressed, her voice steadier now. “If I am Aisa, then who are you?”

His lips curved—not quite into a smile, not quite into anything at all. More like the shadow of a thought half-formed. His silver, gaze lifted back to hers, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse. But after a long pause, he said, “Atlas.”

The name fit him, she thought in a daze. Heavy, mythic. A name that carried weight and distance. Like him. Like the way he sat in the half-light, too beautiful, as though he were carved from some other world.

“Atlas,” she repeated, uncertain whether she was grounding herself or testing him.

He inclined his head, his eyes bending, his lips softly moving into a smile– like he was glad to hear his own name from her.

Her thoughts tangled further, and questions gnawed at her still.

“Where are we?” she asked finally, forcing the words through her dry throat. “This place… what is it?”

This time his hesitation was shorter. He leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting past her to the shadowed walls, as though the answer might be written there. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight she couldn’t decipher.

“Estra,” he said.

The word meant nothing to her.

“A small village in Estra.” he continued after a beat, “at the southern border of this kingdom.”

She looked at him, searching his pale face for clarity. “And why are we here?Are we living together? Why?”

Her question lingered, sharp, demanding.

Atlas did not answer. His silver eyes studied the floor, the fireplace, anything but her. The silence grew heavy, pressing against her chest until she thought she might suffocate beneath it. She could hear the rain louder than ever, as though the storm outside mocked the tension within the room.

She almost gave up, almost let the question die. But then, just as the weight of it became unbearable, he shifted. His gaze rose back to hers, and for the first time, she thought she saw something flicker there—something, like excitement.

“Why not?” he murmured.

Her heart lurched. “What do you mean, why not?”

And then, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, he said, “I am your husband.”

The words hit her harder than any blow.

She stared at him, her body stiffening, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, the entire room seemed to tilt, as though reality itself had shifted beneath her. Husband. The word rang in her ears, echoing, reverberating until it drowned out even the rain.

She forced a laugh, brittle and sharp. “That isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” His face remained calm, but the faintest strain tugged at the edges of his voice.

She shook her head, disbelieving. “That can’t be. I would remember something like that.”

“Would you?” His words were soft, but they cut all the same.

Her stomach twisted. She pressed her hands against her temples, willing the emptiness in her mind to give way, to let even a fragment slip through. A wedding, a ring, a vow, a kiss—anything. But there was nothing. Only blankness.

She looked back at him, dazed. “You’re telling me I’ve forgotten everything… including you?”

His silver eyes held hers without flinching. “Yes.”

The fire cracked, sparks flaring briefly before dying back. The storm outside howled, rattling the windowpanes as though demanding to be let in. She sat frozen, with the revelation of a husband, leaving her reeling.

He remained where he was, still, poised. Watching her. Waiting.

And she could not decide what terrified her more—his words, or the possibility that he might be telling the truth.

☆☆☆