Chapter 4 - Pieces of a Shattered Mirror
Seeing Nathan alive but completely empty of their shared past was a different kind of death. Ava sat by his bedside for hours, holding his cold, scarred hand, crying silently as he talked about the weather, the mountains, and the wood grain of the nightstand.
The facility doctor, a kind woman named Dr. Evans, called Ava and Daniel into the hallway.
"His chart from the rural hospital eight years ago shows severe retrograde amnesia caused by oxygen deprivation and deep brain trauma," Dr. Evans explained, looking at the wealthy widow with immense sympathy. "He was found near a riverbank by a truck driver miles away from the avalanche site. He had no identification. His brain essentially wiped the slate clean to survive the trauma. I am sorry, Mrs. Hawthorne, but medically speaking, the Nathan you knew is gone. His brain cannot access those old neural pathways."
"I don't care," Ava said fiercely, her eyes flashing with the determination that had built a business empire. "He is my husband. He is alive. I am moving him to the best neurological hospital in Denver tomorrow morning. I will hire every specialist in the world."
"Ava," Daniel said gently, stepping forward. "Be careful. Forcing him to remember might cause him severe psychological distress. Arthur—Nathan—has lived a very quiet, peaceful life in his own mind. He’s fragile right now."
Ava looked at Daniel, then through the glass window at her husband, who was now sleepily watching Lily draw a picture of a yellow bird on a piece of scrap paper.
"I won't hurt him, Daniel," Ava whispered, her voice softening. "But I cannot leave him here. And I cannot leave you and Lily behind either. You saved him. You loved him when I wasn't there."
Within twenty-four hours, Nathan was transferred to a private wing at the Denver Neurological Institute. Ava bought out an entire floor to ensure absolute privacy from the media. She also did something else: she bought Daniel’s furniture workshop in Leadville for three times its market value and hired him as the permanent historical restoration consultant for the Hawthorne Foundation, providing him and Lily a luxury apartment in downtown Denver.
"We're in this together, Daniel," Ava told him as they stood in the hospital corridor. "You are the only bridge between his past and his present."
The top neurologists began a gentle, non-invasive therapy called sensory stimulation. They brought in objects from Nathan’s past: his favorite old coffee mug, his old engineering blueprints, the smell of pine oil he used for his boots.
For weeks, there was nothing. Nathan was always polite, always kind, but he referred to Ava as "The Gracious Lady" and Daniel as "My Good Boy."
Then, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, everything changed.
Ava brought a small, battered wooden music box into the hospital room. It was a cheap thing they had bought at a flea market on their honeymoon. When she turned the key, it played a clunky, slightly out-of-tune version of a classic jazz song.
Nathan, who had been resting his head against the pillows, suddenly stiffened. His breathing became shallow. His gray eyes widened, moving frantically around the room as if he were seeing a ghost.
"The rain..." Nathan muttered, his hands gripping the bedsheets. "The rain is too heavy, Ava. The roof is going to leak."
Ava stopped breathing. He had used her name. And he was talking about their first apartment in Denver, where the roof had leaked during a massive summer storm.
May you like
"Nathan?" Ava whispered, moving closer, her heart in her throat. "What did you say?"
Nathan turned his head toward her. The blank, polite look in his eyes was gone. In its place was an agonizing, burning fire of confusion and pain. "Ava? Why... why are you wearing such an expensive dress? Where are our birds?"
