As the door clicked shut behind Ram, Priya's composure crumbled like sand slipping through her fingers. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank into the chair, her hands gripping its edges as if to anchor herself against the wave of emotions threatening to drown her.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out the image of the man who had just left. But it was no use. The sight of him—so frail, so utterly lost—clung to her mind like a haunting shadow. That wasn't the Ram she had known, the one who had once commanded every room he entered with his confidence, his passion, his fire. What she had seen today was a man reduced to fragments, each piece barely holding together.

Her chest tightened, and a pang of anguish pierced her heart. Why did it hurt so much? She had thought she had buried these feelings long ago, beneath layers of anger and resentment. Ram had wronged her, ignored her dreams, and put his ambitions above their life together. She had tried to move on, to let go of the pain.

And yet, seeing him like this—broken, untethered, a mere shadow of himself—shattered the fragile armor she had built.

Priya leaned forward, clutching the edge of the table with trembling hands. She willed herself to breathe, to focus, but every inhale brought back the memory of his hollow eyes, the weight of his silence, and the faint tremor in his hands.

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of emotions. Anger for the choices he had made. Guilt for the moments she had stopped trying to bridge the growing chasm between them. Sorrow for the life they could have had, and for the man who had now lost everything—his family, his memories, even his sense of purpose.

Tears welled up in her eyes, hot and stinging, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. She wanted to hate him, to cling to the bitterness that had fueled her through their separation. But the sight of him, so vulnerable, had undone her.

"Why?" she whispered to the empty room, her voice barely audible. "Why does it still hurt so much?"

Her hands moved to her lap, clenching and unclenching as if searching for something to hold onto. She pressed her palms to her face, blocking out the world, but not the memories. Images of their life together flooded her mind—his laughter, their arguments, the dreams they once shared.

And then, as if on cue, her mind returned to the present—the stark reality of his condition, the emptiness in his eyes.

Priya exhaled shakily, lowering her hands. Her gaze fell to the floor, her heart a storm of emotions she couldn't name. She wasn't sure what hurt more—their past, or the reality of seeing him like this.

For a moment, she let herself feel it all. The pain, the regret, the love she had buried but never truly erased.

And then, she sat up straight, wiping her face. No matter how much it hurt, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she couldn't abandon him now. Not like this.

That evening, Priya sat at the dining table, the clink of plates and the faint hum of the television filling the silence between her and Peehu. A plate of food rested untouched before her, and though her hand mechanically guided a spoon to her daughter's lips, her mind was elsewhere.

"One more bite, sweetheart," Priya murmured absently, her eyes fixed on a distant point beyond the room.

Peehu looked up at her mother, her small face wrinkling with concern. "Mumma, what's wrong? You look sad."

The question pulled Priya from her trance. She blinked, glancing down at her daughter's wide, innocent eyes, so full of love and curiosity. For a moment, Priya didn't know how to respond.

"I'm fine, darling," she said softly, forcing a smile. But even as the words left her lips, she knew they rang hollow. Peehu tilted her head, unconvinced.

Priya sighed, setting the spoon down and resting her elbows on the table. Her gaze lingered on Peehu—her small, delicate features, her bright, curious eyes, her unruly hair. Peehu was her world, her anchor, her reason for every decision she had made since the day she was born.

But tonight, something shifted. For the first time, Priya felt the weight of her choices pressing down on her. She had kept Peehu away from Ram. She had told herself it was for the best, for her daughter's sake, and for her own peace of mind.

Ram never wanted children, she reminded herself. He had been consumed by his ambitions, too busy to even entertain the thought of a family. And when she discovered she was pregnant, he was already gone—emotionally, and soon after, physically. She had made the choice to leave and to raise Peehu alone.

Priya's heart clenched as the memory of Ram's hollow eyes from earlier that day resurfaced. That wasn't the man she had fought with, the man who had once been so full of life and dreams.

And yet, as much as she wanted to push the thought away, she couldn't ignore the truth gnawing at her: Ram didn't even know Peehu existed. She had decided he didn't deserve to.

"Mumma?" Peehu's small voice cut through her thoughts again.

Priya shook her head, forcing herself back to the present. She reached across the table, cupping her daughter's cheek with one hand. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm just a little tired."

"Is it because of work?" Peehu asked innocently, swinging her legs beneath the table.

Priya smiled faintly and nodded. "Yes, maybe."

But the truth was far more complicated than she could ever explain. She stroked Peehu's hair, letting her fingers linger for a moment longer than usual, as if seeking reassurance in her daughter's presence.

As they continued dinner, Priya tried to push away the thoughts that lingered at the edge of her mind. But they refused to fade, looping endlessly. The image of Ram's fragile frame, the emptiness in his eyes, and the unspoken truth she had kept from him for years—they were all woven together, pulling at the edges of her resolve.

By the time she put Peehu to bed that night, Priya's mind was still restless. She sat beside her daughter, watching her tiny chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep.

"Did I do the right thing?" she whispered to the darkness. Her question lingered in the air, unanswered.

The next day, Ram returned to the hospital, escorted by Mrs. Mehra, who lingered only long enough to ensure he was settled in Priya's office. "I'll leave you two to talk," she said with a gentle nod before stepping out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Priya stood near her desk, taking a steadying breath. She had spent the night preparing herself for this moment, yet as she faced him now, her pulse quickened. Ram sat quietly in the chair, his posture slightly slumped, his gaze distant. There was an emptiness in his eyes, but beneath it, Priya caught flickers of something deeper—a faint glimmer of curiosity or recognition.

Clearing her throat, she broke the silence. "Hey, Ram. Look at me," she said gently. Her voice was steady, though her heart wavered. "I'm Priya. What's your name?"

For a moment, Ram didn't respond. He stared down at his hands, idly rubbing his thumb against his palm as if trying to piece together a puzzle. Priya waited, her patience unwavering, before finally extending her hand.

"Nice to meet you," she said with a warm smile, her hand lingering in the space between them.

Ram hesitated, his eyes flicking toward her outstretched hand. He stared at it, his expression unreadable, before slowly reaching out. His fingers brushed hers, tentative and unsure, before he finally clasped her hand in a weak handshake.

Priya smiled, squeezing his hand lightly. "You still haven't told me your name," she prompted again.

Ram blinked, his lips parting slightly before he murmured, "Ram."

Priya's smile softened, a mix of warmth and sorrow flooding her chest. "What a nice name," she said, her tone light but tinged with emotion. "So, Ram, have you had breakfast today?"

He nodded faintly, his movements deliberate, as though he were carefully piecing together the meaning behind her words.

"Good," Priya continued, her voice steadying. "Now, tell me something about yourself."

For the first time, a flicker of amusement crossed Ram's face. He let out a soft chuckle, the sound unfamiliar to Priya but somehow comforting. "I don't know anything about myself, Doctor," he admitted, his voice quiet yet heavy with the weight of his confession. "No matter how hard I try... every day feels new to me. Like I'm starting over. But"

He paused, his words hanging in the air. Priya leaned forward slightly, her professional demeanor giving way to a more personal, empathetic presence. "But?" she asked gently, coaxing him to continue.

Ram's gaze shifted toward her, his expression distant yet contemplative. "But... I think your face is familiar to me," he said, his voice trailing off.

The statement hit Priya like a jolt, her breath catching in her throat. She steadied herself quickly, forcing a small, reassuring smile. "Do you think we've met before?" she asked, her tone light, though her heart was pounding.

Ram tilted his head, as though trying to sift through a fog. "I don't know," he admitted after a long pause. "It's just... your face. It feels familiar, like I've seen it somewhere before. But I can't remember where."

Priya's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. Did he remember her, even vaguely? Or was this just a trick of his fractured mind?

"That's okay," she said softly, her voice tinged with encouragement. "Sometimes, memories come back to us when we least expect them. Take your time."

Ram nodded, his expression thoughtful as he leaned back in his chair. For a moment, silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable.

Priya, holding her clipboard loosely, glanced down to compose herself. The man sitting before her was both familiar and unrecognizable—a ghost of her past, struggling to anchor himself in a present he didn't fully understand. Her role now wasn't just as a doctor, but as someone who might help him unravel the tangled threads of his memory, one fragile strand at a time.