Chapter 6

“You’ll come back, right?”

His voice stopped her hand on the car door. Clarisa looked back at him. Chris stood at the entrance of the large double doors of the Vale mansion. He wore a sorry look like an abandoned child.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I told you I would. I just need to pack a few things from my apartment, that’s all.”

He gave a small nod, but his gaze didn’t move from her. “Promise me.”

She hesitated. He sounds like a child afraid of the dark.

“I promise, Chris. I’ll be back before lunch.”

Only then did he release the breath he had been holding.

Clarisa got into her car, started the engine, and forced herself not to look back again. But the image stayed with her as she drove away, the stern man who once commanded boardrooms now looking lost under the gray morning sky. The city was waking when she reached her apartment. Traffic flowed faintly below her apartment building. Inside, everything was as she had left it: the faint scent of coffee, a thin layer of dust on the counter, her mail unopened on the table. It felt oddly foreign now, as if she were stepping into a memory that no longer belonged to her.

Her phone buzzed, it was Dr. Martins calling her, and she knew why.

“Clarisa? I heard you are taking two weeks’ leave,” he said without preamble.

“That’s right, sir.”

He sighed. “Well, the board approved it faster than usual. Mr. Vale’s influence runs deep, apparently.” Clarisa leaned against the counter, eyes unfocused. “He needs someone he trusts right now. His memory is still patchy.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Martins replied. “But don’t forget, amnesia patients can project emotions. They might attach themselves to whoever feels safe. Be careful you’re not mistaken for something you’re not.”

Her throat tightened. “I’m aware of the boundaries, doctor.”

“I know you are. Just… don’t let him pull you in too deep."

After the call ended, Clarisa stood for a long moment, her reflection staring back from the microwave’s black glass.

Pull me in!

The words lingered. She shook them off and began to pack: a few clothes, her stethoscope, a first-aid kit, a handful of favorite books she could leave in the mansion to make it less bleak.

As she folded a soft blue sweater, her mind drifted back to that moment in the hospital; Chris’s hand closing around hers, his eyes searching her face with a tenderness that didn’t belong to a patient.

And that ring.

When she’d helped him change the night before, she’d seen it glint faintly on a chain around his neck—a platinum ring, simple but engraved on the inside with two letters: C.T, her initials. How?

She had pretended not to notice, her heart hammering as she buttoned his shirt. But the image was engraved in her mind. Why would a man like Chris Vale, wealthy, powerful, a near-stranger, own a ring with her initials?

It didn’t make sense. And yet, deep down, she knew she’d find out eventually.

On her way back to the mansion, Clarisa stopped at a roadside florist. The morning air was crisp, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth. Rows of roses, tulips, and lilies gleamed beneath droplets of dew. She chose a bouquet of white lilies and soft pink flowers she didn't even know the name; the kind her mother used to love, and a few pots of lavender to place by the windows.

“Someone special?” the florist asked as she wrapped the flowers.

Clarisa smiled faintly. “Someone who needs reminding that the world still has color.”

The woman’s eyes softened. “Then you’ve chosen right.” By the time Clarisa turned off the main road and onto the winding cliffside drive, the sun was hidden behind thick clouds again. The Vale mansion loomed ahead, massive and still, the ocean crashing below it like distant thunder.

She parked by the front steps, clutching the flowers in one arm. The front doors opened before she could knock.

Mr. Pierce stood there, as impeccable as ever, though his expression carried something like surprise. “Miss Thomas. You actually came back.”

“I said I would,” she replied, stepping inside.

He gave a short, polite smile. “Mr. Vale will be pleased. He’s been rather… restless since you left.”

“How is he?”

“Insistent,” Pierce said, adjusting his cufflinks. “Refused medication until the nurse confirmed your return.”

Clarisa blinked. “He.... what?”

The butler appeared then, bowing slightly. “Miss Clarisa, Mr. Vale is in the sunroom. This way, please.”

The sunroom, if it could be called that, was a glass-walled sanctuary at the back of the mansion, overlooking the endless sweep of sea. A faint mist clung to the windows, softening the light that poured in.

Chris sat on a white settee, a thick blanket draped over his lap. When he saw her, his face broke into something that wasn’t quite a smile, like relief.

“You came back,” he said simply.

“I told you I would.”

His eyes swept the bouquet in her hands. “What’s that?”

“Flowers,” she said, trying to lighten the mood “Your house could use a little color.”

He looked around as if seeing the space for the first time. “It’s always been this way. Quiet.”

“Quiet can be peaceful,” she said, setting the flowers in a tall crystal vase. “But too much of it feels like loneliness.”

He chuckled softly, his voice hoarse. “That’s poetic.”

She turned, catching his gaze. “How are you feeling today?”

He hesitated, then answered honestly. “Lost. But… better, now that you’re here.”

Clarisa busied herself arranging the stems in the vase, her pulse quickening. “You’ll feel better once you start physical therapy. I will draw up a plan this afternoon.”

“You don’t have to work so hard, Clarisa.”

“Yes, I do.” She met his gaze again. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Something appeared in his eyes; gratitude, maybe. “I wish I remembered more. Every time I try, it’s like running into a wall. But I remember you.”

Her breath caught. “You couldn’t. We've never met before the accident.”

She gasped, realizing she shouldn't have said those words, but Chris seemed not to have noticed.

“Maybe not in this life,” he murmured.

The words slipped out of him without hesitation, and something about the way he said them made her shiver.

She laughed lightly, breaking the tension. “You sound like one of those patients who start believing in past lives.”

“Maybe I am,” he said softly, his eyes unreadable. “Do you believe in them?”

“I believe in science,” she replied, arranging the last flower.

He smiled faintly. “You believe in what you can fix.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Except not everything broken wants to be fixed.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air felt thick with the sound of waves crashing below, the rhythm steady and mournful.

******************

Later, after settling him in the lounge with tea, Clarisa began wandering the house. She told herself she was just exploring, familiarizing herself with the space for medical reasons, but curiosity pulled her deeper. She wanted to find out about the platinum ring.

Every room seemed like a snapshot of wealth and emptiness: gleaming marble, tall glass, dark wood, but no trace of life. No photographs, no laughter, no warmth.

In one corridor, she found a piano covered with dust, a vase of dead flowers beside it. She brushed her fingers across the keys. They responded with a faint, dissonant hum.

“Did you play?” she asked when Chris appeared in the doorway.

He shook his head. “Not that I remember. But sometimes… I think I hear music at night.”

She frowned. “Music?”

He nodded slowly. “Faint. From somewhere in the house. Like someone playing this piano.”

Clarisa glanced at the covered instrument, her stomach tightening. “Maybe it’s just the wind.”

“Maybe.”

But his tone said he didn’t believe that.

That evening, they ate in the smaller dining room by her suggestion. She had found a few candles, arranged the flowers she had brought earlier, and opened the curtains to let in the last blush of sunset.

“This feels different,” Chris said, watching her light the final candle.

“Different how?”

“Alive.”

She smiled. “Good. That’s what we want. Life helps healing.”

When she looked up again, he was watching her, not the way men usually watched women, but as if trying to memorize the sight of her.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly.

“Of course.”

He lifted his hand, showing the chain around his neck. The platinum ring caught the light. “Does this mean anything to you?”

Clarisa’s breath hitched. “Why would it?”

He turned it in his fingers, revealing the faint inscription inside: C.T.

“I thought maybe it was yours,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself to take it off.”

She forced a calm tone. “Lots of people have those initials.”

“Maybe. But when I look at it, I feel…” He searched for the word. “Safe.”

Clarisa swallowed hard. “Maybe it’s just your mind trying to fill the blanks.”

He gave a small smile. “Then I hope the blanks keep you in them.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

Later, as the night deepened and Chris finally fell asleep on the couch, Clarisa walked to the large windows overlooking the sea. The waves were silver under the moonlight, the horizon an endless black line. She meant to help him recover, nothing more. A nurse doing her duty. But something in this place tugged at her, something unspoken and heavy.

Her gaze drifted to the far end of the hallway where the locked door stood, the one she’d seen the night before.

It was still there, closed now.

She took a step toward it.

“Miss Clarisa?”

The butler’s voice startled her. She turned quickly.

He stood a few feet away, polite but watchful. “You shouldn’t wander at night. The corridors can be… confusing.”

She smiled thinly. “I was just getting some air.”

He nodded once, but didn’t move. “If you need anything, please ring the bell near your room. We’ll bring it to you.”

When he finally walked away, Clarisa looked back at the door. A faint glint of light showed beneath it steadily.