ARTHUR MORGAN

The last thing Arthur remembered was pain. A deep, burning pain that seemed to spread through his bones like liquid fire. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, strong and persistent like rust. Above him, the sky was tinged with red, not the soft red of sunset, but a feverish red, as if the world itself were bleeding along with him. He could hear his own breathing becoming more difficult, shorter, and in the distance, like an echo from another time, John's voice shouted for him.

"Go. Run. Take care of your family."

And then... silence.

But it wasn't the icy silence he expected from death. Nor was it total darkness. It was absolute nothingness. No shape, no color, no weight. It was like floating inside himself, in an absence of everything. There was no pain. There was no time. There was no thought, no consciousness. Only the vacuum. An endless limbo. And for a time he couldn't measure, perhaps seconds, perhaps millennia, that was all that existed.

Until, suddenly, there was light.

His eyes opened slowly, as if awakening from a dream so old that he had forgotten he was asleep. The soft light enveloped him gently. The golden light of the morning sun streamed through the half-open window, dancing across the white curtains that moved slowly with the breeze. The air was fresh, clean, warm. There was the smell of freshly brewed coffee, heated wood, and something floral in the air, perhaps lavender. And beneath his body, a soft bed, clean sheets, warm skin touching his. A comfort that seemed almost violent in light of his previous memory.

Arthur held his breath. Instinctively, he remained motionless, as if the slightest movement could break that moment or reveal some kind of trap. He turned his head slowly, cautiously, like a man who had woken up in worse places. And then he saw her.

A woman was sleeping beside him. Young, but with the steadiness of someone who had already lived. Her hair was messy, loose on the pillow, and her face was calm, serene. Her breathing was slow, rhythmic, like someone who knew that space and the man beside her. And on the finger of her left hand, a delicate gold wedding ring sparkled in the sunlight.

Arthur looked down at his own hand. And there, on his finger, was a wedding ring too.

What the hell is this...?

He sat up slowly, his heart beating faster with every detail that didn't make sense. But nothing hurt. No twinge in his chest, no cough, no weight on his lungs. He was whole. He was clean. His body felt... new. As if everything had been erased, the scars, the wounds, the wear and tear. He took a deep breath, and for the first time in a long time, the air didn't burn. And that, somehow, terrified him more than any pain.

On the nightstand next to the bed was a black-and-white photograph. Him and her. They were smiling. Not that closed, suspicious smile he used to give when someone pointed a camera at him. But a real smile. Of peace. Of intimacy. Next to it, another photo. He was holding a child in his arms. The boy had golden hair and eyes that looked like his. There was no denying it.

Arthur brought his hand to his face, touching his beard as if to feel if it was real. It all seemed like a delirium. But there were no tremors, no fever, no numbing fatigue that came with the disease. Everything was... too right. Too calm. Too real.

The woman beside him began to wake up, perhaps sensing the weight of his gaze. She opened her eyes slowly, with the calmness of someone who had been waiting for that moment. When she saw him sitting there, still tense, she smiled tenderly.

"That face again?" she said with a low, sleepy laugh, pulling him gently back under the covers. "Same thing every day, Arthur..."

He looked at her for a moment longer than he intended. Everything about her seemed familiar and, at the same time, completely new. Her voice had a tone that calmed him, as if she were talking to someone she had known for years. He tried to understand, tried to remember. But there was nothing.

"Who... who are you?" he murmured hesitantly, as if afraid of the question itself.

And as soon as the words escaped him, he regretted it. A dry guilt settled in his chest, as if he had committed a betrayal without knowing it. But she didn't seem surprised. Nor hurt. Not even confused.

She just sighed, and in her gaze there was something between patience and sadness. As if she already knew that moment. As if she knew he would forget. As if she had already lived through this before.

As if his confusion were as routine as the sunrise.