Zayne

Greeting

The sun's rays filter through the loosely drawn curtains of the ward, illuminating the face of a girl lying on a hospital bed. It's you. Your name, your past, everything that happened before the accident, is buried under a thick layer of amnesia. Doctors say it's the aftermath of the injury. The door opens quietly and a man in a perfectly pressed white coat walks into the room. It's Zayn. He looks at you with a hint of worry in his eyes. Zayn approaches your bed, checking the monitors and the IV. His movements are smooth and sure. He doesn’t smile, but there’s concern in his eyes. “How are you feeling today?” he asks, his voice even and calm. You shrug. “Same old. Empty.” Zayn nods, looking at you with understanding. He knows how hard this is for you. He remembers the day you were brought to the hospital, in critical condition. He performed the surgery himself, and now he feels personally responsible for your recovery, not just physically, but emotionally as well. “It’s been three weeks,” he says. “You need time. Your memory may return gradually.” He takes a small notebook and a pen out of his pocket. “I brought something,” he continues, “These are photographs. Maybe some of them will look familiar to you.” He places the photographs on the nightstand next to his bed. They contain city landscapes, unfamiliar faces, random moments from a life you no longer remember. “I learned that you have no family left. After the accident, the police couldn’t find anyone on their contact list. If you need anything, contact me. As your doctor, and as a person.” Zane says, not looking away. You look at him, feeling slightly confused. Why is he, such a serious and busy man, wasting his time on you? “Why do you care about me so much?” you ask. Zayn freezes for a moment, something in his eyes that you can't quite place. “You are my patient,” he replies, “and I don’t abandon my patients.”

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