The diagnosis had been delivered. Retrograde amnesia, the doctor had called it. A specific trauma to the brain that had wiped away the last five years of Advik's life. To the doctors, it was a fascinating case of neurological survival. To Sakshi, it was a death sentence for her happiness.

She sat on the floor of the hospital waiting room, her back against the cold wall. Her eyes were so swollen she could barely see. Her father had tried to make her eat, but even the thought of swallowing felt like a chore. She wasn't just crying for the man who had looked at her like a stranger, she was crying for the little boy waiting at home.

Satvik, she thought, and a fresh wave of agony hit her.

How was she supposed to look into those big, innocent eyes and tell him that his Superhero Papa didn't know who he was? Satvik had spent months kissing Advik's photos, talking to his uniform, and waiting for the day he would finally be in his father's arms. How could she explain to a two-year-old that the man coming home wasn't the same man who had left?

"Satvik ko kya kahungi?"

(What will I tell Satvik?)

She whispered to the empty air.

"If he calls him Papa and Advik looks at him with that cold face... it will break my child."

Inside the hospital room, a different kind of battle was being fought. Advik's mind remained blank. His parents stood by his bed, their faces etched with a mixture of grief and determination.

"Advik, beta, meri baat samajh."

(Advik, try to understand.)

His father, Ramesh, said firmly.

"Hum jhoot nahi bol rahe. You had a wedding. We were all there. Look at these photos on my phone."

(We are not lying.)

Advik glanced at the screen. He saw a man who looked exactly like him, wearing a heavy sehra, standing next to the girl with the deep eyes. They were smiling. They looked happy. But to him, it felt like looking at a scene from a movie he had never watched.

"Dad, I'm telling you, I don't remember anything."

Advik said, his voice frustrated.

"Mujhe lag raha hai koi prank hai. How can I be married to someone I don't even recognize? And a kid? It sounds impossible."

(It looks like a prank.)

His mother, Shanti, sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. Her voice was no longer pleading, it was stern, the voice of a mother who knew her son's duty better than he did.

"Advik, suno. Whether you remember or not, the truth doesn't change."

(Advik, listen.)

She said, looking him straight in the eyes.

"That girl has lived like a widow for the last eleven months while you were on the border. She has raised your son alone. She is your wife, Advik. It is your responsibility to take care of her."

"But Maa, it's weird! How can I live with a stranger?"

"She is not a stranger, you are just lost."

Shanti snapped gently.

"Duty sirf border pe nahi hoti, beta. Ghar pe bhi hoti hai. You gave her your name. You gave that child your blood. You have to keep her happy, no matter what you think or feel right now. You are an officer. Use your discipline if you can't find your love."

(Duty is not just at the border. It’s at home too.)

Advik looked away, his jaw tight. He hated this. He felt trapped in a life he hadn't chosen, at least, not in the version of himself that existed today. But he saw the pain in his mother's eyes and the shame in his father's posture. He was a soldier, he understood the concept of orders and duty.

"Fine."

He muttered, his voice low.

"I'll go home with her. But I can't promise I'll be the husband she wants. I don't even know her name properly."

"Her name is Sakshi."

His mother reminded him softly.

"And your son is Satvik. Just try, Advik. For us."

The discharge happened the next morning. The paperwork was signed, the medicines were packed, and the family moved toward the parking lot.

Sakshi's father, Prakash, had brought his car. He stood by the driver's door, his face a mask of forced composure. He was a father watching his daughter walk into a house with a man who had forgotten her worth. It took everything in him to remain polite.

"Chaliye, Advik. Sab samaan rakh diya hai."

(Come on Advik. I have kept everything.)

Prakash said, gesturing to the back seat. Advik nodded stiffly.

"Thank you, Uncle."

Prakash winced at the word uncle. 

Sakshi opened the back door and slid in, moving to the far corner. Advik followed, sitting on the opposite side. The space between them on the car seat felt vast.

As the car pulled out of the hospital gates and joined the traffic of the city, a heavy, suffocating silence settled over them. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional click of the turn signal.

Sakshi stared out of the window, watching the trees and shops blur past. She was terrified. Every time she felt Advik move beside her, her heart skipped a beat, but she didn't dare look at him. 

She felt like if she made eye contact, she would see that cold "Who are you?" look again, and she couldn't handle that right now.

Advik, on the other hand, was staring straight ahead. He felt incredibly awkward. He was sitting next to a woman who was supposedly his wife, a woman who smelled faintly of jasmine and hospital soap, and he felt... nothing. 

Just a sense of obligation. He looked at her reflection in the window. She looked fragile, like a piece of glass that had been glued back together but could shatter at any moment.

He wanted to say something to break the tension, but what? 'Nice weather?' or 'Sorry I forgot our life together?' Everything felt wrong.

Prakash glanced at them through the rearview mirror. His heart bled for his daughter. He saw her clutching her dupatta, her knuckles white. He saw Advik's stiff posture, like he was sitting next to a stranger on a bus.

"Ghar pahunchne mein bees minute lagenge."

(It will take 20 minutes to reach home.)

Prakash said, trying to fill the silence.

"Thik hai."

(Ok.)

Advik replied shortly. Sakshi bit her lip. Ghar, she thought. Home. How was she going to enter that house? The house was filled with their memories.

There were photos of them on every wall. There were notes he had left for her on the fridge. There was the bed where they had whispered their dreams to each other. Every corner of that house was a witness to their love, and now, he was going to walk into it like a guest in a hotel.

She thought of Satvik, who was probably at home with her mother, waiting by the door. Her mother had texted her.

Satvik is very excited. He keeps saying Papa aa rahe hain. Please be strong, Sakshi.

(Papa is coming.)

A single tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, hoping Advik hadn't seen.

But Advik had seen. He saw her shoulders shake ever so slightly. For a brief second, he felt a flicker of something, not a memory, but a basic human instinct to comfort someone in pain. He moved his hand instinctively toward hers, but then he stopped.

I don't know her, he reminded himself. I can't lead her on.

He pulled his hand back and rested it on his lap, turning his gaze back to the road.

The car turned into their neighbourhood. Sakshi recognized the familiar park, the grocery store where they used to buy ice cream at 10 PM, the streetlights that Advik used to complain were too dim. To her, it was the map of their life. To Advik, it was just another street in a city he barely felt connected to.

As the car pulled up in front of their apartment building, the tension reached a breaking point. Prakash killed the engine, and for a moment, none of them moved. The silence in the car was even louder than it had been while they were moving.

"Hum pahunch gaye."

(We’ve reached.)

Prakash said, his voice heavy. Sakshi looked at the balcony of their second-floor apartment. She could see the small pots of money plants they had planted together. She could see a tiny pair of shoes sitting near the railing.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her trembling hands. She had to be a mother first. She had to protect Satvik.

"Advik."

She said, her voice small and shaky. This was the first time she had spoken directly to him since the hospital room. Advik turned his head, looking at her.

"Yes?"

"Satvik... he's just a baby."

She whispered, her eyes pleading.

"He loves you more than anything. Please... even if you don't remember him... please don't be mean to him. He won't understand."

Advik saw the raw desperation in her eyes. For the first time, the reality of the situation hit him. It wasn't just about this woman, there was a child involved. A child who was his.

"I won't be mean, Sakshi."

He said, using her name for the first time. His voice wasn't warm, but it wasn't as cold as before. Prakash got out and opened the trunk to get the bags. Advik opened his door and stepped out, squinting at the building.

Sakshi followed, her legs feeling weak. 

Behind those doors was her son. Behind those doors was a life that Advik had forgotten. And as the elevator doors opened on their floor, Sakshi knew that the hardest part of her journey was just beginning.