Rain tapped the windows like a jazz drummer on s

peed.

Clara turned the collar of her coat up against t

he chill and stepped into the pinedark woods beh

ind Mercy Hollow General.

"Miss Lane?"

A voice crackled through the trees. A man's. Wea

k.

She froze.

The voice didn’t belong to any of the regulars —

no tramp, no logger, no preacher skipping lunch

.

"I can't remember my name."

He was leaning against a tree, blood soaking thr

ough his sleeve. His suit was silk. His shoes, I

talian.

Clara knelt beside him.

"Then I'll give you one. Let's

start with 'John

Doe.'"

He smiled, faintly.

"I like that. John."

She wrapped his arm, her hands steady, her mind

racing.

No wallet. No dog tags. Just a scar on his templ

e and a gold watch with initials she couldn’t pl

ace.

"Do you remember anything?"

"Just… a woman. Laughing. A dance. A kiss."

Clara's pulse flickered.

That sounded like a beginning. Or an end.

They got him back to the clinic without a word t

o the sheriff.

Small towns had big mouths. She wanted answers b

efore the gossip machine revved up.

"You're safe here," she said.

He stared at her like she was the one who’d save

d him.

Days passed.

He cooked. He read. He told jokes like he’d done

it all his life.

But the nightmares came at night.

Shouting. Bombs. A woman’s scream.

"Did I know her?" he asked once, eyes

haunted.

"You're asking me?"

"I think I loved her."

Clara looked away.

She’d been the woman in the dream.

She just hadn’t told him yet.

One night, she found the clipping.

Buried in a box under his coat. Yellowed.

"Heiress Weds War Hero Billionaire in Lavish Cer

emony."

Photo: Her face. His arm in a sling. A ring the

size of a bullet.

She stared at it.

At herself.

"Clara?"

He stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

"You remembered."

"No. But I think… I think I'm starting

to."

He stepped closer.

"You were the woman. My wife."

She backed up.

"We don’t know that."

"You knew me before I woke up."

"Maybe I did."

"Why didn’t you say something?"

"What would you have done? Run off to some penth

ouse and forget the woods, the clinic, the fire

we built with whiskey and old newspapers?"

His voice dropped.

"I wouldn’t forget you."

Silence stretched.

Rain tapped again. Jazz in the dark.

He reached for her hand.

"Do you still love me?"

Clara didn’t answer right away.

"I loved the man who woke up with nothing. Who m

ade pancakes and told me stories I didn’t believ

e. If you're someone else now, I don’t know him.

"

"I’m still me," he said. "Just

with more names."

A knock rattled the door.

Two suits. Fedoras.

“Mr. Whitmore,” one said. “We’ve been looking fo

r you.”

Clara’s breath caught.

Whitmore. The name on the watch.

He turned to her.

"Don’t let them take me."

She looked at the men.

"You’ll have to go through me."

They laughed.

Bad move.

One of them reached for a gun.

Clara grabbed the poker from the hearth.

"Try it," she said.

They left.

Fast.

He stared at her, stunned.

"What?" she said. "You think I’m

just a nurse?"

He kissed her.

Like it was the first time. Like it was the last

.

They packed that night.

Train to Chicago. Then west.

He remembered more now.

The war. The factory. The deal gone wrong. The h

it.

"They thought I was dead," he said.

"They were wrong."

Clara watched the lights blur outside the window

.

"Are we running forever?"

He pulled her close.

"Or starting over. Together."

She smiled.

"Forget the past, huh?"

He kissed her hair.

"Remember the love. That's enough."