The memory did not arrive all at once.
It came in pieces, like shards washing up on shore long after the storm had passed—sharp, disorienting, impossible to ignore once noticed.
Pearl first felt it during the quiet hour before sunset.
The room was washed in pale orange light, the kind that made everything look softer than it really was. Jackson had stepped out briefly to speak with the doctor, leaving Pearl alone with the hum of the machines and her own thoughts.
She didn't mind being alone anymore. Not exactly.
But solitude had a way of inviting things in.
She stared at the window, watching dust float lazily through the light, when a sudden pressure bloomed behind her eyes.
Not pain.
Recognition.
Her breath hitched.
The ceiling above her seemed to tilt, just slightly, and for a heartbeat the hospital room faded at the edges.
Metal.
That was the first thing.
Cold. Unforgiving.
Her fingers twitched against the sheets as an image tried to surface—something reflective, something close. Too close.
Her heart began to race.
"No," she whispered before she realized she was speaking.
The pressure intensified. Her chest felt tight, like the air had thickened without warning. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made it worse.
Movement.
Fast. Too fast.
A flash of light.
The sound of—
Pearl gasped sharply, her body jerking as panic surged through her. The machines reacted immediately, their beeps quickening in response to her racing pulse.
She clutched the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as she struggled to breathe.
"Stop," she whispered, though she didn't know who she was talking to. "Please—stop."
The door opened.
Jackson was back.
He took in the scene in a split second—the monitors, her rigid posture, the fear etched across her face—and crossed the room instantly.
"Pearl," he said, calm but urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
She didn't hear him at first. Her mind was still caught in the undertow, dragged toward something it wasn't ready to face.
He placed his hands gently but firmly on her arms. "Pearl. You're here. You're in the hospital. You're safe."
His voice cut through the fog.
She sucked in a breath, then another, shallow and shaky. Her eyes flew open, locking onto his face like a lifeline.
"Jackson," she breathed.
"I've got you," he said. "Stay with me."
Her breathing stuttered, then slowly began to steady, syncing unconsciously with the rise and fall of his chest as he leaned close enough for her to see it.
The monitors followed suit, their frantic beeping easing into something more controlled.
When the worst of it passed, Pearl sagged back against the pillows, drained. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell.
Jackson didn't let go.
"What happened?" he asked softly.
She shook her head. "I don't know. I was just… thinking. And then it felt like something tried to come back all at once."
He nodded slowly. "A memory?"
"Maybe," she whispered. "Or the shape of one."
A nurse poked her head in, alerted by the monitors, but Jackson waved her off gently. "She's okay now."
The nurse studied Pearl for a moment, then nodded. "Call if it happens again."
When they were alone once more, Pearl stared at her hands, flexing her fingers like she needed to remind herself they still obeyed her.
"I think my mind hid something from me," she said quietly.
"That's common," Jackson replied. "Especially after trauma."
"What if it's bad?"
He didn't lie. "It might be hard. But you don't have to face it all at once."
She swallowed. "It felt like… metal. And speed. And then nothing."
His jaw tightened just a fraction.
She noticed.
"You know," she said.
"I know some things," he admitted.
"Did I ask you to tell me before?"
He shook his head. "No. The doctors advised against it until you were ready."
She nodded slowly. "I think I'm almost ready. Just… not today."
"That's okay," he said immediately. "There's no deadline."
She leaned her head back, exhaustion washing over her in heavy waves. "I don't like that my own brain doesn't trust me."
Jackson smiled sadly. "It's not about trust. It's about survival."
That night, Pearl barely slept.
Not because of nightmares this time—but because her thoughts kept circling the edges of something unseen. She felt like she was standing in front of a closed door, knowing something important waited on the other side, unsure whether opening it would heal her or break her.
At some point in the early morning hours, she spoke into the darkness.
"Jackson?"
"Yeah," he replied instantly.
"Do you think people come back the same after things like this?"
He considered the question carefully. "I think they come back… realer."
She turned her head toward him. "That doesn't sound easier."
"It's not," he said. "But it's honest."
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, "I'm scared that if I remember everything, I'll fall apart."
Jackson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed. "And I'm scared that you think falling apart means failing."
She frowned. "Doesn't it?"
"No," he said firmly. "It means you're human."
Her eyes shimmered. "You're saying all the right things lately."
"I've had practice," he said gently. "I had five days to think about what I'd say if you woke up."
Her throat tightened. "Did you ever think I wouldn't?"
He hesitated.
"Yes," he admitted. "And that scared me more than anything."
She reached for his hand this time, fingers curling weakly but deliberately around his.
"I'm here," she said. "Even if I don't remember everything yet."
He squeezed her hand carefully, reverently. "That's enough."
The next day brought another milestone.
Pearl stood.
Only briefly. Only with support on both sides. But her feet touched the floor, and for a moment, she felt the ground beneath her—not imagined, not remembered, but real.
Her legs shook violently, muscles screaming in protest, and tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
"I'm standing," she cried, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
"You are," Jackson said, pride unmistakable in his voice.
When she sat back down again, completely spent, she pressed her face into her hands and let herself cry fully this time.
Not from fear.
From release.
Later, as evening settled in once more, Pearl felt the weight of the day settle deep into her bones. But beneath the exhaustion was something new.
Determination.
The memory would come back. She knew that now. Whether tomorrow or next week or next month, it would find its way to her.
And when it did—
She wouldn't face it alone.
Jackson sat beside her, quieter than usual, watching her with an intensity that surprised even him.
Recovery was changing her.
But it was changing him too.
He was learning that strength didn't always look like holding everything together.
Sometimes it looked like letting something break—carefully, honestly—so it could be rebuilt stronger than before.
Waiting had ended.
Now came the harder part.
Living with what returned.