Hilary dreamed of kitchens.
Not the polished ones from magazine covers, but the real kitchens—
hot, loud, alive.
She smelled butter browning too fast.
Heard knives hitting wood.
Felt heat crawl up her arms.
Then the dream cracked.
A face leaned too close.
Blurred.
Melting.
Hilary woke with a gasp.
White ceiling.
Beeping monitor.
A hand gripping hers.
She froze.
Not because she was afraid—
but because she didn't know whose hand it was.
"Hilary."
The voice was low. Familiar. Careful.
She didn't move.
The scent reached her first.
Cedar.
Amber.
Something warm beneath it—coffee and clean skin.
Her chest loosened by a fraction.
"Gerard?" she asked.
"Yes," the man said immediately. "It's me."
Her fingers tightened around his hand.
"Don't move," she whispered. "Please."
"I won't."
She opened her eyes slowly.
The man beside her bed was tall. Dark-haired. His face was… wrong. Not wrong in shape—wrong in meaning. Her mind refused to attach *him* to the image.
Her stomach clenched.
"I know that look," he said softly.
"You can't," she replied. "I don't know what look I'm making."
"I can," he said. "Because I've seen it before. Yesterday. And the day before."
Her throat burned.
"How many times have I asked you that question?"
"Too many," he answered. "And not enough."
She closed her eyes again.
"I don't want to open them," she admitted.
"That's okay."
"I don't want mirrors."
"We'll remove them."
"I don't want crowds."
"I'll stand between you and them."
"I don't want pity."
"You won't get it from me."
She inhaled again, deeper this time. Anchoring.
"Say it," she said.
"Say what?"
"Your name."
"I am Gerard."
"And?"
"I am your husband."
"And?"
"I love you."
The words landed somewhere solid.
Hilary nodded faintly.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
The door opened quietly.
Jessica stepped in, pausing when she saw Hilary awake.
"Mom?"
Hilary turned toward the sound instantly.
Her daughter's voice was clear. Bright. Safe.
"I'm here," Hilary said.
Jessica rushed to the bed, grabbing her other hand.
"Mom, you scared me."
"I scared myself too," Hilary replied with a weak smile.
Jessica glanced at Gerard, confusion flickering across her face.
"Why are you holding her like that?"
Gerard answered gently, "Because she asked me to."
Hilary swallowed.
"Jessica," she said carefully. "If I look at you… and hesitate—"
Jessica's grip tightened. "It's okay."
Hilary shook her head. "No. I need you to tell me your name."
Jessica blinked, then smiled bravely through tears.
"I'm Jessica," she said clearly. "Your daughter."
Hilary exhaled.
"Good," she murmured. "Good."
A knock sounded.
This time it wasn't gentle.
Two doctors entered, followed by a nurse with a tablet.
The taller doctor adjusted his glasses.
"Mrs. Vale," he said. "We need to talk."
Hilary stiffened.
"Not here," Gerard said immediately. "Not in front of—"
"Let them," Hilary interrupted. "I'm tired of not knowing."
The doctor hesitated, then nodded.
"We ran additional imaging," he said. "The tumor is pressing against the fusiform gyrus. It explains the facial recognition loss."
Hilary listened, strangely calm.
"And?" she asked.
"And it's progressive."
Jessica's breath hitched.
Gerard went still.
"If untreated," the doctor continued, "the condition may worsen. Faces could become permanently unrecognizable. There may be additional visual impairments."
Hilary stared at the ceiling.
"So," she said slowly, "I'll forget people by looking at them."
"Yes."
"But not by hearing them."
"Correct."
"And not by smelling them."
"No."
She nodded.
"Then I'll adapt."
The doctor hesitated. "There is a surgical option—"
"Not now," Gerard said sharply.
Hilary squeezed his hand.
"Not now," she agreed. "I have things to protect."
The doctor nodded, sensing the boundary.
"We'll schedule further consultations," he said. "For now—rest."
They left.
Silence returned.
Hilary turned her head slightly toward Gerard.
"You heard that," she said.
"Yes."
"You still want to stand there?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
"Hilary," he said. "When I married you, I didn't marry your eyes. I married your hands. Your laugh. The way you taste soup before serving it to anyone else."
Her lips trembled.
"You married a woman who could see you."
"I married a woman who chose me."
She swallowed hard.
"What if I stop choosing right?" she asked. "What if someone tricks me?"
"I'll be louder," he said.
"What if I fail in public?"
"I'll catch you."
"What if the board—"
"Let them try," he cut in.
She turned her head too quickly again, winced, then steadied.
"Gerard."
"Yes."
"You're not allowed to disappear."
His jaw tightened.
"I promise you this," he said slowly, deliberately. "Until your eyes remember me again—"
He paused.
"—I'll be your eyes."
Her breath caught.
Jessica covered her mouth, tears slipping free.
Hilary didn't cry.
She smiled.
A real smile.
Then, against her will, exhaustion dragged her under again.
—
The mirror waited.
She found it later that night.
Gerard had gone to make calls. Jessica slept on the couch in the corner.
Hilary moved slowly, guided by memory, not sight.
The bathroom was dim.
Too quiet.
She reached the sink.
Lifted her head.
And froze.
A woman stared back at her.
Dark hair.
Pale face.
Eyes wide.
A stranger.
Her heart slammed.
"No," she whispered.
The stranger whispered back.
Her knees buckled.
She gripped the sink, gasping.
"I know you," she told the reflection desperately. "I know you."
The reflection didn't answer.
Footsteps rushed in.
Gerard caught her before she fell.
"Hey—hey—look at me."
She shook violently.
"I don't know her," she sobbed. "I don't know myself."
He pulled her into his chest.
"You don't have to," he said fiercely. "I know you."
She buried her face against him.
His scent wrapped around her like a vow.
Outside the bathroom, the city slept.
And something far more dangerous began.
Hilary didn't remember falling asleep.
She remembered only the smell of him—
steady, familiar, grounding—
and the sound of his breathing counting her back into the world.
When she woke again, dawn was leaking through the blinds.
Light without meaning.
Shapes without names.
Her body felt heavy, as if the night had weighed her down on purpose.
She didn't open her eyes.
Not yet.
She listened.
There it was.
The soft rustle of fabric.
The faint scrape of a chair moving closer to the bed.
And then—
"Good morning," the voice said.
Her fingers twitched under the blanket.
She waited.
"I am Gerard," the voice continued, slow and clear.
"Your husband."
A pause.
"I love you."
Her chest tightened.
This time, she didn't panic.
She smiled.
"You're early," she said.
"I didn't leave," he replied.
She opened her eyes.
The man sitting beside her bed was—again—nothing but a stranger wearing a familiar outline.
Her mind refused to cooperate.
Her heart, however, betrayed her immediately.
"You smell like you skipped sleep," she said.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You always notice that."
"I always did," she murmured.
He leaned closer, careful not to startle her.
"Do you want breakfast?" he asked.
"In bed?"
"I'll carry it."
She nodded. "Only if it's quiet."
"Always."
As he stood, she reached out blindly.
Her hand missed him by inches.
Her breath caught.
He was there instantly, fingers wrapping around hers.
"I'm here," he said. "I moved."
"Warn me next time."
"I will."
The door closed softly behind him.
Hilary exhaled.
The room felt bigger when he wasn't in it.
Not emptier—
just… louder in its silence.
She turned her head slightly and froze.
A shadow sat in the corner.
Her heart jumped.
"Jessica?" she asked, unsure.
The shadow moved.
"Yes, Mom," her daughter replied, stepping into the light.
Relief flooded her so hard it made her dizzy.
"You didn't scare me at all," Hilary lied.
Jessica climbed onto the bed, careful, practiced.
She placed something soft around Hilary's wrist.
"What's this?" Hilary asked.
"A ribbon," Jessica said proudly. "Red."
Hilary frowned faintly. "Why?"
"So you know it's me," Jessica said simply. "Red is mine."
Hilary swallowed.
"What if I forget again?" she asked quietly.
Jessica's small hand squeezed hers.
"Then I'll tell you again," she said. "Every time."
Hilary nodded, eyes burning.
"That's very brave of you."
Jessica shrugged. "Dad says brave people are just scared people who don't leave."
Hilary laughed softly.
"That sounds like your father."
"Yeah. He says it a lot."
Footsteps returned.
The scent reached her first.
Coffee.
Toast.
And him.
Gerard placed the tray gently on the table.
He stopped when he saw the ribbon.
His jaw tightened.
"Jessica," he said carefully.
"I asked Mom," Jessica replied. "She said okay."
Hilary lifted her wrist slightly.
"I did," she confirmed.
Gerard knelt beside the bed.
He took Hilary's other hand.
"If you want," he said quietly, "we can make more."
She tilted her head.
"For what?"
"For everyone you trust," he answered. "A system. Until—"
"Until my eyes behave," she finished.
He nodded.
She thought for a moment.
"Red for Jessica," she said.
"Blue for you."
His brows knit. "Why blue?"
"Because you smell calm," she replied. "And blue is calm."
His throat worked.
"Okay," he said. "Blue it is."
Silence settled again, but this time it wasn't heavy.
Hilary lifted a piece of toast, hesitated, then smiled faintly.
"Feed me," she said.
Gerard blinked. "What?"
"I can," she added quickly. "I just—"
She stopped.
"I need to remember how it feels when you do."
He didn't argue.
He tore off a small piece and held it near her lips.
She leaned forward, trusting.
The toast was warm.
But the thing that made her breathe out was the nearness—
the unspoken promise that he would stay exactly where he was.
"Good?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Perfect."
She finished breakfast slowly.
Between bites, reality crept back in.
"The board," she said suddenly.
Gerard stilled.
"They'll come," he admitted. "Soon."
"They can't know," she said. "Not yet."
"I know."
"If they find out—"
"They'll underestimate you," he said. "And me."
She shook her head. "They'll call me weak."
He leaned in.
"Then let them," he said. "I didn't marry you to impress a board."
Her lips parted.
"You married a chef who could see," she reminded him.
"I married a woman who never burned a dish because she stopped caring," he replied. "That hasn't changed."
She looked at him.
Really looked.
Still nothing.
Her smile faltered.
"Say it again," she whispered.
"My name?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I am Gerard."
"And?"
"Your husband."
"And?"
"I love you."
She nodded, committing the rhythm to memory.
Then—softly—
"I don't know your face," she said.
"I know."
"But I know you're here."
"I am."
"And I know your scent."
He inhaled sharply.
"That's enough," she finished. "For now."
A knock echoed through the room.
Firm.
Professional.
Gerard stood instantly.
"I'll handle it," he said.
She caught his sleeve.
"Stay where I can hear you," she asked.
"I will."
Voices murmured outside.
Controlled.
Measured.
Hilary closed her eyes.
The world beyond the door was sharpening its knives.
Inside the room, she memorized the sound of her husband breathing.
And somewhere, deep in the quiet spaces of her mind,
a question began to form—
If she could no longer trust her eyes…
Who else had been watching her all along?