The email arrives on a Tuesday morning, tucked between a quarterly earnings summary and a catering inquiry from someone named Margaret who may or may not be Eleanor's friend. I almost delete it without reading—the subject line is blank, and the sender address is one I don't recognize—but something makes me pause. Some instinct I've learned to trust since waking up without memories.
Vivian,
I'm leaving town for a few weeks. Business in Singapore. I thought you should know in case you needed to reach me. I won't be far, and I'll be back before the end of the month.
This isn't over. It will never be over. But I'm willing to give you space to remember what we had. When you're ready, I'll be here.
— Alexander
No signature line. No formal closing. Just his name, hanging there like he expects me to treasure it.
