Marina Kovalkova, Benjamin Amoako-Attah
Pieces

The Awakening

The steady rhythm of machines filled the room: the soft beeping of the heart monitor, the slow rise and fall of the ventilator, the quiet shuffle of nurses’ shoes across polished hospital floors. Sterile light bathed everything in a pale glow, stripping the world of warmth.

He had been lying there for three days. Silent. Still. His body bruised, his head bandaged, his skin pale against the white sheets. The accident had been sudden, violent—twisted metal and shattered glass, the kind of wreck that left families praying in waiting rooms and doctors preparing for the worst.

But on the fourth morning, something shifted.

“Doctor, he’s moving,” one of the nurses whispered, her eyes fixed on the faint twitch of his fingers.

The physician, weary from night rounds, stepped closer, scanning the monitors. His pulse quickened. The patient’s eyelids fluttered once, twice, then opened slowly, heavily, as though dragging back a curtain from another world.

The room hushed.

He wasn’t fully present. His eyes darted around, unfocused, caught somewhere between dreams and waking. His lips parted, cracked from days without water, and then he spoke.

Softly at first, broken fragments.

“Amber light… the bar… her eyes…”

The nurses exchanged startled glances.

He continued, words spilling as though pulled from somewhere deep inside:

“She was watching me… I couldn’t breathe… her touch burned soft, so soft her lips…”

One nurse stepped back, crossing herself quietly. Another looked at the doctor, concern shadowing her features. “He’s… he’s talking like he’s somewhere else. Like he’s living it.”

The doctor leaned in, listening carefully, his pen moving swiftly across the chart. “It’s confusional arousal,” he murmured. “Post-traumatic recall, perhaps hallucinations.”

But the patient’s voice grew stronger, steadier, as though he were reliving every detail:

“Her perfume… jasmine… she leaned in… she said don’t pull away… and I didn’t. God, I didn’t…”

His chest rose and fell sharply, as though the memory itself was breathing life into him.

The nurses looked shaken. “Doctor, he’s describing… it sounds like a memory. Not random. He’s… remembering something specific.”

The doctor frowned, adjusting his glasses. “It could be real. Or it could be confabulation. After a head injury, memory can fracture with blurred lines between reality and imagination.” He scribbled a note: Possible retrograde amnesia. Memory loss. Further neurocognitive testing required.

The patient’s eyes fluttered again, a tear slipping down his temple. His hand gripped the sheet, knuckles white.

“She said… I taste like hesitation… she tasted like trouble…”

Silence followed. Heavy, weighted.

The doctor finally straightened, sighing. “Prepare for a full diagnostic scan. We need to determine the extent of the memory impairment.”

The nurses nodded, moving swiftly, but their faces betrayed unease. For while the machines measured heartbeats and brainwaves, they all knew what they had just heard wasn’t random. It was too vivid. Too alive. Too real.

Somewhere in the fragile border between dream and memory, between life and near-death, he had carried one thing back with him.

One-night stand.

***

The hospital room smelled faintly of disinfectant and iron, the clean sharpness of sterility clashing with the rawness of human fragility. Morning light pushed its way through the blinds, striping the floor in pale bands. By now, the room was fuller. Nurses moved in and out, checking IV lines, recording vitals. A neurologist had arrived, clipboard in hand, sharp-eyed, efficient. And at the foot of the bed stood two figures, family, faces pale with worry, clinging to each other as if their grip alone could anchor him to this world.

He was awake now. Not fully steady, not fully clear, but his eyes were open, and they carried that glassy brightness of someone who had just swum back from deep waters. The neurologist leaned in, voice measured, calm.

“Do you know where you are?” Silence. His brows furrowed, searching. After a long pause, he whispered, “A… room.”

“Good. Do you know what happened?”

His lips parted, then closed. He looked down at his hands, the bandages, the bruises. Confusion clouded his face. “No… I… I don’t remember.” The doctor made a note, his pen scratching across the paper. Then he tried again.

“Can you tell me your name?”

He hesitated. His tongue moved, but no word came. His throat worked with the effort. Panic flickered in his eyes. He shook his head faintly.

The family members exchanged looks of fear. One of them stepped forward, tears slipping free. “It’s alright… it’s okay. You’ve been through so much. Just rest.”

But then, suddenly, his voice broke through, clear, certain.

“Her eyes…”

Everyone in the room froze.

The neurologist’s pen paused mid-stroke. “What did you say?”

He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “Amber light… a bar… she looked at me, like she could see everything.”

The family glanced at the doctor, confused, frightened.

“She touched my hand,” he continued, his voice trembling but steady. “Soft. God, I can still feel it. She kissed me… she told me I tasted like hesitation. She tasted like trouble.”

The words hung in the air, too vivid, too intimate. The silence that followed was almost unbearable.

The doctor cleared his throat, trying to mask his unease. “These are… detailed recollections. Possibly confabulated memories triggered by trauma.” He looked at the family. “We’ll need a cognitive scan, memory assessment, and possibly therapy. This level of specificity is unusual.”

But the nurses exchanged looks again, the same looks they had shared the night before when he first began to speak. They knew. These weren’t the ramblings of a broken mind. This was something real. Something anchored.

When the others left, when the machines hummed in their steady rhythm again, he lay staring at the ceiling, lips moving with the faintest whisper.

“She’s all I remember…”

And the truth settled, heavy and undeniable:

His past, his name, his life all of it was fractured, blurred, slipping like water through his fingers.

But she remained. The woman in the bar, the kiss, the night.

The only thing the accident couldn’t take away.

The consultation room was quiet, but the quiet wasn’t peace, it was tension. The air carried the heaviness of unspoken fear, broken only by the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint shuffle of papers as the doctor arranged his notes.

His family sat close together, their faces drawn, waiting for answers. The neurologist began carefully, his voice measured, calm but firm.

“Your son has suffered a traumatic brain injury from the accident. The impact caused what we call post-traumatic amnesia. It explains why he struggles to recall his name, the events leading up to the crash, even parts of his past.”

The words sank heavily into the room. His mother gripped the arm of her chair tighter, her knuckles whitening. His brother leaned forward, his jaw set, eyes sharp with questions. “But he remembers… something,” the brother said, voice tight. “He talks about a woman. A bar. Like it’s happening right now.”

The doctor nodded, flipping through his chart. “Yes. He’s repeating very vivid imagery sensory-rich memories. What’s unusual is the detail. Most patients in his state confuse reality with dream fragments or hallucinations. But the coherence of his descriptions…” He paused, tapping his pen against the page. “It suggests these may be real memories, perhaps from shortly before the accident.” His mother’s eyes filled with tears. “So he remembers her… but not us?”

The doctor sighed, sympathetic but clinical. “The brain does not recover memory in a straight line. Sometimes, emotionally charged experiences anchor themselves more deeply. Trauma, romance, fear, and passion leave strong imprints. It is possible this ‘woman’ was part of a very recent, intense experience.”

Silence followed. The family processed the thought of being forgotten while a stranger remained unforgettable.

Finally, the brother asked, “Will his memory come back?” The neurologist hesitated. His pen stilled. “We can’t be certain. Some patients regain memory gradually with rehabilitation in weeks, months, sometimes longer. Others live with permanent gaps. We’ll proceed with neurocognitive tests, brain imaging, and memory therapy. But… we must also prepare for the possibility that parts of his past will never return.” His mother’s tears spilled freely now, her hands trembling in her lap. “But this woman this night he keeps speaking of… is there a way to know if it’s real?”

The doctor closed the file, meeting their eyes. “That depends. If she exists, if the memory is true, she may be the key. Sometimes, reconnecting with a powerful anchor can trigger broader recall. But if she was imagined, or if she’s someone he cannot find again… then it may remain only as it is: a fragment.”

The words landed like stones.

Back in his hospital room, unaware of the meeting, he lay staring at the ceiling. His lips moved faintly, whispering the same words again and again, as though afraid to let them slip away:

“Amber light… her eyes… her touch… her kiss.” The machines continued their steady rhythm, but for everyone who had heard him, one truth was clear…His entire life might be gone, yet one night, one woman, one kiss had survived the wreckage.

* * *

The hospital corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and faint coffee, the kind that lingered after long shifts. The steady rhythm of beeping monitors and the occasional rush of footsteps painted the backdrop of the ward.

When I entered his room, I froze. He was awake. His eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, wandered the ceiling, unfocused but alive. Tubes and wires trailed from his body, feeding machines that blinked and hummed at his side. For a moment, I just stood there, taking in the fragile sight of a man I had known for years, a man who once carried laughter in his voice and certainty in his stride.

“Hey,” I whispered, stepping closer, my voice breaking without warning. “It’s me.”

His eyes shifted slowly toward me. They lingered, studying my face with an intensity that hurt more than if he’d looked right past me. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse, fragile.

“She… she was there. The bar. Amber light. Her eyes…”

My heart stopped.

I glanced at the nurse nearby, who gave me a knowing look. “He’s been saying things like this since he woke,” she murmured softly. “The doctors think it’s memory fragments.”

I pulled a chair close to his bed, sitting where he could see me. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to steady the whirlwind inside me.

“Tell me,” I said gently. “Tell me about her.”

His lips trembled, his gaze unfocused but burning. “She touched my hand… soft. She said, ‘Don’t pull away.’ And then her lips… she kissed me. She said I tasted like hesitation. She… she was trouble.”

Every word carried weight, so vivid it felt like I could see it myself, sitting right there in the sterile room. It wasn’t just delirium. It was alive in him.

I swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in my eyes. My friend, the man who had forgotten his own name remembered this woman as though she was the axis that his world spun around.

I reached for his hand, careful not to disturb the IV. His skin was cool, trembling faintly under mine. “Listen,” I whispered, my voice steadying with resolve. “If this is what’s keeping you here – then we’re not going to let it go. I’ll help you find her. I’ll help you remember.”

His eyes shifted, locking onto mine, and for a fleeting moment, recognition flickered – maybe not of me, but of the promise I had just made. A tear slipped down his cheek.

I squeezed his hand gently. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever this night was, whoever she was, we’re going to follow it back. Step by step. Word by word. Until it all comes back.”

The nurse glanced at me, uncertain. “You think it’ll help?”

I nodded firmly. “If his mind is holding onto this night, then it means something. And if it’s the only doorway we’ve got, then that’s the one we walk through.”

For the first time since the accident, I saw it – a faint spark in his eyes, the flicker of life that memory alone seemed to fuel.

And right then, I knew: the one-night stand wasn’t just a story. It was the thread that might lead him back.

* * *

The world outside the hospital felt foreign, every sound – the distant hum of traffic, the murmur of voices, the flutter of leaves against the wind – seemed sharpened by new meaning.

Yet among it all, her image lingered, etched behind his eyes like light that refused to fade. He couldn’t tell if she was real or just another echo of the past clawing its way through the haze, but something in him reached for her still.

That night, long after the city had folded itself into quiet, he lay in the hospital bed awake, listening to his heartbeat’s rhythm. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, he whispered to the darkness: If she’s real, I’ll find her again.

The Crossing of Paths

The next day, I returned to the hospital room earlier than usual, driven by the stubborn loyalty that had carried us through scrapes and silences. He was awake, propped slightly against the pillows, his eyes distant but restless. The machines kept their steady rhythm beside him, indifferent to the storm inside his head.

I pulled my chair close, the same way I had yesterday, shoving down the frustration that he lit up for her memory but not for years of shared history, and leaned forward. “It’s me again,” I said softly. “I want to try something.”

His gaze flickered to me, faint but aware.

“You’ve been talking about her,” I continued carefully. “About that night. The doctors say it’s memory fragments. I think it’s more than that. I think it’s real. So… I want you to walk me through it. Slowly. From the beginning.”

For a moment, he was silent. Then, with a hoarse voice, he whispered, “Amber light.”

I nodded. “Good. Amber light. Where was it?”

His eyelids fluttered, and then his lips formed the words. “The bar… dim… music.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice steady, encouraging, despite the brotherly ache of watching a ghost outshine our bond. “You’re in the bar. Tell me what you see.”

His breathing quickened. “She… she’s there. By the counter. Watching me. Her eyes…” His voice broke into a whisper. “God, her eyes…”

I reached out, steadying his trembling hand. “You’re doing well. Stay with me. What happened next?”

* * *

The night wrapped itself around me like a cloak, heavy and alive with sounds. Outside, the city pulsed with neon and footsteps, but inside the bar, the world shifted into something slower, softer. The lights were low, amber spilling across polished wood and worn leather. Music moved like smoke through the room, a languid jazz melody that seemed to hum against my skin.

I sat alone, tracing the rim of my glass with a fingertip, not drinking, not waiting – at least, not for anything I could name. Still, there was a restlessness in me, a quiet ache, as though my body knew something was about to happen long before my mind could catch up.

And then I felt it.

A gaze. Steady. Heavy enough to reach me across the room.

I lifted my eyes, and she was there.

Leaning casually against the bar, her body relaxed, yet her presence filled the space like a storm waiting to break. Her dress was dark, simple, but it clung to her in ways that left no room for doubt. Her denim jacket hung loose over one shoulder, casual yet framing her like it was made for that exact moment under amber light. Her hair spilled down in waves, untamed, catching the light in glimmers that framed the delicate strength of her face. But it was her eyes that held me. Unflinching. Curious. Bold.

The first glance should have been fleeting. It wasn’t. Our eyes locked, and in that moment the noise of the bar, the hum of conversations, the music all of it faded to silence. It was as though the air itself had tightened between us, charged with something I couldn’t name.

My chest rose sharply with breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Her gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, slid over me, and traced me as if she had every right to see beneath my skin. Heat rushed to my face, to my throat, lower still, leaving me unsettled in my own body.

She lifted her glass slightly, a small, deliberate tilt, her lips brushing its rim with a hint of a smile. It wasn’t casual. It was invitation. And my body responded before my thoughts could form a protest. I stood. My legs felt heavy and weightless at once. Each step toward her felt longer than it was, the distance both impossible and inevitable. My heartbeat pounded so hard I could hear it over the music. By the time I reached her, I was breathless.

Up close, she was devastating. The lines of her face were softened by shadows, yet her eyes burned with an intensity that made me feel stripped bare. Her perfume drifted to me, jasmine and something darker, something that smelled like skin after heat. My pulse stumbled.

Her voice broke the silence between us, low and velvet, carrying a tease wrapped in warmth.

“Do you always stare at strangers that long?”

I should have laughed. I should have denied it. But my voice betrayed me with honesty I didn’t plan.

“Only the ones worth remembering.”

Her lips curved into a smile, slow, deliberate, and dangerous. It was a smile that promised something the night had not yet revealed but already, I knew.

This night would not let me go.

Her smile lingered, but her silence weighed heavier. She didn’t move right away, didn’t rush to fill the space with chatter. Instead, she let the air between us hum, as though she knew exactly what she was doing, drawing me deeper into her orbit with nothing but her presence. I swallowed, my throat dry. “May I sit?” I asked, though it came out softer than I intended, almost reverent.

She gestured toward the stool beside her, her fingers graceful, unhurried. “I was hoping you would.”

I slipped onto the seat, aware of how close she was, how her arm rested against the counter, her skin bare, smooth, so close I could have brushed it with the back of my hand if I dared lean an inch. My body vibrated with restraint.

Her perfume reached me again, subtle, intoxicating, curling into my lungs until it felt like I was breathing her. The warmth of her body radiated through the small gap between us, and already, I could feel the edges of my control fraying.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me. “You’re nervous,” she murmured, not as a question, but a quiet observation.

I met her eyes, heat pooling low in my belly. “Maybe.”

“Good.”

The word slid from her lips like silk, and I shivered. She didn’t explain it, and I didn’t ask. It was enough to know she enjoyed the effect she had on me, enough to let her lead the dance I hadn’t even realized I’d stepped into. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately. She reached for her glass, her fingers brushing over mine on the counter. Just a whisper of touch, feather light, but it set me ablaze. Electricity shot up my arm, spreading in sharp, delicious waves through my chest, down my spine.

I froze.

She didn’t.

Instead, her fingertips lingered, tracing the edge of my knuckles as though mapping me. My skin came alive beneath her touch. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since anyone had touched me like that not rushed, not accidental, but intentional. Intimate.

I looked up at her, and our eyes collided again. This time, there was no room for escape.

The bar around us disappeared, or maybe it still existed, but in that moment, she was the only thing I could see, hear, and feel. The faint smile at her lips told me she knew. She knew the way she was unravelling me, thread by thread, with nothing more than the brush of her fingers. “Soft,” she whispered, her eyes dropping briefly to where her hand still grazed mine. “I like that.”

My breath caught. I wanted to tell her she hadn’t even begun to discover softness, that she was awakening something deeper than I’d ever dared share. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I let the silence carry my confession, my pulse beating against her touch like a secret I couldn’t hide. She leaned closer, her lips near my ear, her breath warm against my skin.

“Don’t pull away,” she murmured, her denim jacket brushed my arm as she leaned in.

As if I could.

* * *

The days that followed felt suspended between dream and waking. Each morning, he rose with the dull certainty that something or someone was missing, a presence that lingered just beyond reach. The doctors called it recovery, but to him, it felt like chasing the echo of a voice: Don’t pull away.”

Hold my Hands

The room breathed with the soft rhythm of machines: one steady beep, a faint hiss of oxygen.

I sat by his bed, our hands joined, his skin cool and trembling under mine. His half-closed eyes were not sleeping eyes; they were searching, as though he were reaching through fog toward something fragile and half-forgotten.

“Stay with me,” I said quietly. “Start where we left off. You were at the bar. Her hand was on yours.” A flicker crossed his face. “Warm,” he whispered. “She touched me as if the moment itself might vanish. Everything slowed. I could feel life returning.”

He paused; emotion knotted his voice. “She leaned close, and the world went silent. I could hear her breath near my ear. She said, don’t pull away.”

A shiver ran through him, not pain, something deeper, something that reached the part of him still learning to live again.

“I didn’t,” he said. “It wasn’t just a kiss; it was recognition. She found the part of me that was still alive.” The monitor’s pulse matched his words. Tears slid down his temples. “That night wasn’t about desire. It was about remembering what it means to feel human.”

The rhythm on the monitor quickened. I tightened my grip. “And then?”

His eyes fluttered shut, as though the white hospital light dissolved into amber glow.

“She leaned closer,” he murmured. “I remember the light on her hair, the music somewhere behind us. I remember her voice saying my name like it belonged only to that instant.”

His body trembled, caught between the past and now. “I touched her face,” he said, voice low. “The world fell away. It felt like forgiveness.”

He drew in a trembling breath. “She pulled me close, and in that moment, I felt the weight of everything I’d lost. We were just two souls trying to remember how to breathe the same air.”

The monitor echoed every uneven heartbeat. I waited, letting silence give him space.

“She whispered something,” he said finally. “Now you’ll never forget me.”

He gasped, and the sound carried both ache and wonder.

The room held its breath. He lay still for a moment, eyes wet but calm, the trace of a smile appearing like dawn.

“I can still hear her,” he said. “Every word like a note that never stops ringing.” I brushed his knuckles with my thumb. “You remember more than you think. Every detail, every feeling. Hold on to it.”

He laughed softly, breathless. “How could I forget? She’s the only thing that still feels real.” His gaze drifted toward something I couldn’t see. I let him go there, only keeping his hand in mine. When he spoke again, his tone had softened into awe.

“She was light,” he said. “And I kept reaching for her, hoping she’d lead me back here.” The heart monitor steadied, a gentle rhythm of return.

He turned his head toward me, eyes clear now, voice rough but steady. “Don’t let me lose that,” he said.

“You won’t,” I told him. “It’s already part of you.”

His hand twitched in mine. I gripped tighter, that brotherly resolve kicking in despite the ache of his fixation.

“She took my hand again and placed it over her heart. There was no sound, just that rhythm, and I realized how fragile we both were. Two people suspended between the past and whatever comes next.”

He turned his face toward the ceiling.

“I wanted to hold on to that second. It felt like forgiveness. Like if I kept breathing, she might step out of memory and into the light with me.”

The monitor pulsed faster; his heartbeat matching the sound.

“And what happened then?” I asked softly. He hesitated. “She smiled. I remember that more than anything. A smile that said, I see you. And for the first time I believed it.” He closed his eyes. “Her words still echo – now you’ll never forget me, she said. I thought it was a curse. Maybe it was a blessing.” Silence settled over us like dust. He lay still except for the faint tremor of his fingers. A tear rolled from the corner of his eye, disappearing into the pillow.

“She made me remember,” he said at last. “Not the night, not the place – just the feeling of being alive.”

The monitor softened back to a gentle rhythm.

He exhaled slowly, eyes clear for the first time since waking.

He lay awake, haunted not by pain, but by the echo of touch, her touch – faint yet unrelenting. I noticed the change first: the restless eyes. The way his fingers twitched as if searching for something unseen.

“You need rest,” the doctors said. But what he needed was connection – proof that the past he remembered in flashes was not just a trick of the mind.

Mistaken Identity

It was five days after my discharge from the hospital. The air outside the hospital was sharp with freedom, yet fragile. My legs felt uncertain beneath me, but the world was dazzling – too bright, too fast, and too alive. My friend held my arm as we walked toward the car. Every step away from the hospital felt like a step into an unfinished story.

And then I saw her.

She was walking ahead of us, sunlight glancing off her dark hair, the denim jacket folded perfectly across her shoulders. She stopped to check her phone, head tilted the way I remembered, like she was smiling at some secret only she knew. My chest seized. Heat spread through me, unstoppable. “It’s her,” I whispered, voice trembling. Before my friend could react, I broke away and hurried toward her.

“Hey!” My voice cracked with desperation. She turned, startled, eyes wide.

When I reached her, I grabbed her hand before I could think. The contact jolted through me like electricity. “It’s you,” I breathed, tears already burning my eyes. “God, it’s you. The night, the jacket, the music – I thought I’d lost you.” She froze, staring at me, her lips parting in shock. “I’m sorry… do I know you?”

I laughed and shook my head, overwhelmed. “Of course you know me. The bar in Moscow Rébellion. The amber lights, the sound, the crowd. You touched my hand and told me not to pull away. You said I’d never forget you.”

Her face softened, a mixture of confusion and pity. She tried to pull her hand back, but it clung tighter, needing her, begging her. “Please, don’t say you don’t remember. You’re the only thing that survived. The only thing I know is real.”

Her eyes glistened – fear, sympathy, or something else, I couldn’t tell.

My friend rushed to us, gently prying my hand from hers. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice low and steady. “He’s recovering from an accident. His memory… it’s been broken. He keeps recalling someone who looks like you.”

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