Work Text:
The accident happened on a quiet Tuesday evening.
Rain had just started pouring over the streets of Seoul, drunk driver hitting Wonyoung's car. The impact was sudden, violent, metal against metal, and then everything went dark.
When Wonyoung woke up, the world felt wrong.
White ceilings. Antiseptic air. A steady beeping beside her bed.
She blinked slowly. Her throat felt dry. A woman was sleeping in the chair next to her bed, head resting against folded arms.
“Da-ah unnie?” Wonyoung croaked.
Her sister jolted awake instantly. “Wonyoung-ah? Oh my god, you’re awake.”
There were tears. Doctors rushing in. Gentle questions.
What’s your name?
Do you know where you are?
Do you remember what happened?
She remembered her childhood home. She remembered her career. She remembered her sister.
But when the doctor gently asked, “Do you remember your wife?”
Wonyoung frowned.
“My… what?”
The silence that followed was heavier than the crash itself.
At the far corner of the room, standing quietly near the window, was another woman. Short hair. Soft eyes. Hands clenched tightly in front of her.
Wonyoung looked at her.
Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Wonyoung said politely. “Do I know you?”
The woman’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
The doctor stepped in smoothly. “You’ve experienced temporary retrograde amnesia. It’s not uncommon after trauma like this. We don’t recommend forcing memories. They may return gradually.”
The woman by the window nodded stiffly, even though her eyes glistened.
That woman was An Yujin.
Her wife.
But Wonyoung didn't remember.
— — —
After a week in the hospital, Wonyoung was transferred to a recovery rehabilitation center per the Doctors’ advice. Da-ah handled the paperwork. Yujin didn’t protest even though she hoped Wonyoung would be coming with her, at their own home.
How could she when her wife didn’t even recognize her?
The doctors were firm.
“Too much emotional pressure can delay recovery. Familiar faces are fine, but avoid overwhelming her with information.”
So Yujin stepped back.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she loved her and wanted what was best for Wonyoung.
— — —
The rehab facility was peaceful. Quiet gardens. Long sunlit hallways. Soft laughter echoing from group therapy rooms.
Wonyoung tried everything.
Painting classes. She stared at the canvas, brush hovering, but nothing sparked.
Gardening sessions. She knelt in soil, fingers digging into dirt, but the scent of grass stirred no flash of memory.
Journaling exercises. She wrote her name over and over.
Jang Wonyoung.
It felt like someone else’s story.
Two weeks passed.
Then one afternoon, while walking down the hallway, she heard it.
A piano.
The melody drifted gently through the corridor, slow, aching, familiar in a way she couldn’t explain. Her steps slowed.
Something in her chest tightened.
She followed the sound.
Peeking into the room, she saw a small group of patients seated around a grand piano. A woman sat at the bench, back facing the door. Her fingers moved effortlessly across the keys.
The melody swelled.
Wonyoung stayed by the door the entire time, frozen.
Why does this feel like home?
When the piece ended, the room filled with applause.
Wonyoung clapped too, almost instinctively.
The pianist finally turned around.
Soft eyes.
Warm smile.
It was the woman from the hospital.
Yujin noticed her standing there.
“Hi,” she said gently. “Would you like to join the class?”
Wonyoung immediately shook her head. “I don’t know how to play.”
But her feet were already stepping forward.
Her body betrayed her hesitation.
She sat down at the bench when Yujin gestured.
Yujin moved aside slightly to give her space, but close enough that Wonyoung could feel her warmth.
“Just place your hands here,” Yujin instructed softly, guiding without touching.
Wonyoung pressed a key.
The sound echoed.
Her chest fluttered.
After the session, as people began leaving, Wonyoung stood as well.
“Miss?” Yujin called gently.
Wonyoung turned.
“I’m An Yujin,” she said, offering her hand. “I volunteer here.”
Wonyoung hesitated before shaking it. “Jang Wonyoung.”
The moment their hands touched…
A tingle.
Not painful. Not shocking.
Just…electric.
Yujin held her hand a fraction longer than necessary before letting go.
“I’ll see you around, Wonyoung.” Yujin said softly.
And for some reason, those words lingered all day.
— — —
The next few days were almost routine.
Wonyoung attended piano classes.
Yujin was there.
Sometimes, Wonyoung would see her in the garden area, sitting under a tree with a notebook, scribbling something. Yujin would look up, their eyes meeting each other and the latter would just smile.
They would pass each other.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Small smiles again.
Nothing more.
Yet everything felt like more.
— — —
One afternoon, Wonyoung sat alone in the garden with her own notebook. She had begun writing again, fragments of poems, unfinished lyrics, random thoughts.
I feel like I lost something I can’t name.
Footsteps approached.
“Working on something?” Yujin asked gently.
Normally, Wonyoung hated interruptions while writing.
But when she looked up at Yujin, irritation didn’t come.
Instead, calm…comfort.
“Just… words,” Wonyoung replied. “They don’t make sense yet.”
Yujin smiled. “That’s how songs start.”
“You’re a songwriter?”
“Music producer,” Yujin nodded. “I volunteer here on my free time.”
Wonyoung tilted her head playfully. “You must have a lot of free time. You’re here every day.”
Yujin laughed softly. “Maybe I just like being here.”
There was something behind her words.
Something unspoken.
From that day on, their garden meetings became daily.
They talked about everything, favorite foods, childhood memories, random theories about life.
Wonyoung discovered Yujin and her had a lot of things in common.
On their third meeting, Wonyoung’s expression grew quieter.
“I was in an accident,” she said suddenly. “I lost some of my memories. Doctors say they might come back… or they might not.”
Yujin’s fingers tightened slightly around her notebook, but she kept her voice steady. “That must be scary.”
“It is,” Wonyoung admitted. “I have this feeling… what if I had someone important? Someone special. And I just… forgot them.”
Yujin’s throat burned.
She forced a small smile. “Do you feel like you’re missing someone?”
Wonyoung nodded slowly.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I feel lonely. But I don’t know why.”
Then suddenly…
A flash.
Hospital room.
Her sister crying.
And…
Yujin.
Standing beside her Da-ah unnie.
Watching her like she was the entire world.
“You were there,” Wonyoung said suddenly. “At the hospital when I first woke up.”
Yujin froze. “Yes.”
“You know my sister?”
“I know Da-ah unnie,” Yujin answered carefully. “Through a songwriter uh… close friend.”
Wonyoung nodded slowly. She was a songwriter too.
Maybe a friend?
She noticed it then… the shift in Yujin’s eyes.
Longing.
Sadness.
Love?
She couldn’t name it.
— — —
On some days, Wonyoung would confess her fears more openly.
“I’m scared I won’t remember,” she admitted once, staring down at her hands. “What if I had someone I loved deeply? What if they’re waiting?”
Yujin couldn’t breathe.
But she reached out anyway, gently taking Wonyoung’s hand.
Her thumb brushed over her knuckles… slow, familiar.
“What your mind can’t remember,” Yujin said softly, “your heart will surely recognize.”
The words settled deep.
When they parted that day, Wonyoung’s chest felt unbearably heavy.
Then…
Yujin disappeared.
For days.
No piano classes. No garden meet ups with the their notebooks.
Nothing.
Wonyoung told herself it didn’t matter.
But she found herself scanning every hallway.
Listening for piano melodies.
Waiting.
A week later, Yujin returned.
Wonyoung saw her first.
And before thinking…
She ran.
Wrapping her arms tightly around Yujin.
“I missed you,” she breathed.
Yujin stiffened in shock before hugging her back carefully, as if afraid she might break.
“I’m sorry,” Wonyoung pulled back, embarrassed. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“It’s okay,” Yujin said quickly.
Wonyoung shook her head. “When you weren’t here… I felt sad. Like something was wrong. Like I was missing… you.”
Yujin’s composure cracked slightly.
“Do we know each other?” Wonyoung finally asked. “Before all this?”
Yujin stared at her for a long moment.
She could lie.
She could protect herself.
But she was tired of pretending.
“Yes,” Yujin whispered.
“Were we close?”
Yujin nodded, tears forming. “Closer than you think.”
Wonyoung’s heart pounded.
“I don’t remember,” she said helplessly. “But you feel… special. When you’re around, my heart feels warm. It beats faster.”
Yujin stepped closer, hands trembling as she gently cupped Wonyoung’s cheeks.
Their foreheads nearly touched.
“You loved me before,” Yujin whispered, voice breaking. “And I know you can do it again.”
Wonyoung’s eyes filled with tears.
Her mind was blank.
But her heart…
Her heart was racing like it already knew.
And maybe, just maybe…
That was enough to trigger a memory.
That night, Yujin’s words wouldn’t leave her alone.
You loved me before. And I know you can do it again.
Wonyoung lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of her rehab room. The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, but it did nothing to quiet her thoughts.
Loved.
Before.
Her chest tightened.
“She said I loved her…” Wonyoung whispered to herself.
Does that mean we were friends?
Her breath hitched.
Or…
Her heart began racing faster.
Were we… more than that? Could Yujin be the wife the Doctors asked me when I first woke up?
Her head started to throb, a dull ache spreading from her temples. She pressed her fingers against them, massaging slowly.
“Why can’t I remember?” she muttered, frustration bubbling up. “Why is everyone else clear except her?”
The more she tried to picture Yujin, her face, her voice, her hands, the stronger the headache became.
It felt like trying to open a locked door with no key.
Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered to no one in particular.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged her into sleep.
— — —
The next morning, embarrassment settled over her like a heavy blanket.
If Yujin really meant that much to her… how humiliating was it that she couldn’t remember?
So Wonyoung avoided her.
She skipped one piano session.
She took a different hallway to the garden.
When she saw Yujin in the distance, she turned away before their eyes could meet.
But avoidance didn’t stop the longing.
If anything, it made it worse.
She found herself scanning rooms unconsciously.
Listening for piano melodies.
Hoping to hear that soft laugh.
“This is ridiculous,” she sighed one afternoon, hugging her notebook to her chest. “Why do I miss someone I don’t even remember?”
Her heart answered before her brain could.
Because she matters.
— — —
Later that same afternoon, the familiar tune drifted through the corridor again.
Soft. Slow. Intimate.
Wonyoung froze mid-step.
Her breath caught.
She knew that melody.
Not from rehab.
From somewhere deeper.
Without thinking, she followed it.
The piano room door was slightly open. Inside, Yujin sat alone at the bench, fingers gliding over the keys. The sunlight streaming through the window cast a warm glow over her profile.
Yujin didn’t look up.
But she knew.
She could feel Wonyoung there.
Still, she didn’t stop playing.
The melody continued, gentle and aching.
Wonyoung stepped inside quietly and sat beside her.
Her hands hovered above the keys.
“I don’t know if I can…” she whispered.
But her fingers lowered anyway.
And they moved.
Perfectly.
Muscle memory took over.
She joined the harmony seamlessly, like they had practiced it a hundred times.
Yujin’s hands faltered for half a second in shock, but she kept playing.
Their shoulders brushed lightly.
The song swelled.
And in Wonyoung’s chest, something unlocked.
The final note lingered in the air.
Silence followed.
They turned to look at each other.
Yujin’s eyes were wide, hopeful, terrified.
Wonyoung smiled softly, though her eyes shimmered with something deeper.
Inside Yujin’s mind, memories flooded violently.
White lace.
Wonyoung walking down the aisle.
Their first dance to this very song.
The honeymoon, sunsets, shared laughter, whispered promises in hotel rooms.
It was too much.
Too painful.
She swallowed hard and slowly stood up.
“I should… go,” Yujin said quietly, voice trembling.
She walked toward the door, afraid that if she stayed, she would break down completely.
Her hand reached for the doorknob.
It froze mid-turn when she heard it.
“Yujinnie.”
The nickname echoed like a bell.
No one called her that.
No one except…
Her breath stopped.
Her fingers trembled against the metal knob.
Slowly, she turned around.
Wonyoung was standing now.
Looking at her.
Not confused.
Not uncertain.
But with warmth. With love. With recognition.
Tears blurred Yujin’s vision.
“Wony…?” she breathed.
Wonyoung stepped closer, each step steady.
She reached up gently, cupping Yujin’s face the way she used to without thinking.
“You’re really going to walk out on me,” Wonyoung said softly, lips curving into a familiar teasing smile, “after we just finished playing the song we danced to at our wedding?”
Yujin visibly shook.
Her knees nearly gave out.
“Wony… you… you remember?” she asked, voice breaking.
Wonyoung nodded, tears spilling freely now but her smile wide and certain.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I remember you now, Yujinnie.”
The nickname sounded even sweeter the second time.
“I remember our wedding. I remember the way you cried when I walked down the aisle.” She laughed softly through tears. “I remember teasing you about stepping on my dress during our first dance.”
Yujin covered her mouth, sob escaping before she could stop it.
“I remember our honeymoon,” Wonyoung continued gently. “The way you wouldn’t let go of my hand even when we were just walking to get coffee.”
She stepped closer until there was no space left between them.
“I remember loving you,” she whispered.
That was all it took.
Yujin pulled her into her arms, holding her so tightly it was almost desperate.
“I’ve missed you,” Yujin choked out. “Even when you were right in front of me… I missed you.”
Wonyoung leaned up and kissed her.
It wasn’t hesitant.
It wasn’t uncertain.
It was full, years of love, weeks of longing, days of confusion poured into one kiss.
Yujin’s hands tightened at her waist, pulling her closer as if afraid she would disappear again.
For a fleeting second, Yujin wondered if she was dreaming.
If she opened her eyes, would this vanish?
But Wonyoung didn’t pull away.
She deepened the kiss slightly, fingers curling into Yujin’s shirt.
“I’m here,” Wonyoung murmured against her lips. “I’m back, baby.”
Yujin rested her forehead against hers, tears still falling freely.
“My wife,” she whispered, almost in disbelief.
Wonyoung smiled softly.
“Yours,” she confirmed.
And this time, when Yujin held her, she wasn’t holding onto a memory.
She was holding onto her again.
— — —
YUJIN’S POV
I still remember the exact second my heart broke.
It wasn’t during the crash.
It wasn’t during the week she lay unconscious.
It was when Wonyoung looked at me with polite confusion and said…
“I’m sorry… do I know you?”
That look.
Those eyes that used to soften every time they found mine.
Blank.
Searching.
Nothing.
I felt something inside my chest shattered into pieces.
The doctor kept talking about trauma and temporary amnesia, about not forcing memories. I heard none of it. All I could see was my wife looking at me like I was a stranger who wandered into her hospital room by mistake.
My wife.
Two years married.
Four years together.
Gone in a sentence.
— — —
That night, I went home alone.
Our apartment was too quiet.
Her shoes were still by the door. Her favorite sweater hung on the back of the chair. The lavender candle she liked sat half-burned on the coffee table.
I walked into our bedroom and just stood there.
The bed looked too big.
I sat on her side first. Then mine. Then the middle, where we usually ended up tangled together by morning.
I broke.
I buried my face in her pillow and sobbed until my chest hurt.
“What if she never remembers me?” I whispered into the empty room. “What if I’m the only thing she forgets?”
The thought was poisonous.
I let myself cry that night. I let the fear claw at me.
But sometime before dawn, I wiped my face and stared at the ceiling.
“No,” I told myself firmly. “I won’t give up on her.”
If she forgot me, I would remind her how we fell in love.
— — —
When she was transferred to the recovery rehabilitation center, I requested a meeting with the director.
I don’t think I’ve ever begged anyone before.
“I won’t interfere with her therapy,” I promised. “I won’t tell her I’m her wife. I just… I need to be there. Let me volunteer. I just want to play music for her. I can teach classes. I’ll follow every rule.”
The director studied me carefully.
“You understand you cannot pressure her memory.”
“I won’t,” I said quickly. “I just want to give her something familiar. Music is how we met. It’s how we fell in love.”
After a long pause, she nodded.
That’s how I became “An Yujin, volunteer music instructor.”
Not her wife.
Not her home.
Just… someone from the outside.
— — —
The first day she walked into my class, my fingers almost slipped off the keys.
I felt her before I saw her.
When I turned and our eyes met, my chest tightened painfully.
She looked healthy.
Beautiful.
But cautious.
Like she didn’t know why she was there.
“Hi,” I said softly. “Would you like to join?”
She hesitated.
For a moment, I saw it, that stubborn tilt of her chin I knew so well.
Then she nodded.
When she sat beside me, I had to concentrate on breathing normally. I wanted to kiss her temple like I used to. I wanted to whisper, You’re doing great, baby.
Instead, I kept my hands to myself.
Professional.
Careful.
When our fingers brushed accidentally on the keys, electricity shot up my arm.
She reacted too… just slightly.
I held onto that tiny reaction like hope in physical form.
— — —
Seeing her every day but not touching her was its own kind of torture.
In the garden, she would sit writing in her notebook. I recognized the crease between her brows when she couldn’t find the right word.
That was my wife.
My songwriter.
“Working on something?” I’d ask gently.
Normally, she hated being interrupted while writing. Before the accident, she would glare at anyone who disturbed her creative flow.
But with me, she always softened.
Even now, she did.
That small mercy kept me going.
“You’re here every day,” she teased once. “You must have a lot of free time.”
I smiled. “Maybe I just like being here.”
I didn’t dare say the real reason.
Because you’re here.
— — —
Then one afternoon she said something that nearly shattered me.
“What if I had someone important?” she whispered, staring at her hands. “Someone I loved deeply… and I just forgot them?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“You think you did?” I asked carefully.
She nodded.
“I feel like I’m missing someone.”
I reached for her hand without thinking.
Her skin was warm.
Familiar.
My thumb brushed over her knuckles, the way I used to when she felt anxious.
“What your mind can’t remember,” I told her gently, “your heart will surely recognize.”
I said it for her.
But also for me.
— — —
A few days later, I broke.
I met Da-ah unnie outside the facility.
The moment she asked, “How are you holding up?” I collapsed into tears.
“I see her every day,” I cried. “She smiles at me like I’m… like I’m just someone nice. I can’t hug her. I can’t kiss her. I can’t tell her she’s my wife.”
Da-ah unnie hugged me tightly.
“It’s okay to take a break,” she murmured. “Wonyoung would understand. You don’t have to be strong every second.”
I didn’t want to leave.
But I was exhausted from pretending. From having Wonyoung so close but still feel out of reach.
So I disappeared for a week.
It was the longest week of my life.
— — —
When I returned, I wasn’t prepared.
She saw me first.
Before I could even say hello, she ran into my arms.
“I missed you,” she breathed.
Missed.
The word almost knocked the air out of me.
I hugged her carefully, afraid I was imagining it.
“I don’t know why,” she continued, pulling back slightly. “But when you weren’t here… I felt empty.”
Hope flared so brightly it hurt.
“Do we know each other?” she asked quietly.
I stared at her.
I was done pretending.
“Yes.”
“Were we close?”
I nodded.
“Closer than you think.”
Her eyes searched mine.
“I don’t remember,” she said helplessly. “But you feel… special. When you’re around, my heart feels warm. It beats faster.”
That was when I said it.
The boldest, most terrifying truth.
“You loved me before,” I whispered. “And I know you can do it again.”
— — —
That night, I barely slept.
I replayed her expression over and over.
A couple of days after that brave confession, I noticed Wonyoung avoiding me. She didn’t know I know she was doing it.
Had I pushed too far? Did I make her uncomfortable?
The third day, I went to the piano room early.
I needed something steady. Something familiar.
So I played our wedding song.
The one we danced to under warm lights while she laughed when I stepped on her wedding dress.
I felt her presence before I saw her.
She didn’t say anything.
She just sat beside me.
Then…
She started playing.
Perfect harmony.
Like her body remembered what her mind couldn’t.
My heart pounded so hard I thought I might faint.
When the last note faded, I turned to her slowly.
She was smiling softly.
Hope bloomed painfully inside me.
But then the memories of our wedding flooded my mind so vividly that it became unbearable.
Her in white.
Her vows.
Our honeymoon mornings tangled in sheets.
Our promises of forever.
I couldn’t do it.
If she didn’t remember… I couldn’t break in front of her.
“I should go,” I said quietly, standing.
I reached the door.
My hand wrapped around the doorknob.
Then…
“Yujinnie.”
I froze.
No one calls me that.
No one except…
I turned slowly.
She was standing.
Looking at me the way she used to.
Not confused. Not distant.
But full of love.
“You’re really going to walk out on me,” she said softly, smiling through tears, “after we just finished playing the song we danced to at our wedding?”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Wony… you…?”
She nodded, tears falling freely.
“Yes. I remember you now, Yujinnie.”
The world tilted.
“I remember our wedding. I remember the way you cried when I walked down the aisle. I remember teasing you about stepping on my dress during our first dance.”
And then…
”I remember loving you.”
I broke.
I didn’t care anymore.
I pulled her into my arms and sobbed into her shoulder.
“I missed you,” I choked. “Even when you were right there, I missed you.”
She cupped my face gently.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m back, baby.”
Then she kissed me.
Not hesitant. Not unsure.
It was her. My wife.
Her hands gripping my shirt like she used to.
Her warmth.
Her certainty.
I wrapped my arms around her tighter, afraid it might still disappear.
But she didn’t pull away.
“My wife,” I whispered against her lips.
She smiled softly.
“Yours.”
And for the first time since the accident, when I looked into her eyes…
She was looking back at me like I was home.
— — —