Chapter 4 004. Welcome Home

Leona

The day Harryson got released from the hospital, I felt like the sun finally came out after weeks of stormy skies.

He was still pale, and moved a little slow, but seeing him stand up and walk with help made my heart squeeze in relief. The doctors were shocked by how fast he'd healed. Honestly, I was too. Just days ago, he was lying there, hooked up to machines, and now he was smiling at me like nothing had happened.

"You sure you're ready for this?" I asked, standing beside him as the nurse pushed his wheelchair toward the hospital doors.

He looked at me, eyebrows raised. "I'm fine, Leona. It's just a bump on the head."

I laughed a little. "A bump? You nearly died, Harryson."

"Nearly," he said, grinning. "But I didn't. You can't get rid of me that easy."

The nurse chuckled too, but I could tell she still looked worried. Everyone did. Even me.

The hospital gave me a list of things to watch out for: confusion, headaches, memory problems. They warned me he might not act like himself for a while. That healing on the outside didn't always mean healing on the inside.

I tried not to think too much about it.

When we got to the car, I helped him into the passenger seat. He groaned a little, wincing as he moved.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Just stiff. I'll be better after a good nap on the couch."

We drove in silence for a while. I glanced at him now and then, just... studying him. Watching the way he looked out the window, like everything was brand new. His face was calm, but something in his eyes felt distant. I couldn't explain it. Maybe I was just being paranoid.

Our street looked the same. Trees swaying. Birds chirping. The neighbors' cars parked in their usual spots. I pulled into our driveway and parked.

"We're home," I said.

Harryson stared at the house like he hadn't seen it before. He nodded slowly and got out of the car without saying anything.

I opened the door and stepped inside first. Our dog, Milo, came running to the front, tail wagging like crazy.

She barked, happily jumping up on me, then ran toward Harryson.

He bent down with a smile. "Come here, Daisy."

I froze.

Milo stopped in her tracks, tilted her head, and looked confused.

"Daisy?" I asked, standing up.

He blinked at me. "Yeah. That's her name, right?"

"No," I said slowly. "Her name's Milo. We've had her since she was a puppy."

He frowned and scratched his head. "Huh. I could've sworn it was Daisy."

I forced a smile. "It's probably just the memory stuff they warned me about. It's okay."

He nodded, like he accepted that, but I still caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Like he wasn't just confused. Like he was annoyed.

We walked inside, and I went to disable the security alarm. Beep-beep. Done.

Harryson stepped up behind me. "What's the code again?"

I turned to him. "You forgot the alarm code?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. What is it?"

"0732," I said. "Same one we've used for two years."

He repeated it slowly. "Zero-seven-three-two... Right. Got it."

I tried not to feel weird about it. I mean, head injuries mess with your memory, right? That's what the doctors said.

But he forgot the dog's name... and the code...?

I helped him settle on the couch, handed him a blanket, and went to the kitchen to make some tea. As the kettle boiled, I leaned on the counter and tried to calm my racing thoughts.

He was home. That was good.

He was walking, talking, and even cracking jokes. That was good too.

So why did everything feel so... off?

When I walked back into the living room, he was flipping through a photo album. One of our old ones from our early days together. I hadn't even realized it was on the table.

"Look at this," he said, pointing at a picture of us at the beach. "When was this taken?"

"Two summers ago," I said. "Remember? We took that trip to Blue Shore."

He stared at the photo, brows furrowed. "I don't really remember it. But we look happy."

"We were," I said, sitting beside him. "That was one of our best trips."

He smiled softly. "I wish I remembered more of it."

I squeezed his hand. "It'll come back. Give it time."

He nodded, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn't so sure.

Later that night, I made dinner-his favorite, grilled chicken with mashed potatoes. He ate quietly, like he was still figuring out how to use a fork. It wasn't sloppy or anything, just... slow.

He kept glancing around the kitchen, like he didn't recognize the place.

After we ate, he said he was tired, so I helped him upstairs to bed. As he lay down, I tucked the blanket around him.

"You sure you don't need anything else?" I asked.

"I'm good," he whispered.

I turned off the light, but before I left, I heard him whisper something.

"Where's the bathroom again?"

I turned back. "It's just down the hall. Second door on the left. Same as always."

He nodded, eyes half-closed.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, listening to his breathing.

He was alive. He was here.

But something about him felt different.

Not just the memory slips. It was the way he looked at things. Like everything was brand new. Like he didn't belong here.

I rolled over and watched him sleep.

This was Harryson.

The man I loved. The man I married.

But why did I feel like a stranger had come home with me?

---

The next morning, I woke up early. I didn't want him to see me worried. So I made breakfast, played soft music, and tried to act normal.

He came downstairs slowly, rubbing his temples.

"Headache?" I asked.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Feels like my brain's full of cotton."

He sat at the table, and I served him pancakes.

He stared at the plate. "Did I always like these?"

I blinked. "Yeah. You love pancakes."

He nodded again, slowly. "Right... right. Just... feels weird."

We ate mostly in silence.

After breakfast, he walked into the living room and stood in front of the bookshelf.

"You rearranged these?" he asked.

"No," I said. "It's been the same for a year."

He didn't say anything.

Just stood there.

Later, I caught him staring at himself in the mirror in the hallway.

Just staring.

I didn't say anything that time.

I just watched.

I didn't want to admit it, but fear was creeping in.

This wasn't just memory loss.

This wasn't just confusion.

This felt like something deeper.

Something I didn't understand.

But I couldn't say that out loud. Not yet.

So I kept smiling. I kept saying, "It's okay." I kept pretending everything would be fine.

Because he was home.

And I wanted so badly for that to be enough.

But deep down, I knew...

The man who came back to me wasn't exactly the man I said goodbye to before the accident.