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The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains as Adrian quietly walked into Sophia's room with a small wooden box in his hands.
Sophia sat up slowly, her hair tousled, eyes still adjusting. "What's that?"
Adrian sat at the edge of the bed and opened the box. Inside were old letters, polaroids, and a tiny music box. "Things you gave me… when words weren't enough."
She looked at him curiously as he pulled out a folded letter, edges worn with time. "This one," he said, "you slipped into my coat pocket the day I left for my first international surgery."
He opened it and began to read aloud.
> "Dear idiot surgeon,
Try not to break any bones before you fix them.
And don't forget to eat. You tend to forget when you're nervous.
I'll miss your loud typing and your stupid humming.
Come back safe. I'm not good at sleeping without your annoying breathing beside me.
Yours,
The woman who loves you more than your scalpel."
Sophia blinked rapidly, a sharp breath escaping her. "I wrote that?"
Adrian nodded. "You left it with a homemade sandwich… that I never ate because I didn't want the note to get greasy."
She laughed softly, surprised by herself. "It sounds like something I'd say. Maybe…"
Adrian placed the letter in her lap and handed her the tiny music box. She opened it, and a gentle lullaby played. Her fingers froze.
That tune.
It stirred something.
A flicker. A hallway. Warm arms. Her head on someone's chest.
"I used to hum this to Ethan," she whispered, shocked.
Adrian's heart skipped. "Yes. Every night. Even when he was too old for lullabies."
She looked at him, eyes glistening. "I remember… a little."
Adrian smiled—hopeful, fragile. "Then it's starting."