Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Ophelia

Keane.

Keane Patrick Stone. My Keane. Well, he’s not mine anymore, or . . . fuck who knows what’s going to happen. I take a good look at him and of course he’s him, but different, older than the man I last kissed before getting into the car and our lives were changed forever.

His beard is thick and scruffy, not the neat stubble he used to keep, and there’s a sickly pallor to his skin, a slight hollowness beneath his eyes. And those eyes—they sweep over me with a kind of dazed confusion, searching, as if he’s trying to pull my name from the corners of his mind but can’t quite place it. There’s something lost in his gaze, something that cuts through me in a way I’m not prepared for.

My heart pounds painfully, a mix of fear and something overwhelming that I don’t know how to contain. My breath catches, shallow and uneven, and I press my hand against the wall to steady myself. This is the man I was ready to build my life with, the man I grieved, buried deep in my heart—and now he’s here, but somehow not here at all.

I can barely process it. My stomach twists, a cold dread settling in, knowing this moment was something I never thought I’d have to face. My fingers tremble as years of memories, broken dreams, and not being able to say goodbye flood back in one suffocating wave. I want to say his name, to break this aching silence, but the words die in my throat, caught between grief and guilt. Standing here, looking at him . . . I realize I’m not the same person who loved him. And as he blinks slowly, eyes still trying to place me, I wonder if he’s even the same man I loved.

A thousand memories surge to the surface—the way he used to laugh, the warmth of his hand in mine, the nights we spent whispering promises under a blanket of stars. Forever, we used to say. But those memories feel foreign now, like they belong to someone else, some other version of me that no longer exists. I’m not that girl anymore.

He shifts slightly, trying to sit up, his movements slow and almost clumsy, like he’s relearning how his body works. His eyes focus on me again, that flicker of something—recognition, maybe—passing through them. My heart twists, a tangled mess of grief and guilt, because I know what he’s seeing. Not the woman he left behind, not the girl he was supposed to marry. He’s looking at a stranger.

A silent moment stretches between us, thick and charged, words piling up in my throat but refusing to form. I don’t even know what I’d say if I could speak. His name hangs on the tip of my tongue, and yet I can’t say it. Keane. The name that once brought me comfort now feels foreign, heavy with memories I’ve buried too deep to unearth without breaking apart.

Finally, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words come out. Instead, there’s a flicker of frustration, his brows knitting together, his hand curling into a fist on the bed. He looks . . . trapped. Confused. I can see the battle playing out in his mind, see him struggling to remember, to understand, to reach me across the vast distance created by years and silence.

I swallow, my throat dry, every heartbeat sending a fresh wave of ache through my chest. This is the man I had planned to spend my life with. The man I mourned for so long that I thought I’d never feel whole again. I’d imagined this moment so many times in my mind—what it would be like if he somehow came back, if all the pain and emptiness could be undone in an instant.

A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, and I quickly swipe it away, forcing myself to stay composed. He’s here, I remind myself. Alive. But instead of the joy, the relief I thought would flood me in a moment like this . . . there’s only confusion, fear, and a guilt that tightens around me like a vise, making it hard to breathe.

His gaze drops to my hand, still clutching the edge of the door as if it’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing. I see something shift in his expression—a flicker of pain, maybe? Hurt? I can’t quite read it, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist. It’s enough to make me want to turn and run, to escape this room and the impossible reality of him lying there, waiting for an explanation I don’t have, one I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give.

I feel Haydn’s presence beside me, his hand resting gently on my back. Reassuring me that I’m not alone in this. Yet, even his touch feels distant, like it belongs in a different life. I’m caught between two worlds—the life I left behind and the one I’ve been building with Haydn. And for the first time, I don’t know where I belong.

Keane’s lips move again, another frustrated attempt at speech, his eyes pleading with me to understand, to say something, to make this nightmare make sense for both of us. I see the desperation there, the silent plea for reassurance, for answers.

But I have nothing to give him.

No words that will make this any easier, no promise that will take away the confusion I see etched on his face. Just the hard, terrible truth that this new reality is tearing me apart from the inside.

As he watches me, his brows knit in frustration, his hand curls into a fist against the sheets. The silence between us feels heavy, filled with questions he can’t ask and answers I can’t provide. Just when the tension seems almost unbearable, a soft sound breaks it—a throat clearing. I look up, startled, to see a man stepping into the room, his white coat bright against the sterile backdrop of the hospital.

He moves with the calm precision of someone well-practiced in this setting, someone who knows exactly how to deliver difficult news. Behind him, a nurse enters quietly, her polite, practiced smile directed briefly at Keane before resting on me. The doctor pauses beside the bed, adKeaneg his glasses as his gaze settles on me with a quiet gravity that makes my pulse quicken.

“I’m Dr. Lee,” he says, his tone calm as he gives a slight nod. “I’m part of the team overseeing Keane’s care since he regained consciousness.”

“Ophelia Foster,” I reply. “What can you tell me about his condition?”

“Right, Ophelia Foster. I understand you’re listed as Mr. Stone’s legal guardian.”

I nod, grappling with that word. Guardian. I’m responsible for him, yet I’m not sure what that truly means. Why me, of all people? He has aunts, uncles, cousins. How did this fall to me?

Keane’s gaze remains fixed on me, watching, waiting, as though hoping I can provide answers he can’t put into words. All I can do is stand here, hands clenched, willing myself to focus on Dr. Lee’s explanation.

“Keane has been awake for just over a week now,” Dr. Lee continues, glancing at his clipboard before looking back at me. “We’ve run a series of tests to assess his physical and neurological state.”

Dr. Lee pauses, glancing down at his notes, then meets my gaze with a careful, measured look. “Physically, his reflexes are intact, which is promising. However, due to the years he spent in a comatose state, he’s experiencing muscle atrophy. Physical therapy will be essential for him to rebuild strength and coordination, but it’s going to be a gradual process. He may experience weakness and fatigue for quite some time.”

I steal a glance at Keane. His hands rest on the bed, his fingers twitching slightly, almost like he’s testing the limits of his own body. His jaw is clenched, and I can see the frustration simmering beneath the surface—a tension that feels familiar, yet foreign on his face.

Dr. Lee continues. “In terms of speech, his vocal cords are healthy, and there’s no structural damage. However, we’ve observed a disconnect between his thoughts and his ability to form words. This is likely due to neurological factors. Essentially, his brain is struggling to translate what he wants to say into spoken language. With speech therapy, we’re hopeful that he’ll make progress, but it will take time and patience.”

I swallow hard, watching the flicker of frustration in Keane’s eyes. He was always so articulate, so expressive—especially with his music. His songs, his guitar . . . that was how he communicated, how he shared the pieces of himself he couldn’t always say out loud. And now, even that ability is slipping away from him.

Dr. Lee shifts slightly, giving me a moment to absorb what he’s said before he goes on. “As for his memory . . . that’s a bit more complex,” he says gently, his gaze turning sympathetic. “Since Keane hasn’t been able to communicate extensively, we don’t yet know the full extent of his memory retention. There may be gaps, or certain things he recalls clearly, while others remain hazy. For now, we’ll continue to assess his cognitive function as he progresses.”

Memory gaps. The words feel clinical, detached, but they strike deep, hitting on something raw and unhealed. He might not remember . . . us. He might not remember the life we shared, the dreams we built together, the music that once held us close. It’s possible that he’s lost all of that, lost everything that was once so sacred to us both.

Dr. Lee watches me for a moment, his expression warm but unyielding, like he’s trying to soften a truth that’s impossible to digest. “I know this is a lot to take in, Ms. Foster. But I want you to know that we’re here to support both of you through this. If you choose to proceed, our team will work closely with Keane—providing physical and speech therapy, monitoring his progress, and helping him regain as much independence as possible.”

“If I choose to proceed?” I echo, my brow furrowing in confusion. “What if I don’t? Can’t you continue his treatment without my involvement?”

Dr. Lee pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Well . . . Keane is ready to be discharged. He’s stable enough to leave the hospital.” He glances between us, his gaze lingering on me. “That’s where you come in, Ms. Foster. As his guardian, you’ll need to make decisions about his at-home care, about where he goes from here.”

I feel my heart stutter, the implications of his words sinking in like cold water. “Wait—” I start, shaking my head. “I don’t live here. I flew in from Portland. I have a life, a job?—”

Dr. Lee raises a hand, his tone remaining gentle but firm. “As I was trying to explain, there are a lot of decisions that need to be made. You’ll have to arrange for a home care team if you’re taking him with you, or you’ll need to help us transition his care to a new facility if you choose to keep him here in Greenwich. Either way, these choices fall on you.”

The silence that follows is thick, nearly suffocating, pressing down with a weight I don’t know how to carry. I turn to Keane, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, it’s as if everything else falls away. There’s pain in his eyes, confusion and frustration that he can’t put into words, a silent plea for reassurance I’m not sure I can give.

A lump forms in my throat as Dr. Lee’s words echo in my mind. Choices fall on you. The enormity of it crashes over me, and I feel something close to panic clawing at the edges of my resolve. It’s not just about helping Keane through his recovery—it’s about restructuring my entire life to make room for him. To care for him. To be responsible for him.

I glance back at Keane, and his expression twists, a flicker of something vulnerable breaking through his frustration. He’s looking at me with a rawness that’s almost unbearable, like he’s aware of the burden he’s become but is powerless to change it. The Keane I knew would never have asked this of me. He was independent, proud, full of life. Now, he’s . . . dependent. Fragile in a way that feels foreign, almost unreal.

I can see the questions in his eyes, the fear he’s trying to hide. He’s waiting for me to say something, to reassure him that I’ll stay. That I’ll be here for him, no matter what. But my own doubts are screaming inside me, drowning out the words I want to say. Because how can I promise him anything when I don’t even know if I have the strength to do this?

I turn back to Dr. Lee, my voice shaking slightly. “And . . . if I decide I can’t do this?” The question feels like a betrayal, but it slips out before I can stop it.

Dr. Lee’s expression softens, a hint of empathy in his gaze. “We’ll help you find an alternative, Ms. Foster. There are facilities equipped to handle cases like his, places where he can receive the care he needs.”

I close my eyes briefly, guilt gnawing at me, the weight of that possibility almost too much to bear. The thought of leaving Keane—of letting someone else take on the responsibility that was once mine—feels like tearing away a part of myself. But the reality of what this would mean . . . how much it would change everything . . .

Keane’s hand twitches on the bed, drawing my gaze. His fingers flex slightly, as if he’s reaching for something—maybe me, maybe his own sense of control. The vulnerability in his eyes cuts deep, his confusion and helplessness like an open wound. And in that moment, I realize just how much he’s depending on me, even if he can’t say it out loud.

I take a shaky breath, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over. This isn’t the reunion I’d dreamed of. This isn’t the life we imagined. It’s something else entirely, something I don’t yet know how to face. But as I look at him, I know one thing for certain—walking away isn’t an option. Not now. Not ever.