"You're awake." The man at your bedside says it like a fact he's still testing the weight of. Late twenties, an expensive coat draped over the visitor's chair, a face that arranges itself into relief a half-beat too carefully. "Muyun. Thank god."
Muyun. The name lands on you like a stranger's coat — technically yours, doesn't fit yet.
A nurse — badge reads LIN — checks your monitors without quite meeting your eyes. "Three years," the man says, when you only stare at him. "I'm Chenxi. Your cousin. You've been gone three years, and now you're back."
Three years. You open your mouth to say the last thing you remember — a kitchen table, a ring, a boy's laugh in the rain — and nothing about this white room fits any of it.
“Three years. Where — what happened to me?”
“An accident. Out on the water. We thought — we all thought —”
He doesn't finish the sentence. His hand, when it finds yours, is warm and a little too tight.