The tour of our home feels like walking through an IKEA showroom, except everything's real and apparently belongs to us. Emily keeps her arm locked around my waist like I might bolt if she lets go.
"This is the main living area," Emily says, gesturing with her free hand toward a sprawling space with sleek furniture arranged in perfect symmetry. "You always liked to read here in the evenings."
Her hand rests on my hip, fingers splayed possessively. It's strange being held by someone so striking, intimidating even, especially when I have to look up slightly to meet her eyes. Her grip is firm but careful, like I'm something precious that might break. The contradiction of strength and tenderness in her touch sends an odd flutter through my stomach.
"Did I?" I ask, trying to picture myself lounging on the pristine white couch that looks like it's never been sat on. "What did I read?"
Emily hesitates for just a second. "Science fiction, mostly. Sometimes biographies on famous people."
I nod like this makes sense, though it tells me nothing specific about myself. We move through the downstairs, each room more impersonal than the last. Kitchen with spotless countertops. Dining room with a table that could seat twelve. Office with an imposing desk and empty bookshelves.
"Where are all our photos?" I ask as we climb the stairs, her arm still firmly around me. "Wedding pictures or vacation shots? Family stuff?"
Emily's fingers tighten slightly at my waist. "We're not really sentimental that way. We agreed early on that we preferred clean, uncluttered spaces."
Would I really want a home with no personal touches? No evidence of life being lived?
The master bedroom is massive, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a bed that could fit four people comfortably. Everything is in shades of gray, white, and black. Minimalist. Expensive. Cold.
"This is our room," Emily says, something possessive creeping into her voice as she guides me toward the bed. "You always said it was your favorite place in the house."
I bet I did, I think, then feel my face heat up at the implication. Emily notices my blush and smiles, her green eyes lighting up with amusement.
"The bathroom's through there," she continues, pointing to a door on the far wall. "And this is my closet."
She opens double doors to reveal a walk-in closet bigger than my hospital room, filled with designer clothes arranged by color. Everything perfectly organized, not a hanger out of place.
"And yours is here," she says, opening another door to a significantly smaller closet with a handful of dress shirts, suits, and casual clothes, all in muted colors. The emptiness is striking compared to her packed space.
"I don't have much stuff," I observe.
"You prefer quality over quantity," she explains smoothly. "You never saw the point in excess."
We continue through the house, guest rooms that look like hotel suites, a home gym filled with equipment I can't imagine using, a media room with theater seating. Each space more sterile than the last, like a model home staged for potential buyers rather than a place where people actually live.
No photographs on the walls. No souvenirs from trips. No books with cracked spines or magazines left open. No coffee mugs abandoned on side tables. Nothing personal at all.
"It's very..." I struggle to find the right word as we complete our circuit of the house.
"Beautiful?" Emily supplies, her arm still firmly around my waist.
"Yeah," I say, not wanting to offend her. The word comes out hollow, unconvincing.
Emily studies my face, her eyes narrowing slightly as they scan my expression. "You don't like it, do you?" There's no accusation in her voice, just a simple observation.
"I think... would it be weird if I said it doesn't feel very homey?" I venture, bracing myself for disappointment or anger.
Instead, her face softens. "Would you rather have something a bit more personal? More lived-in?"
"I think I just need to get used to it," I say, looking around at the pristine, catalog-perfect space. "It's a beautiful house, really."
Emily's hand leaves my waist, only to gently cup my chin, tilting my face upward to meet her gaze. The height difference between us is more apparent than ever as I look up into her intense green eyes.
"You know," she says, her thumb stroking my jawline, "if you want it to be more personal, all you have to do is ask."
"But if we already agreed on how we wanted things…"
She cuts me off with a smile, her fingers still warm against my skin. "Things can change, Charles. Life is about accepting that." Her voice drops lower, more intimate. "If you want photos of us together, then let's cover this house in them. Make it feel like a home."
My heart beats faster at how willing she is to accommodate me. This woman I can't remember is offering to completely change our living space just because I feel uncomfortable. It's touching in a way I can't quite articulate.
"I'd like that," I admit, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and guilt.
"However," she adds, her eyes never leaving mine, "I want them to be new memories of us together. I want the you that you are now to feel at home." Her thumb traces my lower lip in a gesture that feels tender. "Not the version of yourself you've forgotten."
Something about her words makes me uneasy, though I can't put my finger on why. Why wouldn't she want reminders of our past life together?
"No old photos at all?" I ask carefully.
Emily's smile remains fixed, but something flickers in her eyes. "Those memories are gone, Charles. Dwelling on them won't bring them back." She releases my chin and wraps her arm around my waist again. "Wouldn't it be better to make fresh memories, ones we can both share equally?"
When she puts it that way, it's hard to argue. Maybe she's right, maybe constantly being reminded of a life I can't remember would just make things harder.
"I mean, it does make sense," I say, nodding slowly. "But didn't Dr. Patel say there was a chance I might get my memories back eventually?"
Emily's arm tenses slightly around my waist, her fingers pressing just a bit harder into my side. Her smile stays in place, but something shifts behind her eyes.
"Maybe," she says after a moment's hesitation. "There's always a possibility, I suppose." She guides me toward the couch and helps me sit down, perching beside me with her hand now resting on my knee. "But there's no guarantee, Charles. And if it happens... well, we'll address that when it happens."
Her fingers trace small circles on my knee as she leans closer, her perfume enveloping me in a cloud of something expensive and floral.
"For now," she continues, her voice softening, "I just want you to be happy and comfortable. I want to focus on the present, on helping you adjust. Is that so wrong?"
When she puts it like that, it's hard to argue. There's something almost hypnotic about her gaze, about the gentle pressure of her hand on my knee.
"No, that's not wrong," I admit. "I just... I feel like I'm living someone else's life. Like I'm an imposter."
Emily's face softens, and she reaches up to cup my cheek. "You're not an imposter, Charles. You're my husband. Memories or not, that hasn't changed."
"Okay, New memories it is."