Lost Time

My phone rings.

I know the number before I look.

Six years. Every call from this hospital has sounded exactly the same—clinical updates, medication adjustments, insurance questions. The rhythm of a life suspended.

I stare at the screen. My hand won't move.

"Mom, the phone is ringing," Dashell calls from the kitchen.

"I know, baby."

My thumb hovers over the green button. The cereal box rustles. A spoon clinks against ceramic. Normal sounds. A normal morning.

Except this doesn't feel normal.

I answer.

"Hello?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.

"Ms. Allen?" The woman's tone is careful. Measured. "I have an update on Mr. Allen's health status."

The floor tilts.

This silence is different.

"Ms. Allen? Are you there?"

"Yes." I grip the counter. "I'm here."

"Are you able to come to the facility today?"

My heart stops.

Today. Not when you have time. Today.

"Of course." The words scrape out. "I'll be there in an hour."

I hang up before she can say anything else.

The engagement ring catches the morning light. I twist it once, twice, a habit I can't break.

The ring box tumbled onto the dirt.

We both stared at it.

"Beck—"

"I can't wait." He scooped up the box, flipped it open. His hands were shaking. "I had this whole plan. We were supposed to hike to the top and I was going to jump off the cliff into the river and when I survived I was going to ask you but I can't—I can't wait that long."

"Will you marry me?"

The words came out in a rush. Desperate. Terrified.

I started laughing. I couldn't help it.

His face fell.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, of course yes."

He blinked. "Really?"

"Really."

He slid the ring on my finger, lifted me off my feet, spun me around. We were both laughing, breathless.

I was so happy.

The memory dissolves.

I'm standing in my kitchen, staring at the same ring, six years later.

I never took it off.

"Mom?" Dashell appears in the doorway, milk on his upper lip, dark curls falling into his eyes. "Where are you going?"

I look at my son—five years old, gap-toothed smile, his father's face—and force myself to breathe.

"Aunt Willow's going to watch you for a little while." I cross to him, smooth his hair back. "I need to run an errand."

"Can I come?"

"Not this time, sweetheart."

His face falls, but he doesn't argue. He's learned not to ask about the hospital.

I kiss the top of his head and reach for my keys.

Twenty minutes at Willow's house. She asks questions I can't answer. I leave Dashell mid-sentence, promising trampoline parks and lunch out—things I can't afford but suddenly need to give him. One last good day before everything changes.

The car door closes and I'm alone. I grip the steering wheel. Stare at the dashboard. My hands won't stop shaking.

The hospital sign appears on the right. I take the exit too fast, tires squealing. The parking lot stretches out in front of me—half empty on a Tuesday morning. I pull into a spot near the back, far from the entrance.

I turn off the engine.

Silence.

My chest tightens. My throat closes.

And then I scream.

The sound rips out of me—raw and animal and six years overdue. My ears ring. My throat burns. I scream until there's nothing left, until my voice cracks and breaks and I'm gasping for air.

I slump forward against the steering wheel.

The wish dies before it finishes forming.

I straighten. Wipe my face. Check the mirror. My reflection stares back—older than I remember, tired in ways sleep can't fix.

I get out of the car.

The automatic doors slide open. Cold air hits my face.

"Good morning, Ms. Allen."

The receptionist smiles at me. Warm. No pity in her eyes. She's seen me every month for six years—watched me grow a belly, bring a baby, then a toddler, then a little boy who asks when his daddy will wake up.

She's probably numb to it by now.

"Dr. Higgins is waiting for you." She pauses. "In Mr. Allen's room."

My stomach drops. Dr. Higgins never waits in the room. He meets me in his office, in the hallway, at the nurses' station. Never in the room.

"Thank you," I manage.

My feet know the way. Down the familiar hallway, past the nurses' station, toward Room 247. I've walked this route hundreds of times. I could do it blind. But today my legs feel like lead. Each step takes effort. The hallway stretches longer than it should, like in dreams where you run but never move forward.

I stop outside his door. The nameplate still reads Allen, Beckett.

I take a breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly.

My hand reaches for the handle.

I can't move.

My fingers hover an inch from the metal. The door is right there. I've opened it hundreds of times. But my body won't obey.

I'm stuck at the threshold.

Movement inside the room. Footsteps. The door opens from the other side. Dr. Higgins stands in the doorway, chart in hand. He sees my face and something shifts in his expression—understanding, maybe. He doesn't ask me to come in. Instead, he steps into the hallway beside me.

"Ms. Allen." His voice is careful. "How are you?"

The question feels absurd. How am I? I'm here because you called me here. Because something happened. Because after six years of waiting, this is finally—

"He's responsive," Dr. Higgins says quietly. "Awake. Alert. He recognized his own name."

My knees almost give out. I grip the doorframe.

"His memory is fragmented. Recovery will be unpredictable—months of therapy, maybe years." He pauses. "I need you to know it's not the end of waiting. Just different now."

I nod. Can't speak.

He glances back into the room, then at me. I still can't move. I can’t let myself believe it’s real. I’ve waited for so long to hear these words.

"Lila?"

The voice stops my heart. Rough. Deep. Barely more than a whisper.

But his.

Dr. Higgins steps aside, clearing the doorway. My legs carry me forward. I cross the threshold. Three steps into the room.

Blue eyes stare back at me. Sky blue. The color I see every time I close my eyes, the color I was terrified I'd forget.

Real.

Alive.

Awake.

"Beckett?" His name breaks coming out.

He's watching me like he's trying to solve a puzzle. His lips barely move when he speaks. "Please."

I can't move. If I move, I'll wake up. This is a dream. It has to be. Six years of hoping and this can't be real, he can't be—

"Lila."

I move. As I reach the bed and my knees give out. I collapse onto the mattress, bury my face in his chest, and sob.

His hand lifts—slow, shaking—and rests against my hair.

He's warm.

He's breathing.

He's here.

"What happened?" The words rumble through his chest.

I pull back to sit up. His hand falls away and I immediately miss the weight of it.

"You had an accident." My voice doesn't sound like mine. "A car accident. You've been in a coma."

His eyebrows pull together. "What?"

"A drunk driver ran a red light. Hit your car. You had surgery for brain swelling and bleeding." The words come out clinical. Detached. Like I'm reading from a report. "You were already unconscious when they brought you in."

"Was I..." He tries to clear his throat. Winces. "Was I alone?"

"I was waiting for you at home."

He closes his eyes. His face scrunches like he's in pain.

I cup his cheek. My thumb brushes across his skin—rough with stubble. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He takes a breath and opens his eyes. They're hazy, unfocused, like he's looking through me into the past.

"Your birthday," he says finally. "We went to that restaurant you liked. The one with the—" He stops. Swallows. "The Italian place."

My birthday.

Seven months before the accident. Before the proposal. Before I found out I was pregnant. Before the police officer showed up at my door and my entire world collapsed.

"That was seven months before the accident," I tell him gently.

He stares at me. Processing. His heart monitor beeps faster.

"Seven months," he repeats.

"Beck—"

"How long?" His voice cracks. "How long have I been here?"

I brace myself.

"Six years."

The words land like a physical blow. His face breaks. Just—breaks. His eyes water and he turns away, blinking rapidly, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump.

The heart monitor spikes. I reach over and reset it with shaking hands. The beeping slows but doesn't stop entirely.

"Six years," he whispers to the wall.

I don't know what to say. I'm sorry feels wrong. It's okay would be a lie. So I sit with him in the silence and wait for his heart to stop breaking.

Beckett's hand finds mine. His grip is weak, but it's there.

"What happened?" he asks quietly. "In six years?"

"Do you remember me telling you I was pregnant?"

His eyebrows pull together. "Pregnant?" He shakes his head slowly. "Seven months before... I don't..."

"Two months before the accident," I correct gently. "I found out two months before."

His eyes widen. "You were—" He stops. Swallows hard. "What did you do?"

"I had the baby." My voice is barely a whisper. "Seven months after the accident. You have a son, Beck."

His hand moves from mine to his stomach. Both hands rest there, trembling slightly. He stares down at them like they belong to someone else.

"A son," he repeats.

I see him again in our kitchen, lifting me off my feet, spinning me around, laughing so hard the neighbors probably heard.

"I have a son." His voice breaks on the last word.

"His name is Dashell. You picked it."

He looks up at me. "I did?"

"We were sitting on the couch looking at the first sonogram. I wanted to name him Beckett but you said he should have his own name." I smile through the tears gathering in my eyes. "You said, 'What about Dashell?' and I loved it immediately."

His hands fist in the blanket.

"I missed his first breath." The words come out barely above a whisper.

He doesn't look at me. Just stares at that blank wall like it holds answers. The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty. I count them.

"I'm sorry," I finally whisper.

"Don't." His jaw clenches. "Don't apologize for something that's not your fault."

But I see it in his face—the grief of missing something he can't even remember wanting.

"Do you have a picture?" he asks.

I pull out my phone. Scroll to the most recent photo—Dashell at his class Valentine's Day party, gap-toothed smile, dark curls falling into his eyes.

I hand Beckett the phone.

For one irrational second, I want to scream at him for missing our son’s life. For getting to miss the sleepless nights, the fear, the loneliness. For leaving me to do it alone.

Then I see his face.

He takes a sharp breath.

"He looks like..."

"Like you," I finish.

Beckett stares at the screen. His thumb hovers over the image like he wants to touch it but doesn't know if he's allowed.

"He's five?"

"Almost six."

"Six years old." He says it like he's testing the words. “I have a son I've never met.”

"He's met you," I say softly. "I've been bringing him here since he was a baby. He sits in that chair and holds your hand and tells you about his day."

Beckett looks at the empty chair beside the bed.

"He's been waiting a long time for you to wake up," I tell him.

My phone vibrates. I glance at the screen.

Willow: I made the stupid mistake of telling Dashell we're going to visit and he wants to come NOW.

I look up at Beckett. "Do you want to meet him?"

Fear flashes across his face. Then something else—determination, maybe. Or hope.

"Yes."

I text Willow back: Come now.

Twenty minutes later, the door opens.

Willow stands in the doorway, one hand on Dashell's shoulder. He's bouncing on his toes, eyes wide, scanning the room until they land on the bed.

On his father.

"Dad!" He breaks free from Willow and runs.

Beckett's entire body goes rigid.

Dashell skids to a stop at the bedside, grabs the rail, and pulls himself up on his toes to see better.

"You're awake! Mom said you were awake but I didn't believe her because you've been asleep forever and—" He takes a breath. "Hi!"

Beckett stares at him. At this small person with his face.

"Hi," Beckett manages.

"I'm Dashell." He grabs the rail tighter. "I'm your son."

"I know." Beckett's voice is rough.

Dashell launches into a breathless monologue—the science museum, training wheels, his best friend Marcus. Beckett listens without interrupting, his tired eyes never leaving his son's face.

Willow catches my gaze from the doorway. I nod and she slips out quietly, leaving us alone.

Dashell climbs into the chair he's sat in dozens of times before. But this time is different. This time his father is looking back at him.

"So," Dashell says, swinging his legs. "What do you want to know about me?"

Beckett glances at me. I nod encouragingly.

"Everything," Beckett says.

The word hangs in the air between them.

Dashell's face lights up. He talks about kindergarten—his teacher, the class hamster named Pickles. Five years compressed into breathless sentences.

Beckett watches him. Really watches him. His eyes track every gesture, every expression, like he's trying to memorize his son's face in real time.

Exhaustion starts winning. Beckett's blinks slow. His head sinks deeper into the pillow. But he doesn't look away. Doesn't interrupt. Just listens as Dashell fills the silence.

"And then at recess we played tag and I was so fast nobody could catch me and—" Dashell yawns mid-sentence. "And then..."

His words slow. His eyes droop.

"Dash," I say softly. "Come here."

But he's already leaning forward, resting his head against the mattress near Beckett's hip.

"Just for a minute," he mumbles.

Beckett's hand lifts slowly and hovers over Dashell's curls. He looks at me. Uncertain. Like he needs permission to touch his own son. I offer him a smile and his hand settles gently into those dark curls.

Dashell sighs. Shifts closer. Within seconds, his breathing evens out. The room falls silent except for the steady beep of the heart monitor and Dashell's soft exhales.

Beckett stares down at him. His thumb moves slightly, stroking through his son's hair. A tear slides down his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away.

"I missed so much," he whispers.

The words break something in my chest.

"Not everything," I manage. "You're here now."

"I missed his birth." His voice cracks. "His first word. His first steps. I missed five years."

"I know."

His hand stills in Dashell's hair. "How do I..." He stops. Swallows hard. "How do I get that back?"

"You don't." The words hurt to say. "You can't get it back, Beck. But you can be here for what comes next."

He looks at me. Eyes red-rimmed and exhausted and devastated.

"What if I can't remember? What if I never remember?"

"Then we'll make new memories."

He turns back to Dashell. His hand still resting in those dark curls.

"He doesn't know me."

"He will."

Beckett's eyes close as more tears fall down his cheeks. Within minutes, both of them are asleep—father and son, strangers learning to be family.

I pull out my phone. Beckett's hand in Dashell's hair. Dashell's small body curled against the bed. Both of them breathing in sync. I take the photo.

The first of many. A family beginning again.