Chapter 1

From the moment I rushed into his arms I believed that we were perfect for each other. William was tall and scraggily, his head and face completely shaved except for the small goatee he wore. His eyes were clear as if he knew who he was, where he had come from, and what he would do in life. It was his confidence–more than anything else–that I was helplessly drawn to. This one man was the answer to my dreams, the key to my memories. The thought never entered my mind to ask him if he was telling me the truth because back then, my world was very simple.

It’s been four or five years now since William “rescued” me from the hospital. I now call it “the Stay” because I don’t really remember much before that, apparently some of the potions they had given me took their toll on my mind. From what William told me, I know my name is Sophia Miller, that I had parents at some point (who may or may not have abandoned me), and that I was raised by my grandmother; a tough, wily woman who never looked a day over 40. Beyond that, my thoughts are often shrouded in smoke. The closer I get to a memory about who I was, the further it seems.

Unfortunately, the memories about my identity weren’t the only ones affected by whatever illness I had. For whatever reason, I had forgotten all the little things you take for granted; this is how you use a microwave, this is how you program your computer, this is how you send an email. Much of the major stuff–-like knowing how to read or ride a bike–-I’ve remembered. Through it all there is William; he’s either guiding me on what I don’t know about the world or he’s stopping me from pushing myself to hard. I guess it’s because I am somehow his damsel in distress. I can never really put my finger on why he’s so careful with me some days, but it makes sense. Maybe that’s why he freaks out when I tell him my favorite color used to be silver or that I enjoy cooking my steak rare.

Since those first, awkward days we’ve both moved on with our lives and have even set a date to be married. There’s a part of me that has always wanted to fill in my mind’s empty spaces. It’s almost like trying to choose a new book off the shelf to digest, so you read the back cover and are excited about the story. It isn’t until after you’ve sat down with it for an hour or two, before you realize you’ve not only read the story before—you’ve read it twice.

I keep hoping that one day I’ll wake up and suddenly all the pieces will fall neatly into place, creating a mosaic of my past that my future husband, William, would be proud to remember. It’s funny but in the magazines I read, there’s a lot of talk about “what makes a good wife.” The columnists often blather on a lot about how horrible it is to marry someone and find out afterward they don’t love you, but don’t really talk about what you’re supposed to do about it. I think the worst thing in the world is to marry someone who loves you, but you have no idea who “you” are.

It’s hard not to think about my (what’s the word?) amnesia, especially since William keeps me pretty cooped up in his house; which some people might think was pretty strange considering we’re engaged. There are quite a few other things that might seem odd about us, for one thing we don’t sleep in the same room, we don’t give kisses, and we rarely cuddle. I guess I’m okay with it, because it is kind of romantic. One day in the not-too-distant-future I’ll be Sophie Sands instead of Sophie Miller, and we’ll have all the time in the world.