“Some people are loved so deeply they become part of a person’s identity.”

Anamta stands over the bed, watching him sleep. He’s buried in her blankets, seeking out her scent even in unconsciousness; it’s the only thing that seems to settle his mind. She tracks the progress of his recovery across his skin—the wounds are fading, the jagged edges of the accident smoothing into faint lines. He can walk now. It’s a clumsy, staggering gait, but she’s always there, a steadying hand before he hit the floor. She leans down, pressing a ghost of a kiss to his forehead, then slips out to start breakfast.