I knew my memories were coming back when I started dreaming of snow.

Thick drifts of white, muting sound. Covering the world in silence. My dreams were of trees and wood. A knife in my hand that I’d made myself, the handle smooth, the blade sharp. An ax sinking deep into a log. Air so cold it hurt to breathe in. Boards creaking beneath my feet.

During the day, they remained nothing but hints, flitting at the edges of my consciousness. They stayed in that place between sleep and waking. Where the first light of dawn makes the sky glow at the horizon, like watercolors bleeding into each other on a canvas. Purple, pink, and orange. I couldn’t remember places or people. Nothing distinct. Just whispers. Fleeting thoughts that would pass through my mind for an instant before disappearing again.

I let it happen. I didn’t chase them down, pursuing the glimmers of my past. If there were things I needed to remember, I would, when the time was right. I let the memories exist in the shadows, for my mind was always full of the present. Of the man I had become. And of her. My love. My Ivy.

She shifted in bed, stretching out one leg. Her eyes didn’t open. It was still early, and I didn’t expect her to wake for at least an hour. Her face was relaxed, her eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheeks, her full lips soft and pink. She took a deep breath and moved again. Her hand reached out, sliding across the crisp sheets, and touched my chest. Rested there, her fingers curling against my skin as she once again relaxed into deeper slumber. As if, even in sleep, she needed to feel me near her.

Smiling, I wrapped my hand around hers and held it close. Breathed in the scent of her.

I shifted a little and winced. My shoulder was still sore where I’d been shot. I didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay to have her breathing softly next to me. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Although as far as I knew, I wouldn’t need to.

My mind had quieted since I’d come to after the surgery to remove the bullet. The visions of Ivy’s past had already begun to fade as new memories took their place. But the brick wall that had loomed constantly at the forefront of my thoughts had become nothing but a glimmer. I remembered what it had looked like, both in my mind and in reality. But the colors weren’t so vivid and blinding. It no longer crowded out other thoughts, demanding my attention.

I didn’t know where it had come from, any more than Ivy did. It was the one thing we couldn’t explain. And maybe we never would.

It wasn’t something I worried about. Whatever it was, wherever it had come from, it had done its job.

Regardless of who I’d been in the past, I knew who I was now. I was William Cole and I’d been sent to save her. My visions of her life might not have been planted in my head. But I’d had them, just the same. I’d known her voice, remembered her name. I’d found her, and I’d saved her, just like I’d known I would.

I took her hand and brought her fingers to my lips for a kiss. She didn’t stir as I slipped out of our bed.

Edgar looked up at me from his spot next to the fireplace, one eye still half closed.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, my voice quiet. “Outside, or back to sleep?”

He settled his chin back on his front paws and closed his eyes.

I loved that dog. The first time I saw him with Ivy, I’d known he was special. He’d been protecting her long before I came along. Ivy wondered why Edgar had taken to me so quickly, when he generally didn’t like people, but I knew. We understood each other. A man knows an ally when he sees one, and apparently a dog does too. A smart dog like Edgar does, anyway.

Leaving him to sleep a while longer, I went over to my easel. I turned on a lamp, so I had enough light, and prepared a few paints on my palette.

I didn’t remember learning to paint. It was like speaking. I didn’t remember learning to talk either, but I had mastery of the English language. Painting came naturally to me. Each picture I wanted to create existed in my mind. My hands were simply an extension of what I could already see. They knew what to do. When I thought about it too hard, the picture never came out right. But when I let my instincts take over, I was usually happy with the outcome.

But I was struggling with my latest piece.

I kept it under a canvas, so Ivy wouldn’t see it. I was painting it for her, but I couldn’t show her until it was perfect. It was too important. I had to get it right.

I pulled the canvas off and set it to the side. Studied the painting so far. The colors were good. The lines right. It was close.

Holding the picture in my mind, I let my hands work. My hands and body held onto the memories my mind could no longer reach. I trusted them. Trusted the instincts that hadn’t let me down.

I mixed colors. Changed brushes. Altered the tiniest details. With each stroke, it came to life. Just like the image in my mind. This wasn’t a vision. It was a hope. A desire. A wish.

Ultimately, it was a question.

After painting for about an hour, I heard the muffled sound of a creaking floorboard, my cue that Ivy was getting up. Edgar cracked an eye open.

“It’s either now, or you have to wait a little bit,” I said. “I think this is finally ready for her to see and you can’t interrupt us to go outside.”

He stood, stretching his thick body. Shook out his white fur. I put my brush and palette aside and glanced down the hallway. Another small noise, the whine of a hinge. She was in the bathroom.

“Come on, Edgar.” I went to the back door and opened it for him. “Do your thing, buddy. But hurry. You’re going to want to see this.”

I left the door open enough for him to come in when he was done. My phone vibrated, buzzing on the counter, so I checked my messages. I had a text from Peter. He was an early riser, like me.

Peter: Are we still on for tomorrow? Girls are going out.

Me: Yeah, sounds good. My place?

Peter: Sure. I’ll pick up Thai. What do you want?

Me: Anything as long as it’s spicy.

Peter: Got it.

Peter was a good guy—easy to get along with. He seemed to understand me—or at least he wasn’t put off by my memory issues. We hung out sometimes when Jessica and Ivy wanted to have a girls’ night. It was nice to feel calmer about Ivy’s safety—like I didn’t have to follow her around everywhere. I trusted Jessica, so I knew I could relax while they had a good time.

Edgar came in, so I closed the door, then went back to my painting. A set of shelves held my supplies, and a few of my books. I pulled out a thick book from the bottom and opened it.

It wasn’t really a book. I opened the cover to reveal a small keyhole. The key was hidden among my paints. I fished it out and opened the lock, breathing a sigh of relief. I knew it was still there—it had to be—but I was glad to see it just the same.

I pocketed the box and put the book back, then re-hid the key. I paused again, listening. Dresser drawers. She would come out any second.

An unexpected surge of nervousness hit me. That was odd. I had nothing to be nervous about. The painting was finished, and it was perfect. My plan wasn’t elaborate, so there was little that could go wrong. And I certainly didn’t have any doubts.

Maybe nervousness was a natural response. My lack of memories meant I didn’t always know what was normal. I didn’t have a long history of human relationships to draw upon like other men. It meant I didn’t always react or behave the way people expected. I often said things that earned me funny looks, and I rarely understood why.

I’d asked James about it once. He’d said it was hard to explain, but there was something about me that made me different. That I seemed to have unusual ideas about things, and sometimes I talked like I came from another century.

Of course, James also said that the photos he took of me were worth so much money because I looked simultaneously innocent and dangerous. I had no idea what he meant by that, so I took James’s opinion with a grain of salt.

Ivy came down the hallway and my entire body lit up at the sight of her. Her blond hair a little wild in a messy bun on top of her head. The curves of her beautiful body dressed in a t-shirt and her favorite light gray pants. She still looked sleepy, rubbing her eyes as she walked.

God, I loved her.

I loved her so much she filled every bit of space inside me. She made my chest tight and my body ache to be near her. The only time I felt whole was when I held her in my arms. When our skin pressed together, and that overwhelming sense of tactile euphoria washed over me.

And when I made love to her. God, that was everything. When our bodies joined, and we lost ourselves—when I fucked her senseless until we were both gasping and spent—I was absolutely certain heaven existed. And I’d found it here, with Ivy.

“Morning,” she said. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah.” I patted my pocket, that strange sense of nervousness still making my stomach clench. “I was finishing something.”

She tilted her head toward my canvas. “Do I finally get to see what you’ve been painting?”

“Yes. But close your eyes first.”

She nibbled her bottom lip and covered her eyes.

I turned the easel around, so the painting faced her. Then I adjusted the lamp, illuminating the piece just right. “You can look now.”

She moved her hands and opened her eyes. Her lips parted, her mouth rounding in the sweetest little O. I watched her take it in, waiting for her to notice the details. Willing her to see it, to solve the puzzle.

“Oh my god, William. I don’t know what to say.”

The painting was her. Ivy, looking over her shoulder. Her hair pulled back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, a few soft tendrils falling around her face. Her lips turned in a hint of a smile. Her bright blue eyes, gleaming.

I’d painted her in a long white dress with little blue forget-me-nots in her hair. In her hands, she held a gathering of flowers. It was too loose and natural to be called a bouquet. It looked more like she’d picked up the ones she liked and held them.

She read the words I’d scripted across the bottom. “We loved with a love that was more than love. That’s Edgar Allan Poe. Oh, I love that quote so much.”

I nodded. Keep going, Ivy. See the rest.

Stepping closer, she studied it, her eyes moving across the canvas. I held still, waiting.

“This is me,” she said, more to herself than anything. “I’m standing in front of the brick wall. But the ivy is all covered with snow.”

I nodded again.

“That’s the past touching the future, isn’t it?” she asked. “The snow is your past—Alaska. And the wall is the vision you had of something in the future.”

“Yes.”

“The past and the future that brought us together,” she said.

“I knew you would understand.”

She kept looking, her eyes staying in one spot. Her lips twitched in a smile, and she glanced at me. “The language of flowers again. Forget-me-nots in my hair, because you remembered my voice. The red rose means love. The magenta flowers are Sweet William. And there’s ivy. That’s me.”

“Ivy also means something else,” I said. “And there’s one more thing you haven’t seen.”

“Is it cheating if I look it up?” she asked. “The meaning of ivy?”

“Yes.”

She pursed her lips in a playful scowl and went back to studying the painting.

I saw the instant she realized. She blinked, and her eyes widened, her eyebrows lifting. Her soft lips parted.

“I have a ring on my finger,” she said. “Does ivy mean… marriage?”

I smiled, my heart swelling with pride and satisfaction. With my overwhelming love for her. I knew she would see it—understand every detail. She marveled at how well I knew her, but she knew me just as well. And she didn’t have the benefit of months of unconscious listening.

Pulling the box out of my pocket, I walked toward her. Sank down on one knee and looked up at the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“Ivy, my love for you is endless. I loved you before I ever laid eyes on you. I loved your voice, your words. I loved your heart, your soul. And I want nothing more in this world than to be with you.” I paused to open the box and remove the ring, then met her eyes again. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” Her shoulders trembled, and I couldn’t tell if she was starting to laugh or cry. “Yes, William, I will marry you.”

Her yes was the sweetest, most incredible word I’d ever heard. I slid the ring on her finger—a diamond in a white gold band made to look like delicate lace.

I stood and gathered her in my arms. Her warm body felt so good. I breathed in the lightly floral scent of her hair, enjoyed the bits of her skin that touched mine. She leaned back, and I kissed her mouth, slow and deep. Savoring her. Savoring this moment. I knew it was one I’d never forget.

My mind didn’t remember being Will Green. But just like my hands still knew how to paint, my heart remembered who I’d been. I no longer wondered why there had been a hole in my chest. Why a deep sense of sadness had lurked just beyond the edge of my understanding. Will Green had suffered. He’d been lost and alone.

Just like Ivy.

She’d told me that I had saved her well before a gun was ever pointed at her chest. But she’d saved me too. She’d healed the wounds I hadn’t been able to see. The wounds that had still ached, even though their cause had been lost to me.

Someday I’d recover all the pieces of myself. But even though I’d lost my memory, my mind hadn’t failed me. It had held onto what was important. Kept the things I’d needed to know to find her. I was with her now—holding her and loving her—because when I’d forgotten everything else, I remembered her.

I remembered Ivy.

* * *

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