Memories regain
Chapter Thirty–Six
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound as Adrian stirred the steaming bowl on the table. The mixture of herbs had filled the suite with a heavy, earthy scent ginseng, crushed mint, dried leaves, and a faint metallic note from the iron pot.
He lifted the lid slightly, letting the steam curl up around his face. The warmth stung his eyes, but the smell grounded him. He could almost hear his mother’s voice soft, steady, instructing him the same way she used to when she taught him to blend medicinal teas.
—
“Smell tells the truth the eyes can’t see. When the scent feels familiar, memory is already working.”
He took a slow breath. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and rain–damp air from the half–open window. He sat down, rolled his sleeves, and set the silver ring on the table before him.
For a long time, he simply stared at it. That ring had been on his hand for as long as he could remember. He had once assumed it was nothing – just a keepsake from a past he couldn’t reach. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He reached for the bowl and brought it to his lips.
The first sip was bitter — dry, sharp, almost biting.
The second softened, carrying a faint sweetness at the end.
By the third, his chest felt warm. His pulse slowed. His breathing steadied.
He closed his eyes. The scent. The taste. The warmth.
They were unlocking something.
It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t illusion.
It was chemistry- the body remembering what the mind had forgotten.
He leaned back slightly, the bowl cradled in his hands. The world felt strangely distant, yet sharp at the same time every sound clearer, every scent deeper.
–
His thoughts began to wander, unbidden.
น
He saw flashes – a bright kitchen, a woman in a light blue dress stirring something over a stove, sunlight spilling across the counter. Her laughter – soft, musical. His mother.
Then another image – a large house, voices arguing, a door slamming. A young man― himself — clutching a small suitcase, the same ring glinting on his finger as he was led away.
–
The memory was faint, but it hurt.
His hands trembled slightly as he set the bowl down. His heart was pounding now.
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Memories regain
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He leaned forward, pressing his palms to his forehead. The scent of the herbs still lingered in his nose → grounding –but it mixed with something heavier, older.
Grief.
He remembered her eyes when she handed him that ring.
sharp,
“If you ever lose your way,” she had said, “just follow what you feel. The world can take everything from you but not your hands, not your mind, and not your name.”
He exhaled shakily.
His name.
It came back to him in pieces
– his mother’s voice calling it softly through the years.
“Adrian… Ryan Cole…”
He whispered it aloud, his throat tight. “Adrian Ryan Cole…”
The sound of it filled the empty room, quiet but final — like a door opening somewhere deep inside him.
–
steady, inevitable, He sat back, staring at nothing. The flood of memory wasn’t violent. It came like a tide — washing away the fog that had blurred the years. Faces, places, words – all finding their way home.
He remembered his mother. The Cole mansion. The accident. The day he walked away.
And then nothing but silence.
The kind of silence that comes when the past finally stops chasing you.
A long breath left his chest. His body felt heavy now, his mind dull with exhaustion. The mixture had done its work – not through magic, but through calm, through focus, through the scent and warmth that stirred something long buried.
He didn’t even realize when he drifted sideways onto the bed, still half–sitting. His eyes closed. He then see flashes of a man sealing his memories. But his face wasn’t clear.
The last thing he felt was the faint weight of the ring pressing cool against his skin, and the faint smell of herbs still in the air.
For the first time in years, his sleep came without confusion or fragments – just quiet, deep and whole.
And when morning came, so did his clarity.
The man who opened his eyes was no longer uncertain of who he was.
He was Adrian Ryan Cole – and he finally remembered.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
