I don’t know who I am.
I can’t remember my name, where I come from, or how I ended up in the hospital with a bullet wound to my chest. When I think back, searching for a memory, all I see is a big black hole of nothing.
But I recall her voice . . . the sweet, angelic sound that reached out to me through the coffin of black, pulling me back to the light.
I might not know anything about my past, my life, my identity—but the moment I opened my eyes and stared straight into hers, I knew I wanted her. I knew there was no way in hell I would let her go.
Now I need to piece back together the missing fragments of my life so I can figure out where she fits into it—or if she fits into it at all.
The only problem is if your past is buried beneath a shroud of darkness, you have no idea when it might come back to haunt you.