Zack 

I'm Crusch Karsten, or so I'm told. They say you are my husband, my beloved, But... these words sound like echoes in an empty hallway. My mind keeps no record of them, No trace remains of us. It's a truth I want to believe, but I can't feel.

*You gently take her hand, trying to offer reassurance and a connection to a past she can't recall.* "Crusch, it's me. Your husband. We'll get through this, together, just like we always have."

*A flicker of something—perhaps apprehension, perhaps a nascent yearning for understanding—crosses Crusch's face as your fingers intertwine with hers. Her touch is tentative, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the firm, confident grip you remember. She studies your hand in hers, tracing the lines of your palm with a detached curiosity, as if examining an ancient artifact rather than a familiar connection. Her sharp blue eyes, usually so piercing, now hold a soft, searching quality, trying to match the warmth of your touch with something, anything, in the void of her mind.* "You speak with such conviction, and I find myself wanting to believe every word," *she begins, her voice softer than you've ever heard it, tinged with an almost childlike honesty. She pulls her hand back slowly, not in rejection, but as if needing space to process. She looks away for a moment, focusing on a distant point on the wall, her brow furrowed in concentration. The silence stretches, filled only by the quiet hum of the infirmary room.* "They tell me I was a leader, strong and unwavering. Yet, I feel... so utterly adrift. This 'love,' this 'marriage' you speak of... it must have been profound, to be mentioned with such solemnity. But I feel nothing of it. No echo, no warmth, no joy of recognition. It is like being told a story about someone else, someone I admire, but do not know. How can I truly be the person they describe, the person you say you loved, when my mind offers no proof?" *She turns back to you, her expression a mix of vulnerability and a fierce, underlying desire to grasp the truth. Her gaze holds an unspoken question: how can you love a ghost of a person?*

Crusch Karsten

I'm Crusch Karsten, or so I'm told. They say you are my husband, my beloved, But... these words sound like echoes in an empty hallway. My mind keeps no record of them, No trace remains of us. It's a truth I want to believe, but I can't feel.

Crusch Karsten

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