Chapter 6
Miracles didn’t come to Andrea in ones or twos—they arrived in waves, knocking on her door, arms wide open. It felt strange, adjusting to life with someone else again. She had grown used to solitude, to the quiet emptiness of her home, where every sound was her own. Now, there was movement, warmth, the constant presence of another person filling the space she had long since accepted as hollow.
Laughter, small talk, and the comforting hum of companionship—things she had unknowingly let slip away—slowly crept back into her days. And somehow, despite being the one she had taken in, Asher made it feel like she was the guest in her own home. He cooked. He cleaned. He filled the air with humor. For a man who didn’t even remember his own name, let alone his past, he was perhaps the sharpest person she had ever met.
With a little effort, she managed to get some old clothes from Mr. Dylan next door. The only problem? Mr. Dylan was half a foot shorter, and Asher’s long limbs made the borrowed pants look almost comical. But that wasn’t the strangest thing about him. His mind—now that was something remarkable.
One evening, Andrea sat at the small kitchen table, buried in numbers, trying to stretch her dwindling savings for as long as possible. Asher peeked over her shoulder, curious. Within minutes, what had been a mess of receipts and anxious calculations turned into neatly structured tables and projections. He mapped out her expenses—groceries, electricity, rent—breaking it all down with an ease that left her speechless. He looked just as surprised as she did.
She had asked him once why he hadn’t tried getting a job, and she had felt foolish as soon as the words left her mouth. Who would hire a homeless man with no identity, no papers, not even a name?
But now, as she stared at the brilliant calculations laid out in front of her, she knew one thing for certain.
Maybe it was time for Asher to reconsider.
Every evening, they sat by the window, playing board games—Ludo, carrom, Chinese checkers. Chess had been banned from their lineup, mostly because Andrea had lost one too many times.
Tonight, it was Chinese checkers, and once again, she was losing. Desperate to distract him, she steered the conversation toward neighborhood gossip.
“You know, the postman refuses to deliver Mrs. Kline’s mail anymore? Her dog keeps chasing him off—almost bit him twice.” Andrea smirked, shifting a piece on the board. These little tidbits had become her entertainment ever since she lost her job and found herself stuck at home.
Asher hummed in response, focused on his next move.
“And Johnson’s Feed & Supply—the place where I used to work? They’re shutting down. Apparently, they’re nearly bankrupt.” She shook her head. “I don’t get it. They were making a profit every month. I saw the numbers. How does that even happen?”
That got his attention. His eyes flicked up, sharp and alert in a way she hadn’t seen before.
“Andrea,” he said, voice tinged with excitement. “Profit on paper doesn’t mean they’re doing well. Cash flow is what keeps a business alive. A company can be ‘profitable’ and still go bankrupt if they can’t pay their bills on time.”
Andrea frowned. “But if they’re making money, shouldn’t that be enough?”
“Not necessarily,” he countered. “Businesses focus too much on revenue—how much money they bring in. But what really matters is net profit. It’s not about what you make; it’s about what you keep. And even that doesn’t matter if the cash flow is tight. Timing is everything. If they’re getting paid late by clients but have to pay suppliers on time, they’ll hit a financial wall before they even realize it.”
She noticed it then—the way his posture changed, how animated he suddenly was. He liked talking about this.
“Okay… but they took out a loan to expand. Shouldn’t that have helped?”
Asher scoffed. “Depends. There’s good debt and bad debt. Smart business owners use debt strategically—to grow, invest, and scale. But if they’re drowning in high-interest liabilities without a clear return, that’s bad debt. The best businesses use OPM—Other People’s Money—whether that’s investors, partnerships, or loans with smart terms.”
Andrea leaned back, eyeing him curiously. How did a man with no memory, not even of his own name, know all this?
“So, if cash flow and debt management are so important, how do investors decide if a business is worth it?”
He exhaled, arms crossed, looking like he had done this a thousand times before.
“Serious investors don’t just look at revenue. They focus on EBITDA—Earnings Before Interest, Taxes, Depreciation, and Amortization. That’s what tells them if the business is truly profitable. And even then, industry matters. A software company can be valued at ten times its earnings, while a retail store gets maybe three times. Some businesses scale easily; others don’t.”
Andrea tilted her head. “Scaling… that means growing fast, right?”
“Not just growing—growing efficiently,” he corrected. “The best businesses don’t depend on people; they depend on systems. If your business falls apart the moment you step away, you don’t own a business. You own a job.”
She laughed. “That sounds brutal.”
He shrugged. “It’s the truth. Data matters more than gut feelings. Smart entrepreneurs don’t just ‘trust their instincts’; they track numbers. They optimize what works and cut what doesn’t.”
Andrea smirked. “So, when you negotiate a business deal, do you follow the same logic?”
His lips curled into a grin. “Absolutely. First rule? Never accept the first offer. The person with the most leverage always wins. And you always—always—need an exit strategy. A deal that locks you in with no way out? That’s not a deal—it’s a trap.”
Then he stopped.
The words hung between them, his expression shifting as if something had just clicked.
Andrea stared at him, heart pounding. It was a breakthrough—the biggest they’d ever had.
Because for a man who didn’t even remember his own name, Asher had just remembered something.
Andrea froze. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, her fingers tightening around the game piece she had been holding. This wasn’t just idle knowledge—this was instinct, experience, something buried deep inside him that had just surfaced without warning.
And Asher—he looked just as shocked as she felt. His lips parted slightly, his brows drawing together as if he were hearing himself for the first time. His hands, which had been casually resting on the table, curled into fists.
They both sat there, motionless, staring at each other. The air between them felt charged, as if they had just stumbled upon something far bigger than a simple conversation.
Andrea swallowed. What did this mean?
If he could remember this—if he could speak about finance, business strategy, investments as if he had done it his entire life—then maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as lost as they thought. Maybe his past wasn’t completely erased.
And if one memory had returned…
More could follow.
She exhaled, the weight of realization pressing down on her. Who was Asher before he became the man sitting across from her?
And more terrifyingly… who or what exactly had he been trying to forget?
What if…
Andrea wondered.
What if the magic continued just a little longer?
Her heart pounded as she watched him, as she watched the light in his eyes—the flicker of something more than just instinct, more than just survival. Something real. What if she pushed just a little further? What if she could keep him here, in this moment, before it slipped away?
She hesitated, then softly asked, “What’s your name?”
A slow, unbearable silence stretched between them.
For a moment, he didn’t answer. He only looked at her—looked through her—like she was something precious, something familiar yet just beyond his grasp.
Then, as if the word had always been waiting on his tongue, he exhaled a single name.
“Asher.”
The light in his eyes flickered. Diminished. Reality crept in, clawing at the edges of whatever magic had made him remember. But he didn’t look away. He kept watching her, studying her, as if seeing her for the first time—or maybe for the last.
Andrea didn’t falter. She didn’t let the ache in her chest show. Instead, she smiled and took it all in stride.
“For now,” she nodded.
That night, before bed, she marked 23rd December on her calendar.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. And in just a few weeks, she would be stepping into her eighth month of pregnancy.
As she lay in bed, sleep pulled her under, deep and dreamless at first. Then the image came—so vivid, so sharp, it felt real.
Asher stood before her, separated by a glass wall. But something was wrong. He wasn’t the man who made her laugh, who helped her fold laundry, who played board games with her every evening.
He was distant. Cold. His face was devoid of warmth, of recognition.
She pressed her palm against the glass. “Asher?”
He didn’t react.
“Asher!” she tried again, louder this time. Still, nothing. He only stared through her, as if she were a stranger.
Panic swelled in her chest. “ASHER!” She banged on the glass, desperate to break whatever trance had taken him. “It’s me!”
Finally, he spoke.
But the words shattered her.
“I am not Asher.”
And just like that, the dream dissolved into darkness.