Chapter 109
[Rose's POV]
Two days passed.
My cervical collar came off yesterday afternoon. The neurologist had been cautiously optimistic—no permanent nerve damage, minimal residual stiffness, full range of motion restored. I could turn my head without that nauseating spike of pain shooting down my spine. Small victories, I supposed.
James had barely left my side during those forty-eight hours. He'd aged a decade in three days, the lines around his eyes deepening with each passing hour Benjamin remained lost to himself. This morning I'd finally convinced him to return to Magnolia Estate for proper rest.
"You're no use to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion," I'd told him firmly, despite the guilt gnawing at my chest. "Go home. Shower. Sleep in an actual bed. I'll call if anything changes."
He'd resisted, of course. But when I'd pointed out that his presence was making the nursing staff nervous he'd reluctantly agreed.
Now the afternoon sun slanted through my hospital room window, painting geometric patterns across the sterile white sheets. I sat propped against pillows, scrolling through my phone with detached interest. The news cycle had moved on from the car accident, thank God. Some celebrity scandal in Los Angeles was dominating the entertainment feeds now.
My thumb paused over the messaging app. Two weeks. That's how long until the next American Dream Star stage performance. I'd completely forgotten to coordinate with my teammates about rehearsal schedules.
I opened the group chat, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? Sorry for going radio silent, was in a car crash, my great-grandson lost his memories, please send choreography notes?
The door opened.
"James, I told you to go home," I said without looking up, my tone carrying that particular note of exasperation reserved for stubborn elderly relatives. "You need actual rest, not—"
Silence.
Not the comfortable quiet of James settling into the visitor's chair with a resigned sigh. This was different. Weighted. The kind of silence that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I looked up.
Benjamin stood just inside the doorway.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. He looked better than he had two days ago—the bandages around his head had been reduced to a smaller dressing, the pallor had left his cheeks, and he was wearing actual clothes instead of a hospital gown. Dark jeans. A plain white t-shirt. The cast on his right arm gleamed white against the fabric.
But it was his eyes that stopped my breath.
Not empty anymore. Not confused or lost or searching for recognition that wouldn't come.
They were focused. Certain. Burning with something I couldn't quite name.
"Benjamin." I set my phone aside slowly, keeping my movements calm despite the sudden spike in my pulse. "You shouldn't be walking around without—"
He crossed the room in three strides.
I barely had time to process his movement before he was there, hands gripping the bed rails on either side of me, his face inches from mine. The scent of hospital soap and something uniquely him—sandalwood and clean linen—filled my lungs.
"Benjamin, what are you—"
His lips met mine.
The world tilted sideways.
I'm being kissed by my great-grandson.
The thought should have horrified me. Should have triggered immediate recoil, a sharp shove, demands for explanation. Instead, my brain short-circuited completely, caught in the absolute wrongness of the situation even as my body registered the devastating rightness of his mouth on mine.
It wasn't a tentative kiss. Nothing uncertain or questioning about it. His lips were firm, confident, carrying the weight of absolute conviction. Like he'd kissed me a thousand times before and knew exactly how I would respond.
I sat frozen, hands gripping the sheets, while my mind tried desperately to catch up with reality.
Then he pulled back.
Not far. Just enough that I could see his face clearly. His gray eyes were wet, red-rimmed, but not with confusion or fear. With recognition. With relief so profound it made my chest ache.
"I remember," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Everything."
My heart stopped.
"I remember the house in Cambridge." His words came faster now, tumbling over each other. "The garden where you grew tomatoes every summer. The way you hummed while you worked in your study, that Mozart piece you could never quite get right. The night I proposed, you wore that green dress and I was so nervous I dropped the ring twice."
The air left my lungs.
"I remember the war." His voice cracked. "The way you cried when I enlisted. The letters we wrote. The last time I held you before my unit shipped out—you made me promise to come back, and I swore I would."
"No." The word escaped before I could stop it. "That's not—Benjamin, you can't—"
"I remember dying," he continued, and there were tears on his cheeks now. "The cold. The darkness. And then waking up here, in this life, with no idea why I felt like I'd lost something vital until I saw you."
My hands were shaking.
"I remember you, my little apple," he whispered, and that nickname—that stupid, sweet nickname Robert had given me in 1941 because I'd been eating an apple when he first tried to kiss me and I'd laughed so hard I'd nearly choked—shattered every wall I'd built around this impossible situation.
"You can't be," I said, but my voice had gone hoarse. "Robert died. I watched them fold the flag. I buried an empty coffin because there wasn't enough left to—"
"I know." He released the bed rails, hands moving to cup my face with devastating gentleness. "I know what you went through. I know you raised Jimmy alone. I know you died trying to save people from that reactor and I wasn't there to protect you." His thumbs brushed away tears I hadn't realized were falling. "I know I broke my promise to come back."
"This isn't possible."
"I've had eighty years to find you again," Benjamin—Robert—said quietly. "I don't understand the how or the why of it. Maybe I never will. But I know three things with absolute certainty."
"What three things?" The question came out barely above a whisper.
"One." His voice steadied. "I loved you in my first life with everything I had."
My breath hitched.
"Two." His grip on my face tightened fractionally. "I've been unconsciously searching for you in this life since the moment I was born, even when I didn't understand what that aching emptiness meant."
"And three?"
His eyes held mine, gray meeting hazel with the weight of two lifetimes.
"I found you," he said simply. "And I'm never letting you go again."