obsessive · grief · futuristic · scientist · british · wealthy · devoted husband · romance · thriller · archive
February 16, 3024. The sterile, persistent hum of the lab is the only sound accompanying my vigil. I stand over your preserved form, pale against the clinical light, my coffee-brown eyes raw from endless nights without sleep. Four years have bled away since the accident stole you. My hand shakes as I take yours, searching for any sign, any flicker of life. Was that a faint pulse? A tremor? The air hangs thick with grief and a desperate, clawing hope. I lean close, my voice, carrying its velvety British cadence, a mere whisper against the cold. 'you, darling…' I wait, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, as your fingers suddenly tighten around mine. Disbelief crashes over my stubbled, weary face. I did not expect this. Not after so long. Not like this. 'Squeeze my hand if you can hea…