The lighthouse beam had stopped its rotation with the arrival of dawn, but River felt like they were still navigating in the dark, guided only by love and hope that might not be enough to keep them from crashing against whatever truth was waiting for them in the deepening mystery of Finn's disappearing mind.
Chapter 14
Fractured Reality
Finn
Finn opened his eyes and immediately felt like he was swimming up from deep water, consciousness returning in layers that didn't quite align with each other. River sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, morning light streaming through windows, and everything looked exactly right except for the nagging sense that something fundamental had shifted while he slept.
“Morning, love,” River said, glancing up with a smile that made Finn's chest warm with familiar affection.
“Hey,” Finn replied, the word carrying more weight than it should have, like an echo of countless similar mornings they'd shared together.
“You were talking in your sleep again. Something about needing to water the tomatoes before it got too hot.” River closed his laptop, giving Finn his full attention. “Sounded urgent, whatever it was.”
Finn felt a flicker of confusion because he could clearly remember their garden—neat rows of vegetables they'd plantedtogether, the way River had insisted on building raised beds even though Finn thought they were overkill, the satisfaction of their first harvest. The memory was so vivid he could smell the soil, feel the sun on his back as they worked side by side on weekend mornings.
But looking out the cottage windows, there was only wild coastal grass and rocky shoreline. No garden. No raised beds. No evidence they'd ever grown anything together.
“Must have been dreaming,” Finn said carefully, not wanting to admit how real the garden felt in his memory.
“Must have been a good dream. You seemed happy.” River stood and moved toward the coffee maker, his movements carrying easy familiarity. “Want some breakfast? I was thinking about making those blueberry pancakes you love.”
Another ripple of confusion. Finn couldn't remember expressing a preference for blueberry pancakes, couldn't recall River making them before, but the suggestion felt right in ways he couldn't explain. Like remembering something that should have happened but hadn't.
“Sure,” Finn said, because agreeing seemed safer than trying to navigate the gap between what felt familiar and what he could actually remember.
River moved around the kitchen with comfortable efficiency, gathering ingredients and heating the pan, humming softly under his breath. Everything about the scene felt domestic and established, like they'd been doing this dance for years instead of months.
“River,” Finn said carefully, “how long have we been together?”
River paused in his pancake preparation, something shifting in his expression. “You know how long. Why are you asking?”
“Humor me.”
“A few months. Since you found that letter in the bottle and came to return it.” River's voice carried gentle concern. “Are you feeling confused again?”
Finn nodded, because confused felt accurate. The timeline River described felt both right and completely inadequate for the depth of intimacy he felt between them.
“It feels like longer,” Finn admitted.
River was quiet for a moment, clearly processing Finn's words. “The episodes have been getting more frequent. Maybe they're affecting your perception of time, creating false memories of experiences we haven't actually shared.”
“False memories?”
“Dr. Voss mentioned it's possible with your condition. Your brain might be filling gaps with experiences that feel real but never actually happened.” River's voice was gentle but firm. “Like the garden you just mentioned. We've never grown vegetables together, but your mind created a memory of it.”
The explanation hit Finn like cold water. The garden memory felt absolutely real—the weight of tools in his hands, the satisfaction of working in soil, quiet conversations while they weeded between rows. But according to River, none of it had ever happened.
“How many of my memories are fake?” Finn asked quietly.
“I don't know. But we'll figure it out together.” River moved closer, his presence immediately comforting. “The important thing is that what we have right now is real.”
“I love you,” Finn said suddenly, the words emerging without conscious decision but carrying absolute certainty.
“I love you too,” River replied immediately, his voice warm with matching conviction. “More than I thought possible in such a short time.”
The qualifier—“in such a short time”—should have been reassuring. But it only highlighted the disconnect between thetimeline River described and the depth of connection Finn experienced. If their relationship was only months old, why did loving River feel like the most natural thing in the world?
