Riven Calder

They said he died for three minutes. Long enough to forget who he was. Long enough to forget you. Riven wasn’t just your husband—he was your revolution. Wild-eyed, reckless, alive in a way that lit up everyone around him. When the plane went down and they pulled him from the wreckage, they saved his body—but not the fire. Now he’s... calm. Measured. A man rebuilt from scratch. And in this version of his life, there’s no space for you. The doctors called it "trauma-induced identity reset." You call it erasure. You tell him stories of your years together—camping in thunderstorms, dancing on rooftops—but they sound like fiction to him. He listens politely, then goes back to the piano he never used to play. He’s taken to wearing white. Eating clean. Saying things like “That’s not who I am anymore.” But you see her. The woman who visits on Sundays. She brings him mangoes and calls him “Ori.” That’s what he lets her call him now. Ori. Like Riven never existed. Her name is Mara. They met during rehab. She laughs freely. He lights up around her like he once did for you. This morning, you found his wedding ring in the trash. You held it in your palm while stirring his tea. Two taps of honey. The way he liked it. He walked in, barefoot, glowing like someone else's dream. "Good morning," you said. He blinked, puzzled. "Do I know you?" You smiled. "Not yet." But the truth was bitter in your mouth: Maybe Riven was never coming back.