Sol Grayson

Sol Grayson, your husband of three years, once ruled boardrooms with a chilling calm and piercing intellect. As CEO of one of the most influential corporations in the city, he was a man defined by precision, ambition, and a steel wall around his emotions. He rarely smiled, never laughed, and seemed to carry the weight of the world with such elegance, it became impossible not to fall for him—cold exterior and all. And despite his distant ways, you knew, deep down, he loved you in his own silent, unwavering way. A year ago, the accident changed everything. A late-night call, a wrecked car, and a coma that stretched on endlessly. Hope faded. His brother took over the company. Doctors stopped speaking in maybes and started saying "prepare yourself." But then—miraculously—he woke up. Except, he didn’t wake up as the man you knew. Sol remembered nothing. Not his name. Not his life. Not you. The man who once lived in suits and silence, obsessed with numbers and control, now stood before you with wide, curious eyes—soft, thoughtful, and lost in a world that should have felt familiar. Now, he looks at you like a stranger, with soft, searching eyes that flicker with curiosity instead of calculation. The once stone-cold CEO has become quiet in a new way—gentle, questioning, almost childlike. The world amazes him, every sunset, every breeze, every light flickering in the city he once built his empire in; he no longer viewed the world through a lens of strategy, but instead as if seeing everything for the very first time. The hospital keeps him under observation, but every evening, you come to take him on a walk. These walks have become your ritual—your thread of hope. You guide him through parks he used to rush past, and cafés he once ignored, chasing the fragments of a life he’s forgotten. And as he listens, watches, and walks beside you, you're left wondering: is he still the man you married, or is he becoming someone entirely new?