The Man Lost In the Snow

In our junior year of college, Ethan and I were trapped in a broken elevator for five full hours. As someone with severe claustrophobia, I could barely breathe in the dark. So, he held my hand tightly and tapped three times into my palm, over and over again.

He said, “Lexie, whenever you’re scared, I’ll tap three times. It means I’m here. Don’t be scared.”

From that moment on, it became our private signal for help. However, Ethan had now lost his memory, and as someone who had lost his memory, how could he possibly remember something like that?

My thoughts blurred, and just then, the auction segment began. Ethan’s painting, ‘Years in the Mountains,’ was brought out as the final piece. The canvas showed a quiet wooden cabin. In front of it, a girl sat feeding chickens, sunlight spilling over her. Everything about it felt peaceful. That was the three years he spent with Jane.

“Mr. Ethan,” a collector seated in the front row asked curiously, “the lighting in this piece is incredibly gentle. What was your state of mind when you painted it?”

Ethan held the microphone, his gaze soft as it landed on Jane.

“At that time, I had just woken up. I didn’t remember anything, and the world felt empty. It was Jane who gave me a second life. When she stood in the yard feeding the chickens, sunlight falling on her, I thought to myself that this was the kind of peaceful life I wanted to keep for the rest of my days. This painting is of the woman I love and my salvation.”

Thunderous applause filled the room. Jane’s eyes brimmed with tears. Right there, in front of everyone, she threw herself into his arms.

“Ethan, I love you too. We’ll be together forever.”

Under the spotlight, they held each other tightly. Meanwhile, I stood in the shadows, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces.

Salvation? The woman he loved? Then what was I?

“Lexie, look away.” Peter reached out and covered my eyes, his palm warm. “Let’s go.”

I took a deep breath, about to turn away, when suddenly, every light in the hall went out. The crowd erupted into chaos. I froze where I stood. My claustrophobia hit instantly, almost like a physical reaction, and my throat tightened as if something was choking me. I couldn’t breathe. Just like that, I was dragged back to that broken elevator in my junior year.

Back then, someone had held my hand tightly and said, “Lexie, don’t be afraid. As long as I’m here, nothing will happen to you. If you’re scared, I’ll tap three times.”

The tapping wasn’t just against my palm, but against my heart.

The next second, a warm hand pushed through the panicked crowd and grabbed my wrist. That hand carried the familiar roughness I had known for seven years. Then, his fingertips tapped gently against my trembling palm three times.

“Lexie, don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

Reality and memory overlapped in that instant. In the darkness, I heard Ethan’s uneven breathing, just a few inches away. That wasn’t a stranger who had lost his memory; that was my Ethan, the man who once valued my life more than his own.

“Ethan? Ethan, where are you? I’m scared!”

Not far away, Jane’s panicked cries rang out, and Ethan’s body stiffened immediately. Suddenly, with a buzz, the backup power kicked in. A harsh white light flooded the entire hall.

When I finally saw what was in front of me, I froze. Everyone was staring at the way Ethan and I were holding hands. Like he had just woken from a dream. Ethan yanked his hand away as if it burned, stumbling back a step.

I stared at my empty palm, as if the warmth of his touch still lingered there. It burned so much my chest hurt, and it hurt so much I almost wanted to laugh. I lifted my head and looked at the shaken man in front of me, and tears slid silently down my face.

“Ethan, did you ever lose your memory at all?”