...20/09/2009 Sunday; Morning...
The morning sun streamed through the hospital's tall windows, tinting the room with a soft, cool glow.
Outside, the rhythmic sound of hurried footsteps from nurses mixed with the faint rustling of papers and clinking of metal trays.
Inside the room, Chidori sat on the bed, her head slightly tilted over the sketchbook resting on her lap. The pencil moved in uneven bursts — light strokes, then heavy ones — scratching the paper with a dry sound.
Nothing seemed to exist beyond the drawing in front of her.
When she stopped, the silence grew heavy. Chidori lifted the sketchbook, examining the result. What was meant to be a face was now a shapeless tangle of crooked lines; the tilted cap looked more like a badly drawn disc.
Her gaze narrowed. Her lower lip trembled, and she flipped the page with a sharp motion — but the sound of the last sheet turning made her freeze.
She sat there, staring at the empty back cover for a few seconds. A faint sigh escaped her lips, barely a whisper of frustration. She closed the sketchbook and let it fall beside the pillow, the muffled thud echoing through the quiet room.
Then, hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway. Chidori looked up, her head turning toward the door. She didn't move, but her eyes gleamed with quiet curiosity — a silent anticipation.
The doorknob turned, and the door slowly opened.
Junpei entered with his usual crooked smile, a paper bag dangling from his hand. The light from the hallway caught the edge of his cap before he nudged it back slightly and shut the door with his foot.
"Hey, Chidori!" His voice broke the silence, full of awkward enthusiasm. "Sorry I haven't been around these past few days."
Chidori watched him for a moment, unmoving. Her gaze was calm, almost empty, yet there was something there — a quiet familiarity, a silent recognition.
"Hmm…" she murmured, turning her eyes back to the closed sketchbook. "It's you, Junpei."
Junpei crossed the room with firm steps, the floor creaking under his sneakers. He pulled a chair from the corner table — the metal legs scraping softly against the floor — and brought it beside the bed.
He sat facing Chidori and placed the paper bag on her lap with a bright grin.
"I've been really busy with the team lately," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "So I didn't have time to come visit."
Chidori lowered her gaze to the bag, her brow furrowing in curiosity.
She opened it carefully, the crinkle of paper filling the room.
Her fingers brushed against something new — the rough texture of a sketchbook cover, still smelling of fresh paper.
Beside it, graphite pencils sealed inside a small transparent case.
She stayed silent for a few seconds, studying the gift as if to make sure it was real.
Junpei smiled shyly. "When I was passing through the station on my way here, I saw this old lady selling sketchbooks... and it made me think of you."
Chidori flipped through the pages slowly, listening to the crisp sound of new paper. Her fingers traced the blank surface, following invisible lines where her next drawings would be born.
"I see…" she murmured, her voice low and emotionless. But the faint tremor in her fingers betrayed something else — a quiet warmth hidden beneath her cold exterior.
Junpei leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. "Kirijo-senpai said that from now on, I can stay with you. There's nothing more she needs to ask."
Silence returned; only the distant footsteps in the hallway accompanied the moment.
Chidori turned her gaze to the window, the morning light reflecting in her eyes. "I wasn't expecting them anymore," she said softly, almost resigned. "After all… there's nothing left for me to say."
Junpei scratched his chin, his eyes wandering around the room in search of something to break the heavy silence between them.
That's when he noticed Chidori's old sketchbook left on the table — its corners worn, its pages yellowed.
He smiled faintly, remembering the first time she drew something of her own will — and how surprised she'd been when he praised her.
"So…" he began, trying to sound casual, "been drawing a lot lately?"
Chidori lifted her eyes just enough to meet his, her face expressionless.
"Does that matter to you?" she asked in a cold tone, sharp enough to make Junpei blink in surprise.
"Uh… well, not exactly, but—" He scratched his neck, laughing awkwardly, unsure whether to keep talking.
Silence settled once again. Junpei looked away, and that's when he noticed something on the nightstand beside the bed.
The vase of flowers — the same one that was always there — now held wilted petals and drooping gray stems, lifeless and dry.
"Ah, your flowers wilted," he said, trying to soften it with a smile. "Guess this month's heat did them in."
Chidori lifted her head, her gaze fixed on the vase. The confusion in her eyes made Junpei frown.
"I can buy new ones for you," he offered, trying to sound cheerful. "What kind do you—"
But he stopped.
Her expression had changed.
Chidori stretched out her hand toward the flowers, her face serious, focused. A faint tremor ran through her fingers.
Junpei leaned forward, confused.
"Chidori…? What's wrong?"
A green light sliced through the air.
A glow began to emanate from her palm, pulsing in soft waves that spread toward the vase.
The air vibrated for an instant, and Junpei raised his arm to shield his eyes.
The glow ran along the stems of the flowers, weaving between the wilted petals.
Slowly, they began to rise, as if waking from a deep sleep.
Green returned to the stalks, vivid yellow bloomed on the petals, and the room filled with a new kind of energy — warm and serene.
When the light faded, Junpei lowered his arm slowly, eyes wide.
In place of the dried flowers now stood perfect sunflowers, facing the window where the sunlight streamed in.
Junpei shot to his feet, the chair squeaking against the floor. His wide eyes reflected the golden glow of the newly revived flowers.
"What the…?" he leaned over the nightstand, carefully picking up the vase.
The flowers swayed slightly with the motion.
He turned the vase in his hands, examining the stems. No soil — only water at the bottom.
"Whoa…" he murmured, looking back at Chidori. "...how did you do that?!"
She watched him in silence, her gaze calm and unhurried, as if his amazement was unnecessary.
"I gave them a bit of my energy," she replied simply.
Junpei blinked, trying to process that.
"Wow… so your Persona's powers can do that?! That's like… some kind of miracle!"
Chidori raised an eyebrow, unmoved by his excitement.
"It's nothing special," she said with a shrug. "You have a Persona too, don't you?"
She looked at her hand, her fingers moving slowly, as if she could still feel the warmth of the power pulsing beneath her skin.
"Medea is just one of countless possibilities a Persona can reach."
Junpei went silent for a moment, scratching his head.
"Yeah… I guess you're right."
But his cheerful tone slowly faded, like a flame losing strength. His shoulders slumped slightly, and his gaze fell to the floor.
"Still…" he murmured with a sigh, "my Persona's the only thing I've got."
Chidori looked up, intrigued. There was something different in his voice — a melancholy that clashed with his usual loud, carefree tone.
He let out a short laugh, but it sounded bitter.
"I only felt important when I discovered my Persona. Because… without it…"
His eyes narrowed, his voice fading at the end of the sentence.
"Without it, I'm nobody."
Junpei fell silent for a few seconds, his gaze lost among the flowers Chidori had brought back to life.
Then, without warning, flashes began to cross his mind — old, bitter memories.
He saw himself younger, opening the door to his house with his backpack hanging from one shoulder.
The sharp smell of alcohol hit him before he even saw his father, sprawled on the couch, a bottle in his hand.
Junpei clenched his fists at the memory.
That kind of night had happened so often that he could barely remember what it felt like to live in peace.
His father's face dissolved in his mind, replaced by other faces — Minato, Hiro, Akihiko.
They had goals, strength, purpose.
And he… he only had his Persona.
Junpei began pacing slowly around Chidori's bed, his shoulders slumped.
"I know it's dumb to say this," he said, his voice rough, "but sometimes I feel like a 'hero' just because I have a Persona."
He stopped in front of her, his head lowered, his hands trembling slightly.
"But the truth is…" he sighed. "I don't even know why I fight all this crap. I don't even know why I keep going."
The silence grew heavy. Chidori watched him, motionless.
Junpei lifted his gaze, and there was raw sadness there — a rare kind of honesty.
"To be honest… I don't really have a good reason to live."
The words echoed in Chidori's mind, stirring something strange — a hollow feeling moving inside her.
A good reason… to live?
She repeated it softly, almost without realizing it:
"A good… reason to live?"
Junpei crossed his arms and let out a small laugh, trying to hide the weight of what he had said.
"When I was a kid," he began, his voice calmer, "I had this dumb dream."
Chidori tilted her head slightly, her gaze curious.
"A dream?"
"Yeah," he said with a faint smile. "I wanted to be a professional baseball player. Pretty stupid, huh?"
He looked up at the ceiling, remembering the days he spent hours holding an old bat, pretending the world was a ball field.
"But dreaming's for kids," he finished with a shrug.
Chidori frowned. There was something odd about that — a discomfort she couldn't understand.
She looked to the side, her mind growing heavy. Why did those words echo so deeply inside her?
"I…" she hesitated, her voice quiet. "I don't really know what to say."
Junpei blinked, surprised by the uncertain tone in her voice. It was rare to see her like that — confused, vulnerable.
"Chidori…" he murmured softly.
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes dropped to her hands, and suddenly something inside her mind broke open — a flash of memory.
White.
Sterile rooms, the echo of footsteps from people in lab coats, cold instruments, voices murmuring behind masks.
It was the only scene her childhood could reconstruct. No warmth, no laughter.
Just white — the suffocating white of a laboratory.
Chidori tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, not realizing her hands were trembling.
"I don't remember much of my childhood…" she said, her voice low and hesitant. "But I remember one thing…"
Her eyes drifted away, fixing on some distant point in the room.
"Being surrounded by white… everything was white…"
Her hands clenched tightly on the sheets. Anger rose within her — raw and silent. Every memory carried that same feeling: being watched, measured, tested.
"I hate hospitals…" she murmured, her eyes closing. "They always make me angry just being here."
Junpei felt a tightness in his chest. Her pain was palpable, and even without knowing everything, he could imagine enough.
He remembered what Mitsuru had told him about the Strega — artificially created Persona users.
Whatever Chidori had gone through… it didn't sound human.
He lowered his head, his shoulders tense.
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to make you remember that."
When he looked up again, he found her eyes on him.
There was something different in them — a subtle softness, a faint spark of warmth that hadn't been there before.
"But…" she began, her voice almost emotionless, yet somehow gentler. "With you coming to visit me…"
Her eyes stayed locked on his.
"Things feel a little more bearable. So I don't mind staying here."
Junpei's heart skipped a beat.
For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at her in disbelief. Her words echoed inside him, warming a part of his heart he thought had long gone cold.
"Chidori…" he whispered, unsure what to do with the sudden happiness flooding him.
His face turned bright red, and he shook his head quickly, trying to chase away the embarrassment. Then, grinning wide, he thumped his thumb proudly against his chest as if to prove himself worthy of her words.
"If that's the case, then I'll come see you every day so you won't feel lonely!"
Chidori nodded calmly, her expression unchanged.
"Good. That might work."
Junpei's eyes widened.
"Oh, come on, Chidori! Why'd you have to kill the mood?!"
She only looked at him from the corner of her eye, the faintest hint of a smile forming on her lips.
The conversation went on — light and unplanned. Junpei talked too much, gestured wildly, laughed at his own jokes, while Chidori simply watched, giving short replies. But something in the way she looked at him had changed.
A small smile — timid and rare — began to form.
Outside, the morning sun filtered through the window.
The sunflowers she had brought back to life remained turned toward the light. A single petal loosened and fell silently onto the nightstand — a subtle yet meaningful gesture.
Something was beginning to bloom between them.
Something fragile, new… and alive.
TO BE CONTINUED...