Chapter 6: The White
White. That was what Shin saw. A blinding white, standing in stark contrast to the darkness from before. He squinted, trying to control the flood of light pouring into his eyes until they could adjust to it. A few seconds passed. He still could not see clearly, but he could hear. He heard voices—he was certain of it—several of them. He couldn't distinguish who they belonged to, how many there were, or what they were saying. Then, after a minute or so, his eyes fully adapted to the brightness. What he saw was a white place, a space that resembled what his mother had once described to him when she spoke of his birth.
He looked around while still lying down. He recognized things, yet he could not immediately remember where he had seen them before. Seconds passed, and then he remembered—the school infirmary. That was where he was. He was sure of it now. He decided to pull off the warm blanket that covered him and got out of the bed—too comfortable for his liking. As he did so, the murmur of voices became clearer. He could now distinguish four, maybe five: three women, one girl, and one man.
And among all those voices, one stood out—a voice he knew too well: his mother's.
He didn't show himself right away. From where he stood, hidden behind the curtain that separated his bed from the rest of the room, he could hear one voice apologizing—or rather, begging for forgiveness from someone. And that voice, the one pleading so desperately, was his teacher's. She was apologizing to his mother.
He could easily guess why. He had vague memories from the strange state of trance he had fallen into earlier. He remembered that the teacher had sent him alone to the infirmary—a foolish act, considering how unwell he had been. Truthfully, he blamed her. Because of her, he had fallen into that void, into the darkness and oblivion that had swallowed him whole. And yet… perhaps it would have happened anyway. He knew that even without her mistake, he would have eventually fallen into that same abyss.
He could only blame himself for venturing into realms that were not meant to be explored. But why him? He was only five years old. And still, that world where everything was transparent—it had been so strangely peaceful, so comfortable, that a part of him wanted to return to it, even if it meant falling once again into that terrifying and surreal dream.
So, he decided to pull aside the curtain hiding him from view. The moment he did, the scene struck him like a painting of irony. His teacher was on her knees before his mother, head bowed to the ground, begging for forgiveness. But there was something his mother could not see—something Shin could see clearly from where he stood: the hatred twisting the teacher's face, hidden beneath the mask of humiliation.
Beside them stood the headmaster—the man's voice he had heard earlier—and the nurse, both scolding the teacher in turn. Then, next to them, he saw the source of the young girl's voice: a small child about his age, standing near his mother, watching the scene unfold with a grin of amusement. She was the first to notice him.
"You're finally awake!" she exclaimed.
At that instant, every adult in the room turned toward him. His mother rushed over and threw her arms around him, trembling.
"I was so scared, Shin… don't ever do that again!"
He looked at her crouched before him, holding him tightly. He didn't answer right away; words felt useless. After a few seconds, he finally said,
"Mom, please let go… I just woke up."
At that, his mother only hugged him tighter and whispered, her voice trembling,
"And if you disappeared again?"
"I won't," he said simply.
Only then did she release him, stepping back a little to look into his eyes.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm fine," he replied calmly.
After that short exchange, Shin stepped back, turning his gaze toward the other adults in the room—and toward the little girl, who was still watching him. The headmaster opened his mouth as if to speak, but before he could, the nurse raised her hand and cut him off with an authoritative tone.
"Everyone out. No exceptions."
The "no exceptions" was clearly meant for his mother, who, of course, would have insisted on staying. She seemed to understand, though, and left the room with the teacher and the headmaster. The nurse waited a few seconds, then turned toward the little girl, who had not moved. Her voice softened, but it carried a cold edge.
"You too. Out. Now."
The girl flinched in fear and bolted out of the room.
When at last the nurse and Shin were alone, she approached him slowly, her tone gentle.
"Are you feeling all right?"
He answered honestly.
"No, not really."
The nurse tilted her head slightly.
"Then why did you tell your mother you were fine?"
He sighed softly before replying.
"Do you really think she would've let go of me if I had said I wasn't? You wouldn't have even had the chance to check on me."
The nurse smiled faintly, acknowledging his reasoning.
"You're right about that… She seems very protective of you. You should be glad to have a mother like that."
"I am, believe me," he said.
Before he could finish, however, the nurse interrupted him again.
"But admit it—there's another reason you said that, isn't there?"
Her words caught him slightly off guard.
"You're right," he admitted after a pause.
He gave no further explanation, which only made her more curious. She leaned forward slightly and asked,
"Aren't you going to tell me why you lied to your mother?"
He looked at her calmly.
"You didn't ask me that."
The nurse crossed her arms and gave a faint, amused huff.
"Then may I ask now? Why did you choose to lie?"
He looked down for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then finally answered.
"You see, my mother is extremely overprotective. It's not really a bad thing—at least I know I'm safe with her. But the problem is, I remember a few moments before I lost consciousness. I remember my teacher sending me to the infirmary alone. It was stupid, really, because I could barely walk, and even breathing was difficult. When I woke up and saw my teacher kneeling before my mother, I immediately understood why. If I had told my mother that I still wasn't feeling well, can you imagine the scene she would've caused? No, thank you. I'd rather not witness that."
The nurse said nothing. She was stunned by the calmness and logic in his voice—by the maturity far beyond his years. For a moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights. She proceeded with the examination quietly, speaking only the necessary words as she worked.
But one thought kept looping in her mind, echoing like a whisper that wouldn't fade:
"He's only five years old."
That sentence repeated itself again and again as she observed him—his dark, steady eyes, which seemed far too deep, far too somber for a child his age—standing out starkly against the blinding whiteness of the room.