The Veil had no real sky; only a ceiling of shifting light, pale and cold as breath on glass.
Everything here was muted; the light, the air, the sound of my own breathing, if I could still call it breathing. There was no hunger, no tiredness, no passage of hours in a way I could measure. Just a grayness that soaked into you, until you couldn't tell whether it was the world that was fading or you. We didn't have days here, only stretches of time that felt like the memory of days, thin and unreliable, like parchment worn through in the middle.
I remember the first time I truly felt the weight of the Veil—not the ghostly emptiness, not the muted colors, but the sharp, biting sense of being out of step with everyone around me. I had only just arrived, still trying to convince myself that dying hadn't been the absolute worst, and there they were: the four of them, already entwined in that easy camaraderie that made me feel like an intruder in my own afterlife.
For a while, I kept to myself. I sat in corners, pressed my back against walls, and tried to map out the constant, shifting mist as if memorizing it could help me find a way back to something real.
But they didn't leave me alone for long.
Daeho was the first to breach the quiet space I stayed in, dropping into a crouch beside me, his coat brushing my arm. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you stare at the pool like it's going to give you answers." He tapped my knee lightly with the back of his hand, not unkind. "It won't. Trust me, I've tried."
I almost said I wasn't looking for answers, but that would've been a lie.
He didn't say you'll be okay or anything, he just said, "Come on," like there was no option for me not to. When I didn't move, he reached down, his big hand wrapping around my forearm in a way that was firm but not rough, and pulled me to my feet.
"You'll calcify if you stay like that," he continued, walking ahead but slowing his pace enough that I could keep up. "You might not be alive, but you're not exactly dead either."
The Veil was never quiet. Not the way the living world thought of quiet.
It was still, yes, but never silent. Beneath the stillness there was always something faint, almost imperceptible: a sigh in the distance, a ripple in the ground that wasn't quite ground, the way the air seemed to hum with memories.
I'd started to think I was getting used to it. That was my mistake.
Daeho and I had been walking for… I don't know how long. Time in the Veil slipped sideways when you weren't paying attention. The landscape stretched endlessly in every direction. There were pale ridges that could have been mountains if you squinted, shallow valleys that seemed to curl in on themselves, shapes of ruined stone walls half-sunk into the ground. It all looked familiar in a way I couldn't place, like I'd seen it in a painting once, or in someone else's dream.
That day, he was ahead. Not far, just maybe ten strides. His black coat was easy to spot against the muted white-gray of the land. I let my eyes drift to the horizon, to the way the ridges blurred into the pale sky without any clear line between them.
Then I saw it.
At first, I thought it was just a shift in the light, the way the Veil sometimes dimmed for no reason. But the haze kept growing, curling low along the ground like fog before a storm. It wasn't the soft mist I'd seen before. This was heavier, thicker. This was smoke.
I stopped walking. My breath caught before my brain could tell my body it didn't need to. The smell came next — faint but unmistakable. Not woodsmoke exactly. Not fire. More like the echo of something burned long ago, lingering in the air.
Daeho walked ahead of me, his figure dark against the washed-out landscape. His long coat moved with each step, a quiet rhythm that my eyes kept finding and holding on to. The Veil had no real roads, but he walked as if there was one, as if the land couldn't shift beneath him.
I didn't like when there was too much distance between us. Not here. The Veil played tricks with perspective, a few steps could stretch into fifty, or close into nothing. You could lose someone just by blinking.
So I kept my eyes on him.
Until I didn't.
The back of my throat prickled. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to remember:
You don't need to breathe here. It can't hurt you. But my lungs didn't care. My body was still wired for survival in the living world, and it only knew one thing: don't inhale smoke. Hold your breath. Wait until you find clean air.
I turned to call out to Daeho, but he wasn't in sight anymore. The haze had thickened fast, swallowing the shapes ahead of me. My stomach dropped. It was only a breath, one second he was there, the next there was nothing but the pale swell of the ridge ahead.
It wasn't the first time I'd been separated from him in the Veil. Usually it was fine. I'd stop, wait, and he'd reappear. But the smoke changed everything. It pressed close, erasing the landmarks, if you could even call the crumbling ridges and shadowy ruins landmarks.
I backed up a step. Then another. The pale land blurred, warped. I turned, trying to find the way we'd come, but the view was identical in every direction.
I quickened my pace, scanning for the outline of his shoulders, the swing of his coat. "Daeho?"
No answer.
The air —if you could call it air— seemed to dim, the way a room does before a storm. A haze began to curl low along the ground, clinging to the shapes of the ruins before spilling over into the open.
Smoke.
My chest tightened, my throat prickled. My first thought wasn't What is this? but Don't breathe.
The instinct was so deep, it overrode everything else. My lips pressed together, my breath locking in my chest like I was underwater.
The haze wasn't just ahead now — it was sliding in from all sides, twisting into ribbons that blurred the ground, the ruins, the horizon. I turned in a slow circle, trying to find some landmark, but it all looked the same.
The panic rose sharp and fast, the way it always had in life when I realized I was alone in the wrong place.
My hands curled into fists. My heart pounded, even though I didn't need a heart anymore.
"Daeho?" Louder this time. My voice sounded thin, frayed.
The haze thickened. The ridges and walls stretched tall and skeletal, their edges wavering like heat mirages. My legs felt unsteady, my body unsure which way was forward anymore. I tried to breathe out just enough to relieve the ache in my chest, but the moment I did, my body screamed to inhale — and I clamped down harder.
The back of my throat prickled. My body screamed don't breathe. Instincts wired for survival in the living world overrode reason.
The thought of filling my lungs with that smoke made my skin crawl. Even if I knew it couldn't kill me here, the idea of it felt wrong. Violating. Like I'd be letting the Veil inside me.
I didn't even notice the figure at first. A shadow broke from the haze ahead, solid where everything else was shifting.
Then his voice came, steady as stone.
"Aureal."
Something in me snapped toward it like a compass finding north.
Before I could move, the shadow resolved into Daeho — his outline sharpening with each stride until he stepped through the haze entirely. The dim light caught on the planes of his face, on the smooth curve of his dark hair. His eyes locked on mine, unreadable but unshakable.
He didn't slow.
One moment there was space between us, the next I was weightless. His arm hooked under my knees, the other around my back, lifting me off the unsteady ground as though I'd been meant to be carried all along.
His stride was steady, unhurried, as though the smoke couldn't touch him. Around us, it shifted like something wary of his presence, thinning just enough to give us space.
"There's no air here to poison you," he said.
"I know," I whispered, which was only half-true. My mind knew it, but my body didn't care.
His hold tightened a fraction, not crushing, but enough to remind me I was anchored. "Then next time, don't move. I'll come to you."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a promise.
The haze began to dissolve, the shapes of the Veil returning — the ghostly ridges, the fractured walls, the endless pale plain.
When he set me down, the ground felt steadier than it had in minutes. His hands stayed on my shoulders for a beat longer than necessary, his gaze scanning my face like he was making sure I was all the way back.
The knot in my chest loosened, air —unnecessary but grounding— flowing in and out again.
We found a stretch of land that felt… still. Not the way the Veil usually was still, with its shifting ridges and whispering ruins. This was calm, flat enough that the horizon didn't warp as I blinked. Even the pale haze that had chased me seemed thinner here, almost respectful.
Daeho lowered me fully to the ground, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a moment longer than needed. I pressed my palms into my eyes, trying to squeeze away the lingering pressure in my chest. But it wasn't just my chest. My whole body felt raw, frayed, like the smoke had scraped me clean and left me vulnerable.
"You're shaking," he said quietly, voice just above a whisper.
I lifted my head, hating the sound of it — ragged, unsteady. "I'm fine," I said, but my voice cracked halfway, betraying me.
He crouched in front of me, knees in the pale soil, hands resting lightly on his thighs. He didn't reach for me, didn't push. He just existed there, a solid shape, calm and unwavering. I could look at him without fear because I could trust that he wouldn't leave me.
"You don't have to be fine," he said. "Not here, not now."
I swallowed. Part of me wanted to curl into him, to fold completely against the warmth of his coat. Another part of me fought it, still caught in the edge of panic, still rigid with the old instincts of "survive alone."
He noticed anyway. "I know," he said. "You think you have to handle it yourself, but you don't."
"I…" I began, but the words faltered. My throat was too tight, my mind still frayed.
"You don't have to say it," he whispered. "I know."
And somehow, that made the edges of the panic retreat just a little more.
I let my body sag, finally, releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My hands unclenched, my shoulders dropped, and I leaned slightly toward him. He didn't move, didn't shift. He just let me be.
After a long moment, he finally reached out, hand brushing mine lightly. Not touching forcefully, just enough to remind me he was there. Warm, grounding. The kind of touch that said: You're safe. I'm here.
"I can't… I don't…" I admitted, voice barely audible.
"You can," he replied. "You just have to let me help."
And for the first time since the smoke swallowed me, I allowed it. I let him hold me, let him guide me back to calm, let him anchor me to the world — or what passed for the world here.
And just like that, the vast, shifting Veil didn't feel so endless anymore.
That's how I found the others; not drifting in silence like I expected, but together, sitting on the worn stone edge of a bridge that spanned a river so dark it looked like ink. Sejun was leaned back on his elbows, talking about a place he'd once been when he was alive, something about an ocean so bright you could see the sand under the waves. Seungyong was next to him, looking utterly unimpressed, idly flicking pebbles into the water like he was waiting for someone to tell him what the point of all this was.
Haneul sat apart from them, near the bridge's far side, hands resting loosely on his knees. His gaze was fixed on the horizon where the gray mist turned almost silver, and for a moment I thought he hadn't noticed me at all. Then his eyes shifted to mine; calm, dark, searching.
"There she is," Sejun said brightly, pushing himself upright. "Come, sit. Tell me something about how the living world is right now before I forget what colors look like."
"I—" I started, but Seungyong cut in without even looking at me.
"She probably doesn't want to be here. Can't blame her. We're terrible company."
"Speak for yourself," Sejun shot back. Then, to me, "Ignore him. He's been bitter for centuries."
Seungyong smirked at that, finally glancing my way. "Better bitter than delusional."
I almost turned around and left right there, but Daeho's hand landed on my shoulder, steadying me. He guided me to sit between him and Sejun, his solid presence making it harder for me to shrink back into myself.
Through it all, Haneul stayed quiet, though I caught him watching me more than once. Not in a way that felt invasive, but more like he was cataloguing the shape of my reactions, memorizing them the way one might memorize constellations.
Daeho, at some point, noticed me curling my hands into fists against my knees. He leaned over, voice low so the others couldn't hear. "You're not going to vanish. Not unless you let yourself."
By the third—or maybe the thirtieth—day in the Veil, I'd stopped flinching every time one of them appeared out of nowhere. Which was progress, considering how they moved through this place like shadows, soundless and sudden.
Seungyong was the first I saw that day, leaning against the doorway to the courtyard with his arms crossed. "You're getting better at walking without looking like you're expecting something to grab you," he said, and it was almost a compliment.
"I wasn't expecting something to grab me," I retorted, still keeping my gaze to the ground.
His eyebrow went up in that older-brother way that meant sure, kid. "Good. Now stop staring at the ground when you walk, or you're going to run into—"
Something tall and solid bumped my shoulder. I turned and found Haneul standing there, calm as a glacier, his expression giving away nothing. He didn't apologize, didn't explain—just adjusted his stance so I could pass.
"—him," Seungyong finished, not even trying to hide his grin.
God, I could feel my cheeks burning off of my face. I don't know which was worse, the fact that I was unable to come up with a proper apology, or the fact that Haneul just nodded like he didn't need one. Eventually, we just kept walking.
It wasn't like I was trying to stare at him. It's just that Haneul moved differently from the others. Daeho had a big, obvious presence, always filling the space with his voice or the way he gestured when talking. Sejun had this quiet confidence, like he knew exactly where he stood in the world—or whatever counted as the world here—and didn't need to prove it. Seungyong… well, Seungyong existed to be noticed, usually in the most irritating ways possible.
Haneul, though… he was stillness. The kind you only saw when you actually looked for it. Which is why, apparently, I was looking for it a lot.
Haneul was walking a little to my right, a few steps ahead. I let my gaze drift to him, just for a second. The set of his shoulders, the way his hand rested against the hilt of his sword, the faint way his hair shifted when he turned his head slightly, until—
"You're staring again," Seungyong interrupted, low enough that only I could hear.
I startled so hard I nearly tripped over a root. "I am not," I whispered back.
His smirk was audible in his voice. "Sure you aren't."
"So, Aureal," he spoke up suddenly, breaking the silence once more without looking back, "what exactly is it you like so much about our silent friend?"
I froze. "What?"
Daeho's head whipped toward him instantly. "Seungyong. Knock it off."
But Seungyong just grinned over his shoulder, slow and wicked. "No, I'm curious. Is it the broody mystique? The whole 'I could kill you in three seconds but choose not to' thing? Or maybe it's-"
I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intended, but my mouth was suddenly dry. "It's not that. I… I knew him… back when we were alive. We… we were—" My voice faltered. There wasn't a single word that fit. Friends? Something more? Something less? Memories of long hallways, half-forgotten jokes, quiet conversations under streetlights—they all collided in my mind, refusing to be put into a neat box.
Haneul, calm and steady as always, shifted slightly, the soft scrape of his boots against the stone courtyard the only sound. "We went to high school together." he said quietly, his voice low but firm, carrying just enough weight to make Seungyong pause.
Seungyong blinked, momentarily thrown off. "High school? You two?" His tone had lost some of its teasing edge, replaced by genuine curiosity and a hint of caution. "High school, huh? So it's not just the brooding, mysterious type—there's history too. Interesting."
"That's enough," Daeho said, stepping between us so fast it made me blink. His voice had that low, warning edge I'd never heard him use before. "You don't tease her about that. Ever."
Sejun, who had been trailing behind us, smoothly caught up and fell into step beside me. "Seungyong's bored," he hummed, his tone calm and even. "When he's bored, he picks at people. Best thing to do is not feed him."
Easy for him to say. My ears were probably red enough to light up the entire Veil.
Seungyong chuckled from ahead, clearly pleased with himself. "Touchy, touchy."
Haneul, who'd been walking a few paces away, didn't say anything. But when Seungyong passed close by him, I caught the way Haneul's gaze shifted-just barely to follow him. There was nothing in his face, no flash of irritation, no dramatic defense, just a look. Sharp and precise, the kind you only notice if you're already watching him too closely.
Seungyong didn't tease me again for the rest of the hour.
Daeho stayed close, like he was daring Seungyong to try, and Sejun started telling me a story about the time Daeho fell through a half-formed floor in the Veil. I laughed more out of relief than humor-but it worked. The tension slipped away.
Still, when Haneul brushed past me at the narrow bend in the path, I noticed he positioned himself between me and Seungyong.
And that tiny, quiet thing made my stomach feel like it was full of fireflies.
We stopped at one of those rare stretches in the Veil where nothing much happened; no shifts in the landscape, no eerie whispers from the mist, no sudden vanishing doors. Haneul sat down a little apart from them, on the low wall that bordered the courtyard. His legs were stretched out in front of him, boots crossed at the ankles, his head bent slightly as he adjusted the strap on his gauntlet. The air around him seemed quieter, like the Veil itself respected the bubble of stillness he carried.
I don't know what possessed me to look so closely, but that's when I saw it—a single strand of his hair falling forward, catching the pale light that filtered through the mist. It was an ordinary thing, not even messy, but for some reason it drew my attention like it was the only thing in the courtyard worth looking at.
Before my brain could catch up with my hand, I reached forward and brushed it back.
His head lifted instantly. I froze, my fingers still hovering in the space where his hair had been, suddenly aware of how close I was. His eyes locked onto mine—dark, steady, unreadable—and for one terrifying second I thought I'd crossed some kind of invisible line.
"You… had something in your face," I stammered quickly, my voice doing that awkward half-laugh thing that happens when you're lying and know you're bad at it.
Haneul didn't blink. He didn't move. Then, just as I was about to mumble another excuse and retreat, he gave the faintest nod. And right before his gaze dropped, the corner of his mouth lifted. Not much, just enough to register if you were already watching him too closely, which, apparently, I was.
I stepped back like nothing happened, though my face felt hotter than it had any right to in a place without weather.
Seungyong, who had been lying there pretending not to notice, made an exaggerated ohhh sound under his breath. Sejun caught the pebble mid-air and shot Seungyong a look sharp enough to shut him up. Haneul went back to adjusting his gauntlet, calm as ever.
We were seated on what passed for a hill under the Veil. Technically, it was more like a conveniently raised patch of land surrounded by endless fog, but I was trying to appreciate the scenery. The ground under us wasn't soil, but was something between ash and dust, fine enough to cling to skin yet too light to leave a mark. Every movement stirred it up in soft whorls that faded as quickly as they came.
Daeho was reclining dramatically on what looked like a ruined pillar. He was tossing rocks into a bottomless pit just to hear them not land. Beside him, Sejun was listening to music through his earphones while typing away on a notes app. And then there was Seungyong. Standing. Arms crossed. Looking like someone dared him to relax once in the 1800s and he never forgave them for it.
I squinted between Seungyong and Daeho.
"Okay," I said. "I have a question."
"No." Seungyong said preemptively.
"Let her speak," Daeho purred, flicking a pebble directly at Seungyong's boots. "Curiosity is fun."
I pointed a finger. "See, that's what I mean! That! You two—Seungyong and Daeho—you clearly died around the same time. Your clothes scream 'we haven't discovered air conditioning yet.' But you act nothing alike. Seungyong's..."
"Stoic," Haneul offered.
"Grumpy," Daeho corrected, without looking up.
"Emotionally constipated," Sejun added, helpfully.
Seungyong sighed the sigh of a man who had died centuries ago and somehow still had no peace.
Daeho placed a hand over his heart. "Aureal, I know it's confusing. But Seungyong was born old. He came out of the womb with a jade pendant in one hand and a centuries-long grudge in the other." Yeah, that sounded about right.
Seungyong muttered something in Korean I didn't catch, but it definitely wasn't "thank you." He then pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is why we can't have meaningful group meetings."
"This is meaningful," I said. "I'm learning who not to trust with a good mood."
Daeho winked at me. "Trust me, darling. I'm a renaissance man."
"You're a problem with good cheekbones," Seungyong said flatly.
I sat back and watched them argue, wondering if this was just how eternity worked. The golden-tier damned with her cursed boyband of hot, miserable misfits.
But of course, as fate would have it, you can never enjoy anything for too long. Not even in death, because the mist Seungyong had tried to drag me away from returned.
It called me. My mother's crying—I had never heard her cry before in my life—, my brother's and my dad's prayers—they never were the religious type before— rang loudly in my ears.
Before I could even control it, my legs had a mind of its own when I felt myself approaching the mist.
"Mom… dad… I'm here-! I'm right over here, look-"
Suddenly I heard footsteps rushing towards me. Too late though, I had already reached my hand towards the mist. And suddenly, everything burned.
It started with a headache. The slow, blossoming kind. Like the world itself had too much light and nowhere good to put it. I squinted, rubbed at my temples; and that's when I saw the boys looking at me like I'd just grown a second head. Maybe a third.
"Uh," Sejun said. "Is that... normal?"
Haneul took a sharp step forward. "Her eyes."
Seungyong didn't say anything, which meant something was definitely wrong. No one answered. I looked down; my hands were trembling, the air around me pulsing. And then the world warped.
I could feel strong hands—Daeho's, probably— grab onto me, pulling me out of the mist, only for the mist to swallow us all. Then I could feel more hands trying to pull me out.
Their voices muffled like I was underwater, then muted altogether. My vision blurred, brightened, and then—
Gold.
My entire sight was bathed in gold. I screamed. It was like being forced to stare at the sun.
It wasn't just my irises anymore. It was everything. My whole vision, golden and glimmering. And in that light, I saw them; my family. My mother sobbing quietly in the corner of a hospital room. My brother, stiff, eyes swollen. A nurse adjusting wires around a body.
My body.
And then—no. I shook my head. Or maybe I just thought I did. I reached into the image, the memory, the heartbreak,
And I rewrote it.
────── ⋆⋅⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽◯☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋅⋆ ──────
By the time I came to, there was a weight in my chest, an ache in my limbs, and a distant beeping that didn't sound quite real. Fluorescent ceiling light flickering like it couldn't decide if it wanted to die before I did. I gasped awake. Chest rising like I'd been pulled out of water. My throat dry, and my skin clammy. My entire body screamed alive. I looked around the hospital room to see machines and a blank monitor. My arms ached.
Then I heard crying, and someone saying my name over and over.
I opened my eyes, barely.
"Mom?"
She gasped, grabbed my hand like it was a lifeline. "Oh my god. Daphne. You're awake. You're really awake."
When I blinked again, the ceiling stopped swimming. Everything came into focus — the muted blue curtains, the faint antiseptic tang, the hum of the air-con that felt too cold against my paper-thin skin. My chest still rose unevenly, like my body hadn't gotten the memo that breathing was supposed to be easy again.
Tears ran down her face like they'd been waiting for a green light. My brother was on the other side, awkward but relieved, and there was a nurse suddenly calling someone about vitals. Mom was frantic, but relieved. Told me how dad was still driving on the way, how she had picked my brother up from being in the middle of class to get to the hospital.
They were too solid. Too whole. I blinked at them as if I might be able to peel back the edges and find the Veil's haze underneath. Maybe that was what Seungyong had meant by the mist tearing you until you couldn't tell illusion from reality. Or maybe—maybe it was a fever dream. The Veil, the glowing eyes, the ancient man in hanbok couture—just a halSeungyongnation my brain had cooked up on the edge of death.
The Veil, the glowing eyes. The brooding ancient man in hanbok couture. All of it, just a really weird fever dream cooked up in my coma.
I'd died. Or nearly died. And then I didn't.
Mom didn't let go of my hand even after the nurse left. Her fingers were trembling, warm and damp, holding mine like she thought I might slip away again if she blinked too long.
"You've been asleep for two weeks," she whispered, her voice cracking at the edges. "Two weeks, Daphne. They said you might not…" She stopped herself, shaking her head like she could physically push the thought away. "But look at you. You're here. You're really here."
That did it. My eyes stung before I could even stop it. All those times I'd told myself she wasn't really my mother, all the distance I'd kept between us after my real mom's death—it suddenly felt small. Stupid. This woman had sat by my bedside for two weeks, holding on to a maybe.
Her thumb brushed over my knuckles, and I realized there were faint crescents on her wrist—marks from the hospital bracelets she must've been wearing for days. Her hair was tied messily, dark circles painted under her eyes. She'd been here the whole time.
"Two weeks?" My voice came out rough, like sandpaper. "I was—out for that long?"
When she leaned forward to press her forehead to my hand, I caught a faint whiff of lavender shampoo—the kind she always used. The smell made something ache deep in my chest. Not because it hurt, but because it felt like home.
"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Don't you dare apologize for almost dying, Daphne," she said, firm but soft. "You've already done your part for dramatics."
That earned her a small laugh from me. It hurt to laugh—my ribs protested—but I couldn't stop.
She leaned forward, pressed a kiss to my forehead like she used to when I was little. I remembered that warmth faintly, tucked somewhere under all the fog. Even though we weren't related by blood, she'd been there for me for most of my life—through birthdays, graduation, and even heartbreak. Calling her "Mom" wasn't a habit, it was home.
She brought soup, flowers, and stories — about how my brother tried to skip school to "guard" my hospital room, how Dad nearly crashed the car getting here when he heard I'd woken up. She'd talk and talk, like her words could fill the silence that coma had left behind.
I looked at her through the blur of tears I didn't even realize had fallen. "Mom," I croaked again, like the word might anchor me here, in this world where I was still breathing.
"Yes?" She smiled through the tears, the kind of smile that looked like a prayer being answered.
"I thought I—" I hesitated. How was I supposed to say it? I thought I was dead. I met something that looked like a god and a ghost and a fever dream combined.
"I thought I wouldn't see you again."
Her hand found mine. She squeezed gently, careful not to press on the IV. "You'll see me every day if you want. You're not getting up just because you're awake."
The door opened, and a nurse peeked in with a polite smile that didn't hide her surprise. "Good morning, Miss Dizon. We're so happy to see you awake. How are you feeling?"
"Like roadkill," I muttered. My voice rasped, but Mom let out a small, relieved laugh anyway, the kind of sound that meant she's still her.
The next few days blurred together like a watercolor that had been left out in the rain. Doctors came and went, murmuring in low, clipped tones. Physiotherapists bent my limbs slowly, like I was a doll whose joints might snap. They said words like muscle memory and nerve recovery and gradual improvement while my body screamed every time I tried to sit up.
The smell of antiseptic clung to everything—the walls, the sheets, my hair. Broth and bland porridge appeared on a tray at regular intervals, the kind of food you don't chew so much as swallow and hope for the best. The first time I tried to grip the spoon on my own, my hand shook so hard that a golden ribbon of soup slid down my wrist and into my gown. Mom just dabbed it away with a tissue, her touch gentle but firm, as if she were wiping the face of a much younger version of me.
She was always there. I'd wake up and see her silhouette against the window, backlit by morning sun or evening streetlights, reading a book she never seemed to turn the pages of. Sometimes she'd hum under her breath—not a song I recognized, but a tune soft and unsteady, like she was stitching herself together with every note.
Later, when Dad arrived, the energy shifted. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, as if afraid to cross some invisible threshold. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and his hands kept moving—adjusting his watch, smoothing his hair, fiddling with a paper bag. Inside were containers of food that didn't look like "hospital beige"—real food, flavorful and fragrant, things I used to crave when I still had an appetite. He set them down on the tray and tried to insist that Mom go home and get some sleep, to which she insisted she wouldn't leave till I was asleep.
Her hand stayed in mine until I drifted off, her thumb tracing circles on my palm like she was sketching something only she could see.
When I woke again, the world felt softer—like someone had turned the saturation down just enough to make everything gentle. The harsh fluorescent lights had been dimmed to a pale morning gray. My throat didn't hurt as much, and I realized the hum of the machines had become part of the silence, a constant low sound that no longer startled me.
The sheets were warm. The air smelled faintly of jasmine—perhaps mom had decided to try a new blend of tea, I had thought. My body still ached, but the pain no longer clawed at me. It just sat there quietly, like an old pet that had stopped growling.
And then I heard it—gentle, low, like a song I'd known forever.
"Aureal?"
The voice wrapped around my name like light, tender and patient. I smiled sleepily, still halfway between dreaming and awake. It was too beautiful to be real. Too much like him.