The doctor's reply was ice.
"No. He wouldn't. That's exactly the problem."
Asahi's mother covered her face, her hands trembling as tears spilled freely down her cheeks. Her sobs were soft at first, like whispers of pain, but they grew louder—uncontrollable. She crumpled in her seat, her hands clutching at her chest as if trying to hold her heart together.
Across from her, Asahi's father stood still—stone-faced. His eyes never left the glass window that separated them from the hospital room. Inside, Asahi lay motionless on the bed, wires threading from his wrists, his chest rising and falling with the help of a machine.
The doctor's gaze lingered on the boy. His eyes squinted, almost like he was trying to see past the physical—like he was searching for something hidden beyond sight.
"I don't think this was just a nightmare," he murmured quietly. His voice dipped lower, as if even speaking it aloud would fracture reality. "This… was something else. Something he saw. Something we can't even begin to understand."
A pause. Heavy. Suffocating.
The doctor lowered his gaze, his hands flexing and curling like he was holding something invisible. "…No. Not a dream."
He glanced back at Asahi, then at his own hands. For a moment, he looked almost… haunted.
"He saw something we never could."
The mother broke down, weeping openly now. Her body trembled, shoulders shaking under the weight of helplessness, of not knowing how to save her son.
The father, though… his jaw tightened. His hands clenched into fists. But still, he said nothing. Not yet.
But in his eyes—deep within the dark hollows of his gaze—a thought simmered.
An idea.
A truth buried deep that clawed its way up.
"…I think I know," he whispered, almost too quiet for anyone to hear.
Asahi's Room
The hospital room was small—not claustrophobic, but far from spacious. A single window let in pale light, casting long, thin shadows across the floor. The walls were a muted blue, lined with whiteboards scribbled with medical notes.
And in the middle of it all, Asahi lay lifeless on the bed. His left eye was shut tight—like it refused to see this world anymore. The right eye remained half-open, glazed and unfocused, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. His mother and father entered the room.
The mother rushed to his side, hands clasping his as if holding on to him might pull him back from wherever he had gone.
"Dear…" she sobbed. "How did this happen?" Her voice cracked and splintered. "How… how can this happen in one day?"
Her husband watched quietly. His eyes drifted to Asahi—long, hollow stares like he was searching for the boy behind the stillness.
"One day, huh…" His voice was low. Almost dead. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Asahi's face. "I think… he knows something."
His wife turned, red-rimmed eyes brimming with confusion.
"…Huh?"
Her husband kept his gaze locked on Asahi.
"Something…" he murmured, voice dropping into something almost inaudible. "Something… me and he knows…"
His voice cracked—just slightly. A tremor of darkness. Of fear.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
A gasp for air.
Footsteps—uneven and desperate.
Anari stumbled into the room, her breathing ragged like she'd been running for miles. Sweat clung to her forehead, and her eyes—wild with panic—searched the room until they found him.
"A…Asahi…" she whispered, voice breaking.
Her legs moved before her mind did. One step, then another, until she was right by his side, her hands hovering just above his face. She didn't even realize who was standing beside her.
A soft voice broke the silence.
"Asahi…" Anari whispered again, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted to the monitors, to the wires, to the hollow expression on his face. Her hands hovered, afraid to touch him.
"What… what happened to you?"
Her voice cracked. Shattered.
She turned suddenly, her eyes sharp and pleading, locking onto Asahi's father.
"What happened to him, sir?" she asked, her voice shaking.
He didn't answer.
He just stared.
His eyes were locked onto Asahi's face. Not blinking. Not moving.
Anari turned back, her hand finally reaching forward. Her fingertips brushed his cold skin.
"Asahi…?" she whispered, tears now brimming at the edges of her eyes.
But there was nothing.
Only silence.
And the low hum of the machines that kept him tied to this world.
Only the low, mechanical hum of the machines that kept him tethered to this world.
Anari's breath shuddered as she pulled her hand back, her fingers curling into her palm.
Behind her, Asahi's father stood in silence, his gaze fixed on his son. His expression was unreadable—an ocean of thoughts buried beneath stone.
Without a word, he turned and walked out of the room.
The mother's eyes followed him. Her lips quivered, but she said nothing. Her gaze fell back to Asahi, lingering for a heartbeat too long.
Then she followed, leaving Anari alone.
The silence grew heavier.
Anari pulled the chair closer to the bed, the legs scraping softly against the floor. She sat down slowly, her hands shaking as she reached out and placed them over his.
Cold.
Unbelievably cold.
Her fingers pressed against his knuckles, but there was no response. No warmth. Just… nothing.
"Asahi…" she whispered again, softer this time, like a secret.
Suddenly—
His body convulsed.
Anari yanked her hand back, heart hammering in her chest.
Asahi's head twitched violently to the right, his body shivering like he was being electrocuted. His eye—half-open and lifeless—stared off into the distance, unblinking. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
Fear.
Not just fear—pure, unfiltered terror.
Like he was running from something invisible.
Like his body remembered a nightmare that wouldn't end.
But as quickly as it came, it stopped.
His body relaxed. His head lolled back onto the pillow.
Unconscious, but still awake.
Breathing, but still lifeless.
Anari's breath was shallow. Her hand hovered in the air, unsure, unsteady. Her heart ached—clenched in a way she hadn't known was possible.
She blinked, and a tear slipped free, rolling down her cheek and landing on the edge of the bed.
She was crying.
Yes—she was crying for him.
And he knew.
Asahi knew.
He saw it, even from the depths of his broken mind. But… he couldn't reach out. He couldn't say a word. He couldn't even blink.
He was afraid.
Of everything.
Of himself.
Of her.
Of the very breath that still rattled in his lungs.
He had given up.
"Asahi…" her voice broke, cracked in half by desperation. She reached forward again, her hand shaking as she placed it gently on his cheek.
His body convulsed again.
But this time, white foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth. It dripped slowly, staining the white pillowcase, hissing quietly like it didn't belong in this world.
Anari's hand shot back instinctively.
And just like before—
He stopped.
Silence.
The machines hummed.
The lights flickered dimly.
Anari stared, unmoving, her breath frozen in her throat. Her eyes locked onto his half-open gaze, searching—pleading—for something.
Her lips parted. Her voice, barely a whisper, cracked with sorrow.
"…What are you afraid of, Asahi…?"
There was no answer.
Just the faint flicker of his eyelids. Just the hollow stare that never wavered.
Anari leaned closer, her eyes glimmering with desperation.
"Do… do you hate me?" she whispered, voice trembling. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her skirt.
Her shoulders shook, her breath came out in shallow bursts.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, dripping silently onto the bedspread.
But Asahi didn't move.
His gaze never shifted.
It was as if he didn't even hear her.
Or worse…
As if he couldn't.
The silence crushed her.
Anari's lips quivered, her body trembling as she clutched the side of the bed. Her heart pounded against her ribs, thundering with every second of that suffocating stillness.
And then, like a dam breaking—
She cried.
Not just tears.
Real, shaking, gut-wrenching sobs.
Her hands clutched at her chest as if trying to hold herself together, but it didn't work. The pain spilled out, raw and unrestrained, echoing off the sterile walls of the hospital room.
Outside the door, Asahi's parents stood frozen.
His mother's hands covered her mouth, eyes wide and overflowing with tears. Her sobs were quiet, broken, slipping out in ragged whispers.
His father stood beside her—silent, unmoving. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze fixed on the floor as if looking up would shatter him completely.
But he listened.
He listened to every scream, every cry, every desperate call of Anari's voice.
And though his eyes glimmered with moisture, he did not cry.
He just stood there. Helpless.
Back in the room, Anari reached forward, arms wrapping around Asahi's limp body.
"Asahi!" she shouted, voice cracking. "Wake up, you idiot!"
Her arms tightened, pulling him closer. She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking with the force of her sobs.
"Wake up!"
Suddenly—
His body twitched.
Anari's grip loosened, her eyes going wide.
Asahi's head jerked to the side violently, his body convulsing like something was tearing him apart from the inside. His jaw clenched, and white foam began to spill from the corners of his mouth—thick, unnatural, like something that didn't belong in this world.
Anari stumbled back, hands covering her mouth.
"Asahi…!" she screamed.
The door burst open.
His mother and father rushed in, eyes wide with horror.
The father took one look at his son—
"Shit."
He moved forward, grabbing Anari by the shoulders, pulling her away from the bed.
"No—! What happened to him, sir?!" she shouted, voice tearing at the edges. Her fists pounded against his chest, but he didn't flinch. He just held her back, his eyes locked on Asahi's convulsing body.
Silence crashed over the room.
Asahi lay still.
Unmoving.
The machines hummed, their lights blinking methodically.
The father stared.
His gaze was hollow.
Empty.
Like all the light had been drained from it.
His lips parted. His voice cracked—just barely.
"I failed."
Anari's hands stopped pounding. She stared up at him, eyes wide, trembling.
"…What?" she whispered, voice barely a breath.
The father's hands fell to his sides, limp and lifeless. His gaze remained fixed on his son, even as his voice cracked further, splintering with every word.
"I failed."
No one spoke.
The air grew heavy, pressing against their lungs like it wanted to suffocate them.
Anari's knees buckled, collapsing onto the floor. Her hands covered her face, sobs erupting from her throat, jagged and raw.
"…No… No…!"
His mother joined her, her hands clutching her chest, tears spilling freely as she cried for her son—her boy who lay there, caught between life and something far more terrifying.
And amidst their cries, amidst the broken sobs and shattered breaths—
Asahi lay still.
His right eye, half-open, staring blankly into nothingness.
And in that silence, the hum of the machines carried on.
Methodical. Unfeeling.
Like the world had already moved on.