I was about to faint.

With every stitch, I fought back tears and battled the overwhelming urge to faint. My mind felt lighter than ever before. I tried to stay as calm as possible. I looked at his face from time to time, searching for any signs of consciousness, any indication that he was in pain. But his features remained still, devoid of any reaction at all. I didn't know if I had given too much poppy, but it felt like he wasn't in this world now. His consciousness seemed to be wandering in another realm.

I turned my gaze away and refocused on my work. I couldn't believe what I was doing. Shaking my head, I continued to take deep breaths. I couldn't believe it. The thing in front of me wasn't a piece of fabric; it was human skin. I was stitching a man with needle and thread. I was stitching a man. Without knowing what I was doing. With each movement, more blood drained from his wound. My hands were covered in blood. I was sweating profusely, beads of sweat rolling down my face even though the room was chilling. Time seemed to stand still as I worked, my mind filled with a mix of anxiety and doubt. Was this going to be enough? To sew up his wound like a raggedy doll? Good Gods and Spirits. It had to be. I had to believe. Doubt was a luxury I could not afford at this moment. I could join him in the realms he was wandering at any moment.

Trying to be resilient, I continued to stitch his wound slowly and carefully, starting from the inside. I didn't even know for sure if I was doing it right. With each stitch, I prayed for it to be effective, and in the end, for life to return to his pale face. I just continued my work, praying, and praying. I was reciting all the healing prayers I knew by heart. I wanted to express something myself with sincere feelings, but how?

What was his name? Who was he?

Thankful to the guiding spirits who led me to him, I pleaded that tomorrow he would be able to tell me his name. I pleaded that he would breathe and talk again. As my hands became stained with his bright red blood, I continued to stitch his wound. I pushed aside all other thoughts from my mind. Only tranquility and focus. Nothing else.

As the last stitch was secured, I leaned back, a mix of exhaustion and relief washing over me. The wound was now closed. It was over. My hands were stained with the young man's blood, I was drenched in sweat. I glanced at the young man's face once more, hoping to see a flicker of life, but his stillness remained. What if I gave him too much poppy?

I felt a tingling sensation in my hands as if the blood running through them had come alive. The face of the young man seemed different now. There was something unfamiliar, something I hadn't noticed before. I couldn't quite put a name to it. I was being drawn deeper into something unfamiliar, something that seemed to pull me in.

Without thinking further, I leaned back. I had to cover the wound and apply the poultice I made now.

I quickly got up, washed my hands and found a clean cloth. Then I returned to his bedside, sat next to him again. Applying the poultice on top, I hoped it would aid in the healing process. Then wrapped the injured area with the clean cloth, ensuring it was snug but not too tight.

I gazed at the young man, his face peaceful yet shrouded in mystery. Who was he, and what had brought him to the depths of the forest? Questions swirled in my mind. A sense of unease crept into my thoughts as I sat beside him, watching his chest rise and fall. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I remembered. The vivid memories of recent events played out in my mind. A chilling shiver ran down my spine as the image of the serpent flashed before my eyes. Were the things I witnessed real? I swiftly turned to survey the room, casting a glance at the door, the shelves, and the windows. Everything appeared to be in its rightful place. Could it have been a figment of my imagination? Or, what if it wasn't?

My gaze returned to the young man lying before me. What if that thing, the one that attacked him and followed him all the way here, was indeed the serpent? How could he have sustained such a wound? And at this late hour of the night? Moreover, how did he manage to make it this far? It was nothing short of a miracle that he had survived until I found him and stitched his wound.

There were no signs of struggle outside, and the trail of blood droplets seemed to originate from the depths of the forest, where the serpent came from. It was evident that he had walked all the way here, from the forest. Had the serpent been following him?

I took a deep breath.

Was that thing a serpent?

No.

The answer was clear. I knew it in my heart.

A cold breeze seemed to sweep through the room, sending shivers down my spine.

The night was long and dark.

As the night went on, I tended to his wounds, monitoring his condition with a heavy heart. I offered him water, adjusted his blankets, and spoke softly to him, hoping my words reach his unconscious mind. I fought against my weariness, knowing that every moment counts. Time seemed to stand still as I watched over him, my thoughts consumed with worry and prayers for his recovery.

I sat by his side, observing his face intently, searching for any clues about who he was and what had happened to him. He had a commanding presence, with a sturdy, muscular frame that hinted at his strength. His body appeared vigorous and well-built. What had befallen him? The thought of losing him filled me with dread. I studied his features—the thick brows, the slender, arched nose, and the unkempt beard. He seemed to be in his late twenties at most.

Would I ever discover his name? I hadn't yet seen the color of his eyes; would I ever have the chance? Would I hear his voice, witness how he spoke? The uncertainty weighed heavily on my heart.

Throughout the long hours that stretched into the night, his condition continued to deteriorate. I wanted to cherish every moment and be there to support him in any way I could. I wanted to pray for him, but I didn't even know who was I praying for.

His labored breaths were the only sound in the room. I tried to stay occupied, tending to his wounds, changing the bandages, and praying but the weight of helplessness and the presence of death crushed my soul. I longed for the sun to rise quickly, for someone to come to the house and share this burden with me, to help me.

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Restlessness overcame me. I gathered the courage to look out the window. I stood up and silently made my way toward the window, careful not to make any noise. I gently parted the closed curtain, allowing a sliver of light to enter. The night was still and silent. The moon was high in the dark sky. There was nothing more.

I returned to his bedside. I felt the death creeping at the windows of the cottage, peeking inside. It was like a cold, skeletal hand, trying to reach out for him.

"May the Great Spirits hear my plea," I prayed, "Spare this young man's life, let him breathe the air of the living, and not be taken away to the realm of the dead. May his wounds heal, and his strength return, and may he walk and talk among us once again."

As the night progressed, I continued to monitor his wound and pulse. Despite stoking the fire in the fireplace, his body was growing colder. But as I looked at his expressionless face, I sensed something different. It felt like there was a burning fire raging inside him, consuming him from within. I couldn't comprehend it. I leaned closer to his body, trying to understand.

I knew it, yet I couldn't understand. It felt like there was a veil between us.

A sense of unease washed over me. I placed my hands gently on his cold body, trying to feel the heat radiating from within.

It was a contradictory, weird sensation. There were no words to describe how it felt. I closed my eyes and held my breath. It was as if something dark and rotten resided beneath his skin. The air around him grew heavy with a smoky essence, his very essence was being consumed by darkness.

Although it was forbidden by Ascula, sometimes I would provide massages to relieve people's pain, using my hands to relieve their discomfort. Aches and pains felt to me like different forms of negative energy. Perhaps what I was sensing was one of those. A strange feeling stirred in my stomach.

I let my hands glide over his wound, feeling the burning flames within his cold body more intensely. Or perhaps it was all just my imagination. Taking a deep breath, I began to pray. I imagined a pure, white light flowing from the universe, particularly from the moon, towards my hands, growing stronger with each passing moment. I visualized this light entering through my hands and attempting to dispel the dark mist that enveloped his body. But it wasn't working. Even in my mind, something was resisting.

Taking a deep breath, I envisioned an even stronger light. I imagined all the good lights coming from the sun, the moon, the fireplace, and the candles, not just from this room but from all the fireplaces and candles in the world. I imagined the light streaming from the stars, the hearts, and the souls, gathering all the positive energy I could find. These lights illuminated both his body and my hands, which were now starting to burn from the cold. The room shimmered with radiance as the light-filled every corner.

My eyes remained closed as I continued to pray, and the light I envisioned seemed almost blinding, piercing through my eyelids.

In the realm of my imagination, shadows began to dance. They grew larger and larger, gaining color, shimmering, and materializing before me.

I saw the young man.

He was beneath a massive oak tree, so colossal that three people side by side couldn't even embrace its girth. People surrounded him, and the sun shone brightly, casting a warm glow on the green grass. I could see the joy in his hazel eyes, as they crinkled with happiness, and his pearl-like teeth formed a beaming smile. I could feel his contentment. I watched him speak and laugh. The garden was crowded and lively, but none of the people around him caught my attention. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

I watched this young man, illuminating the surroundings in his pristine white shirt. An inexplicable connection, a sense of familiarity, bound my heart to him with compassion and gratitude. My heart fluttered with delight. At that moment, I couldn't see anyone else but him.

But then the vision started to shift once more.

I saw him again.

Clad in a black cloak, he stood alone in a pitch-black room, sweating and trembling.

The emotions I sensed were completely different now. Fear and panic consumed the room, emanating from him. The room was dark, and I couldn't see anything else. However, he was staring at a spot without taking his eyes off as he could see very well, trembling. His eyebrows were furrowed with sorrow and unease, his lips drooping, and his forehead was covered in beads of sweat. His eyes no longer sparkled, no longer crinkled. They were filled with intensity as he just stared. I wanted to approach, to touch his still-warm body and talk to him, to warn him of something, but I couldn't move. Within the confines of the dim room, I could hear whispers, though I couldn't comprehend their meaning. But I knew, they commanded him to do something dreadful. I could hear them, but I wasn't certain if he could. He was terrified. He was helpless.

I saw his lips moving silently.

He was praying.

I longed to say something, to apologize, to offer help, but again, I couldn't. I extended my hands, reaching out. I tried to absorb the darkness in the room with my hands, channeling all the light from within my heart to him, to his trembling body, with all my strength. It wasn't a coldness, but rather a tranquility, a coolness emanating from the light. It would soothe his burning soul and warm his shivering body. I knew. I understood. He would understand it too.

The feeble lights emanating from my bare hands reached him. As the lights illuminated the surroundings, the young man's blurry and colorless face brightened up. I could discern his sweaty forehead, black strands of hair falling on it, his hazel eyes, long eyelashes, and well-defined lips. The walls of the room were still whispering to him, trying to capture his attention. I wanted to silence them. I wanted to calm the young man. I closed my eyes and thought about the fires I had seen tonight, how they suddenly appeared and rescued me from the dark abyss I was in and the people I saw within them. They had illuminated my world, and I had seen them. I had also burned to illuminate them, and they had seen me too.

As soon as I felt a pair of eyes on me, I opened my eyes.

He looked at me.

He saw me. His gaze changed.

Startled, I opened my eyes.

I flinched. Overwhelmed by all those images, I withdrew and found myself in the room, opening my eyes beside his bed.

Shaking my head from side to side, I tried to regain my composure. I turned my attention to the young man lying on the bed, hoping that perhaps I had truly touched his soul lurking in the depths somehow and brought back his consciousness. I looked at his face, but it remained the same. Although he no longer gasped, he lay there unconscious, with shallow breaths.

Yet, it seemed as if the fire within him had been extinguished. The only things still burning were my hands now. From the tips of my fingers to my elbows, a dreadful tingling sensation, a burning sensation had begun. I wanted to wash my hands and then light some sage incense to keep bad spirits away.

Away. Or outside?

I glanced towards the door, waiting for a movement. However, it stood still.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to stay calm. I changed my mind about washing my hands and lighting incense. I decided to wait by his side for a while and pray.

I looked at his hands, motionless by his sides, with calloused and strong palms, and nails filled with dirt and dried blood. I shook my head in disbelief. How? How could he have ended up here? I wondered if he had loved ones as I imagined, a family waiting for his return.

I hoped he did. And I hoped I helped him ease his pain a little.

I gently reached out and held his hands, the same hands that I could not touch in my dreams. I closed my eyes, praying for him to see the light of the morning.