Henry opened his eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead blinding him for a moment. The sterile smell of disinfectant stung his nose, and the steady beeping of a heart monitor filled the room. A thin hospital blanket draped over him, its scratchy texture a stark contrast to the softness he remembered from… where? He glanced around for something that would let him know what was going on. He saw a singular blinking clock that read 3:17. It seemed out of place in the hospital room

“Mom?” he croaked, his voice thinner and weaker than he thought possible.

“Shhh, Henry. It’s okay,” she said, brushing his hair back gently. Her voice wavered, thick with emotion. “The surgery worked. You’re okay now.”

“Surgery?” His throat felt like sandpaper, the word barely audible.

Her hand tightened on his. “The cancer—it’s gone, Henry. You’re cancer-free.”

Cancer-free. The words hung in the air, foreign and heavy, like they belonged to someone else. He looked down at his frail arms—more bone than flesh—and shuddered. They didn’t feel like his arms at all. How could they be?

A sob escaped him, raw and unfiltered. Relief, fear, confusion—it all poured out of him, unstoppable. He could breathe again—dream again—but even as his chest rose and fell, something felt off. The air itself was heavier, laden with the weight of something forgotten.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to some fleeting memory. A sound, a face, a sensation—something important hovered just beyond his grasp. It had felt so vivid, so alive. Was it just a dream?

His mother’s hand on his forehead grounded him to the present, but the questions pressed against his chest, suffocating him. If it wasn’t real… why did it feel like he’d lost something far more precious than his illness?

The door to the hospital room creaked open. A nurse stepped inside, her blond hair catching the overhead light, lending her an almost ethereal quality. Her scrubs—standard, forgettable blue—bunched oddly at the back, as if hiding something beneath the fabric.

Henry’s breath hitched as his eyes locked onto her face. It was a face he couldn’t place, yet it felt like one he should have remembered.

Her lips curved into a playful, lopsided smile. “Hello, Henrikins. How are we feeling today?”

His chest tightened. That voice. The lilting cadence, the sing-song quality—it was unmistakable.

“Elara,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Hmm?” She tilted her head, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “What was that, sugarplum? Elara? Never heard of her. I’m Nurse Langley, certified in… oh, what was it again?” She held up her fingers, counting. “Healing, making you laugh, and most importantly, saving your sorry behind. Ta-da!” She jazzed her fingers and winked at him.

Henry darted a look at his mother, desperate for reassurance. “Mom… who is she?”

His mother’s brows knit together. “That’s Nurse Langley. She’s been with you the past few days. Don’t you remember?”

He shook his head slowly. No, he didn’t. The last nurse he remembered had been a man. Or had he been imagining that too?

Nothing felt right. The air in the room seemed too thick to breathe, and every sound—the beep of the heart monitor, the shuffle of footsteps—was a distorted echo, reverberating in his head like a bad memory.

“Mom, what day is it?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“It’s the 21st. Your surgery was yesterday, silly.” She forced a small smile, but her attempt at levity fell flat against the weight crushing him.

Henry turned his gaze to his sister, desperate for an anchor. “Sarah, are you okay?”

Silence.

She sat slumped in a chair by the wall, her body a fragile silhouette against the sterile white backdrop. Her round face, once so full of life, was pale and flushed, the shadows under her eyes so dark they looked like bruises. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and sweat clung to her skin, glistening under the harsh fluorescent light.

“Sarah?” His voice sharpened, panic clawing its way up his throat.

Her lack of response sent a chill down his spine. His heart hammered as he took in the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

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He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his muscles trembling with the effort. The cold linoleum met his bare feet, sending a jolt up his body as he tried to stand. His knees buckled, and he stumbled forward, his arms flailing for balance.

The nurse caught him before he hit the floor, her hands surprisingly strong as they steadied him. “Easy there, hero. You’ve been through a lot.”

He looked up at her, his chest tightening as he searched her face for answers. She looked like Elara. She sounded like Elara. But how could that be?

“Sarah,” he gasped, still leaning heavily on the nurse.

The nurse guided him back to the bed, pressing him down gently yet firmly. His mother hovered near Sarah, smoothing back her damp hair.

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, and he let his head fall back against the pillows. That’s when his eyes flicked to the digital clock on the wall. Its red numbers glowed an unchanging 3:17.

3:17? He blinked, frowning. He could’ve sworn more time had passed—minutes, at least—since he’d first looked at it. Yet the display remained frozen, like an image stuck in time.

Before he could process this oddity, Nurse Langley placed a gentle but insistent hand on his forehead. “I told you to rest, Henrikins. Let me take care of the rest.”

Still 3:17, Henry thought, staring past her shoulder. His chest clenched as the nurse’s shadow seemed to stretch out beneath the fluorescent lights, twisting in a way he couldn’t quite decipher…

His mother rushed to Sarah’s side, pressing a hand to her forehead. “She’s burning up,” she said, her voice shaking. “Nurse, please, do something.”

The nurse guided Henry back to the bed, her touch gentle but firm. “Rest, Henrikins. You’re in no shape to help right now. Let me take care of this.”

“No. I need to—” His frail body trembled as he tried to push past her, but she placed a firm hand on his shoulder, gently but insistently pressing him down.

“You need to lie down,” she said, her tone soft but commanding, with an unsettling edge of amusement. “Trust me. I’m very good at this.”

He hesitated, staring at her with wide, searching eyes. For a moment, her face flickered—just a trick of the light, but it sent a shiver down his spine.

Was this Elara? Or was it someone else entirely?

His mother’s frantic voice drew his attention back to Sarah. “She’s burning up. Please, help her!”

The nurse knelt beside Sarah, pulling a thermometer from her pocket and placing it under the girl’s arm. “We’ll get her fever down. She might need fluids and antibiotics. Don’t worry.”

Henry sank back against the pillows, his body too weak to argue, but his mind raced. Her words were reassuring, but her voice—it was like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit, a reminder of something he couldn’t quite place.

He glanced at the ceiling, his thoughts tangled in fear and confusion. Was he imagining things? Was exhaustion twisting his perception?

As the nurse tended to Sarah, Henry’s eyes flicked to her shadow stretching across the floor. It twisted and warped unnaturally, moving in ways the light shouldn’t allow. He blinked, and it was gone.

“She’s going to be fine,” the nurse said, her voice cutting through the silence. “I’ve seen worse.”

Henry’s chest tightened as he watched her work. Her movements were too smooth, too precise—eerily graceful.

His mother’s gaze darted between the nurse and Sarah, her worry etched into every line of her face. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice raw.

“Everything is going to be fine, Henry. Just rest,” the nurse murmured, glancing over her shoulder with a small, enigmatic smile. Her eyes sparkled with something—what, he couldn’t tell—but it made his heart race.

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The breakfast tray arrived with a clatter, a plate of pale, flavorless mush and a glass of something vaguely orange. The mush quivered slightly as if recoiling from his gaze. Henry poked at it with his spoon. The texture was disturbingly smooth, and the taste—if it could be called that—was like chewing air.

Even the air itself felt wrong, too sterile, too clean. The faint antiseptic tang clung to the back of his throat, making him gag.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. The red digits glowed faintly, stubbornly fixed at 3:17. He stared at it, waiting for the numbers to change.

They didn’t.

A faint buzz rose in his ears, like static. Was the clock broken? Or was he losing his grip? The longer he stared, the more the numbers seemed to blur, the 3 twisting into a faint 8 before snapping back, like his mind was playing tricks on him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus. It had to be exhaustion. That was all.

A soft knock at the door broke his focus, and Nurse Langley entered, her smile smooth and precise, like it had been carved into her face. Her scrubs bunched slightly at her back, as if the fabric were caught on something beneath.

“How are we feeling this morning?” she asked, her voice light but carrying an odd inflection, like she was delivering a line in a play.

Henry’s eyes widened. She entered? But hadn’t she already been here? His pulse quickened, and his head swam with confusion. The last thing he remembered was her telling him to rest. How long ago had that been? He didn’t remember her leaving—just her soft voice and that smile.

“The clock… it hasn’t changed,” he said, his voice hoarse, hoping the statement might tether him to some reality.

She glanced at the clock, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. “Oh, that old thing? Probably stuck. I’ll let someone know. Or maybe it just likes 3:17—it’s a nice time, don’t you think?”

Before Henry could answer, she approached the bedside, her tone softening, her smile taking on a hint of genuine warmth. “Your sister’s doing just fine, Henry,” she said, adjusting his IV with practiced ease. “I checked on her before I came in. She’s a tough little thing, just like you. You’ll see her soon.”

But Henry couldn’t shake the sensation gnawing at his gut. She was here before. She was the one who told him to rest—he was sure of it. So how had she left? And when? The pieces didn’t fit, and the sterile air seemed heavier with every passing second.