Later that day, his mother and sister visited. His mother’s eyes were red and swollen, but she forced a smile. Sarah sat quietly beside her, her face pale but calm. Too calm.
Henry stared at his sister, unease creeping into his chest. “Sarah,” he said hesitantly, “you… you collapsed last night. They took you to the ER!”
Sarah blinked slowly, her eyes dull and unfocused. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her tone flat, almost mechanical.
“You were in bad shape,” Henry insisted, his gaze darting to their mother. “She was burning up, Mom. I saw it! You said it yourself—she was really sick!”
His mother’s forced smile faltered, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “Henry, honey, you’ve been through a lot. Maybe you’re just… confused.”
“Confused?” His voice rose with frustration. “I’m not confused! I remember it perfectly. She collapsed, and they wheeled her out of here! How is she sitting here now, fine like nothing happened?”
“She’s always been fine,” his mother said, her tone overly calm. “Nothing like that happened, sweetheart.”
Henry’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, nothing happened? I saw it! There was a nurse—you were panicking and she had to calm you down—and Sarah was unconscious. You were crying!”
“Henry,” his mother said gently, reaching for his hand. “You’ve been through so much, and sometimes the mind plays tricks when you’re recovering. It’s normal. Really.”
“It’s not normal!” He turned to Sarah, searching her face for some sign of recognition. “You remember, don’t you? The nurse? The ambulance? You were barely breathing!”
Sarah’s expression didn’t change. She looked at him with blank detachment, her gaze sliding away as if he wasn’t even there. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she murmured.
His stomach churned. “This isn’t right. I know what I saw.”
“She’s just tired,” his mother said, patting his hand in a placating gesture. “It’s been a lot for all of us. And you—you’re still recovering, sweetheart.”
Recovering. That word again. He let out a bitter laugh. “I’m not imagining things. I know what happened.”
“It’s to be expected after such a major surgery,” she continued, her voice calm but distant, as though she hadn’t even heard him.
Henry’s frustration boiled over. They weren’t listening. They were dismissing him, treating him like he was losing his mind. He reached for the cell phone resting on the bedside table. If they wouldn’t listen, maybe someone else would.
Before he could unlock it, his mother’s hand shot out, snatching it from his grip.
“Mom!” he shouted, stunned.
“Who would you even call? everyone you know is here,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. She clutched the phone tightly, her knuckles white.
“But I need to—”
“You don’t,” she interrupted, her tone firm, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You’re safe here. You just need to rest.”
Henry stared at her, disbelief and betrayal mingling in his expression. “This isn’t right. You’re not listening to me!”
His mother sighed, her face filled with pity. “We’re listening, Henry. We are. But you’re still confused, and that’s okay. Just focus on getting better.”
As she tucked the phone into her pocket, Sarah rose silently, her movements slow and almost robotic. Together, they left the room without another word.
The door clicked shut, leaving Henry alone with the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the sterile scent of the room. His hands clenched into fists. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. Sarah had been sick. Dying. And now she was here, looking perfectly fine but so… off. His mother’s excuses, her snatching away the phone—it all felt like part of a carefully constructed lie. And the how had he gotten here from Arraiza?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his bare feet against the cold linoleum. The shock sent a shiver up his spine, but he ignored it, bracing himself against the mattress as he pushed himself upright.
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His legs wobbled beneath him, weak and unsteady, as if he hadn’t used them in months. He took a tentative step, then another. Each movement was an effort, his muscles protesting with a dull ache. The bathroom door loomed ahead, impossibly far. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
The wall supported him as he paused halfway, his vision swimming. His thoughts were a chaotic swirl of doubt and determination. He couldn’t trust his body. He couldn’t trust his family. He couldn’t trust this place.
He tried to open the window, hoping for a breath of fresh air. The latch was stiff, and his fingers, still weak from the IVs, fumbled with it. He strained, putting all his weight behind it, but the latch wouldn't budge. A frustrating wave of helplessness swept over him. Even something as simple as opening a window was beyond him. He slunk back to the bed, defeated.
the clock slowly moved, working properly somehow. it slowly clicked forward until, that evening around 7:40, Nurse Langley came to check on him, carrying a food tray. He was attempting to get out of bed again, his legs shaking uncontrollably. She placed a hand on his arm, her touch surprisingly firm and warm—almost electric.
"Easy there, Henrikins," she said, her voice gentle but resolute. "You're not quite ready for a marathon yet."
She didn’t push him back into bed, but her hand remained on his arm, providing just enough support to keep him from falling. For a moment, his muscles steadied under her touch, and he felt an odd clarity he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t direct help—it was more like she was holding him at the edge of his strength, letting him take small, wobbly steps forward.
"Small steps," she murmured, her eyes meeting his. "That's how heroes begin their journeys. Now eat your food."
The breakfast tray sat untouched on his bedside table. The pale mush looked disturbingly smooth, like something pre-chewed and spat out. Memories of the horrible antics Elara got up to surfaced and his appetite disappeared. She placed the new tray and removed the old one.
He glanced at the digital clock on the wall. 3:17. He was certain he’d just checked it moments ago. He stared intently, willing the numbers to tick forward, but they remained stubbornly fixed. His eyes burned as he blinked, and when he glanced back, his stomach dropped.
7:52.
How? He hadn’t looked away for more than a moment. He blinked again, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The numbers flickered—seven became eleven, five shifted into zero.
11:01.
The display snapped back to 3:17.
A jolt of disorientation shot through him. He rubbed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating, but the clock remained stubbornly unchanged.
Driven by a growing sense of unease, Henry decided he needed to move. He needed to get out of this room, to see if the rest of the hospital was as… wrong as his immediate surroundings. He pushed himself out of bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. His legs trembled beneath him, weak and unsteady, but he forced himself to take a step, then another.
He shuffled down the hallway, counting the doors as he went. Turn left at the third door, he remembered, that’s where the bathroom is. He reached the third door, turned, and his breath caught in his throat.
Instead of the familiar white door with its simple bathroom symbol, he found himself staring at a blank, brick wall. The cold, rough surface pressed against his outstretched hand. He recoiled, his heart pounding with a growing sense of panic. He retraced his steps, but the hallway seemed different now, longer, the doors numbered in a different sequence.
Where there had been windows, there were now solid walls. Where there had been a drinking fountain, there was now a supply closet, its door slightly ajar, revealing shelves stacked with neatly folded sheets. The air felt heavier, tinged with a faint, metallic taste. The fluorescent lights flickered above him, casting jagged shadows that seemed to stretch and curl against the walls.
As he stood there, disoriented and confused, a doctor walked past. His face was pale and drawn, his movements stiff, arms swinging unnaturally at his sides like a puppet on strings. He was humming a tune, a strange, lilting melody that tugged at Henry's memory.
Then it clicked.
It was a dwarvish drinking song, one he’d heard Elara sing in the tavern in Arraiza. The melody wrapped around his thoughts, too familiar to be a coincidence. The doctor’s unfocused eyes stared straight ahead, as though he were in a trance. A faint shimmer surrounded him, bending the light in waves that made his features blur, his face too smooth and smudged, like a hastily painted portrait.
Later, a nurse wheeled a gurney down the hall, covered with a white sheet. But there was no sound—no rattle of wheels, no squeak of bearings. The gurney simply glided silently across the tiled floor, as if floating on a cushion of air.
Henry stared, the oppressive silence pressing against his ears, suffocating him. He tried to focus, to steady his breathing, but the nurse stopped abruptly, her head tilting sharply, unnaturally, as though listening to something only she could hear. Slowly, she turned her head toward him.
Her face.
It collapsed inward like a deflated balloon, folding into itself with a sickening squelch. For a heartbeat, her features were gone—a hollow void where her face had been. Then, with a violent snap, her face unhinged and then with a loud pop! Everything went back into place, perfect and pristine, as if nothing had happened.
Henry stumbled backward, his breath caught in his throat. The nurse’s blank eyes locked onto his, her expression devoid of emotion. She paused for a moment, her gaze unnervingly still, before resuming her silent glide down the hallway, the gurney moving as though propelled by an unseen force.
The chill creeping up Henry’s spine sharpened into icy dread and the hallway seemed to tilt, reality unraveling thread by thread. His mind screamed at him to run, but his legs remained frozen, as if the hospital itself was holding him in place.