The first thing she felt was the weight of time.
Time pressed against her chest, heavy and slow, like she'd been buried under a week of forgotten dreams.
The second thing was sound.
Soft. Rhythmic. The faint hum of machines breathing for her. A distant murmur of voices outside the door. The sterile whisper of a hospital that had seen too much.
Rose's eyelashes fluttered open.
The world was white. Too white. A blur of harsh ceiling lights and shadowed edges. For a moment, she didn't know if she was still dreaming.
Her throat burned. Dry. Empty. She tried to move, but her limbs felt foreign, weak, as if they'd been borrowed from someone else.
Then—
A voice. Low. Steady. Just a few feet away.
"She's waking up."
She blinked slowly, focusing on the shapes in the room. Two tall silhouettes stood near the window, the dim glow of evening softening their sharp outlines.
One of them moved closer.
And then she saw him.
The first man—broad shoulders draped in a simple dark shirt, his expression unreadable but his eyes carrying something she couldn't name. Relief, maybe. Or something heavier. His presence felt familiar, though she couldn't place why.
The second figure stepped forward too, quieter in his movement, but his gaze… his gaze was piercing. Colder. Yet there was a flicker of warmth buried deep, like a candle hidden behind glass.
They didn't speak at first. They just looked at her, as if trying to see beyond her pale face, beyond the fragile girl lying on the bed, to find something buried deeper.
Her lips parted, but no words came. Her voice was still lost in the fog of dreams and pain.
The man closest to her—he leaned down slightly, his voice a quiet thread.
"Rose… it's me."
Me.
She searched his face. Dark eyes. A faint scar near his temple. A jawline too sharp for someone who could speak so softly.
The second man stepped beside him, crossing his arms. "You probably don't remember us. It's been years."
Her brows furrowed faintly. Years?
The first man gave a faint, almost tired smile. "It's alright. We didn't expect you to."
And then, through the haze, it clicked.
Memory.
A house across the street. A porch draped with ivy. A grandmother who always smelled of herbal tea and warm cookies.
And two boys—slightly older than her—who used to race each other down the lane while she watched from her gate.
Her lips moved. No sound. But in her mind, the names whispered themselves like a forgotten prayer.
"Kai… Renji…"
Yes. That was it.
Kai Tachibana and Renji Tachibana.
Grandsons of Grandma Hoshino, the warm old lady who had been her grandmother's closest friend.
The same boys who, when she was fifteen, had teased her about her love of sketching. The same boys who had quietly stood beside her during that unbearable funeral, one handing her a tissue, the other just sitting in silence because he didn't know what to say.
And now—
They were here.
Older. Sharper. Men now, not boys.
Renji—the one with the calmer, colder eyes—spoke first. "Grandma Hoshino… she took you in after… everything." His voice was steady, but there was a faint shift in his gaze, like he was carefully choosing how much to say.
Kai added, quieter, "She's been worried about you since you left."
Rose's chest tightened. Left.
She had left. After her father and brother's death, after the flags and the silence, she couldn't breathe in that neighborhood anymore. She'd packed what little she had and gone. Far.
Away from the grave markers. Away from the empty rooms.
Away from them.
Her eyes drifted from Kai to Renji, then back again. She wanted to speak. To ask why are you here? Why now? But the words stayed trapped in her throat, fragile and trembling like everything else about her.
Kai moved closer to the bed, his expression softening just a little. "It's okay. Don't talk yet. You've been unconscious for a week."
A week.
The words landed heavy.
Her lashes lowered slightly. She remembered flashes—cold concrete. The taste of humiliation. Laughter that cut like glass.
And then—darkness.
Renji spoke again, his tone low, calm, but there was something under it. A tension. "We found you."
Her eyes flicked to him.
"Someone hurt you," he continued. "We don't know who yet. But we will."
The promise in his voice was quiet but sharp, like a blade hidden in velvet.
Kai glanced at his brother, then back at her. "You're safe now. That's all that matters right now."
Safe.
The word felt foreign.
She shifted slightly, wincing as her body reminded her how fragile it still was. Kai immediately reached out, steadying her shoulders gently. His touch was careful, deliberate, like he was afraid she might break.
Renji, meanwhile, stayed back. Watching. Calculating.
They were so different, these two. Kai carried warmth in his voice, the kind that tried to soothe without words. Renji carried silence, a colder kind of protection.
Rose swallowed hard, her throat dry, and finally whispered—so faintly it was almost nothing—
"Why?"
Kai tilted his head. "Why… what?"
"Why… are you here?" Her voice cracked, raw from disuse.
For a moment, neither answered.
Then Renji spoke, his tone even. "Because Grandma asked us to."
Grandma.
The same Grandma Hoshino who had taken her in after she lost her family. Who had tried to fill the quiet house with warmth that could never quite replace what was gone.
Rose blinked slowly. She could almost see her now—frail but stubborn, still living in that house across from her old home, probably scolding these two men for working too much, for forgetting the softness of life.
Kai gave a small smile. "She still thinks of you as family, Rose. Always has."
Family.
The word hit something in her chest.
She looked away, her gaze drifting to the hospital window. Outside, the city glimmered in the fading light, neon signs blinking like restless stars.
She didn't know what to say.
Couldn't.
Because what could she say to two ghosts from a past she'd buried?
Renji finally moved closer, his presence quieter but heavier somehow. He set something down on the table beside her bed.
Her pendant.
The silver wings glinted softly under the harsh hospital light.
"We kept it safe," he said simply.
Her breath caught.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, brushing the cool metal.
And for the first time since waking, a single tear slid down her cheek.
Kai exhaled softly. "You don't have to decide anything right now. Just rest. We'll handle the rest."
Renji straightened, his gaze still fixed on her. "No one will hurt you again. Not while we're here."
The way he said it—quiet, final—made something in her stir.
She didn't trust it. Not yet.
But for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel entirely alone.
She lay back against the pillow, fingers curling tightly around the pendant, her gaze never leaving the two men who had once been boys in her memory.
Silent.
Still fragile.
But maybe… maybe not broken.
And as the monitor beeped softly, the air between them felt heavy with things unsaid.