Alex's eyes had faltered, breaking slightly at that answer.
"What do you mean by that?"
Julian had only smiled faintly and shaken his head, unwilling to explain the depth of what he felt—of what he was.
Alex, perhaps sensing something he couldn't fully grasp, had nodded.
"All right. But… it's a good thing, for my sister, to have someone who cares for her so much."
The memory fades, leaving Julian alone again in the shower, warm water streaming over tense muscles, mingling with the ache in his chest.
His hand presses against the tiled wall, head bowing slightly as he whispers in his heart, fierce and desperate.
Grace will wake up. She will.
The water keeps falling, steady and relentless, like a quiet vow he refuses to let go of.
It's 7 p.m., and the world outside is gripped by a harsh winter wind, rattling windows and sweeping through empty streets. Julian steps into the hospital lobby, his fresh white t-shirt peeking out from beneath a black padded jacket zipped halfway up. He moves with quiet purpose, his breath still tinged with cold as he presses the elevator button.
The elevator hums softly, carrying him upward, and soon the doors open on the eighth floor. As he steps out, the sterile hallway greets him—not with silence, but with grief.
A row of people stands near one of the rooms, eyes red, faces streaked with tears. Some clutch tissues, others lean into one another for support. From inside comes a sharp, piercing cry:
"No, don't go like that! How can you just leave us and die?!"
The voice—a woman's—cracks under the weight of despair, its rawness slicing through the hall like broken glass.
Julian lowers his gaze, eyes darting to the polished floor tiles as he walks past. He doesn't know them, but he knows that pain. It radiates from them, heavy and suffocating.
And it awakens something inside him—memories he never asks for but always comes.
One hundred and thirty-five years of memories.
The day his parents died—he was only a boy, the sky red with war, the street choked with smoke and rubble. Bombs had fallen like judgment, one tearing apart the place where his parents stood. He had stared at the spot, heart hollow, unable to cry, unable to even move.
Then his twenties, during another war in the 1910s, when soldiers dragged away his closest friends, beating them mercilessly until they stopped moving. He could still hear the dull thud of rifle butts, the screams cut short, the silence that followed.
And Hannah.
He sees her again, thirty-five years old and dying in his arms, her blood warm against his skin. Her eyes had closed gently as if falling asleep, but her chest never rose again. Julian had buried his face against her shoulder, his voice breaking as he tried to hold in his sobs—but failed. Miserably.
The memories squeeze at his chest like a vice, unbidden and merciless. He inhales slowly, trying to shake them off, but the ache lingers as he walks the length of the corridor.
He stops at room 805. Grace's room.
As Julian steps inside, the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp greets him, casting soft shadows across the room. The air is still, touched only by the faint mechanical hum of hospital life beyond the door. Grace lies motionless, as though caught in some unreachable dream—her chest rising and falling with the assistance of the ventilator, the tubing at her mouth stark against her pale, peaceful face.
Julian's steps are slow, deliberate, almost reverent as he approaches her. He settles into the guardian's chair near the wall, its cold metal frame creaking softly beneath his weight. For a long moment, he simply watches her—every detail, every strand of hair out of place, every subtle rhythm of her breathing, committing it all to memory again, as if he might lose it any second.
"Grace," he says at last, his voice quiet, muffled, barely more than a whisper. A faint, sad smile touches his lips. "Do you know where I went today?" He exhales a small laugh through his nose. "I went to Eugene and Karen's wedding."
He looks down, fingers clasping loosely, then back to her, eyes deep and searching, as though he could will her eyes to open. "Seeing them get married… I was so happy for them, genuinely. But it reminded me of you. More of you than I expected." He chuckles softly, almost to himself. "For a moment, I imagined you walking toward me… in a wedding dress."
His gaze softens, eyes tender, almost pleading.
"Grace… when will you wake up?"
Outside, faint flakes of snow begin to drift past the slightly opened window, catching the dim city lights as they fall. The quiet hush of winter seeps into the room, and the gentle swirl of snow resonates with the heaviness in his heart.
He draws in a shaky breath, voice faltering. "There's something I haven't told you yet. Something I need to tell you… because I know now—you're the one I've been waiting for all along. But if you don't wake up…" His voice breaks, tears sliding silently down his cheeks. "…I still have to tell you… I love you. From the beginning, Grace. From the very beginning."
The wind outside gusts sharply, rattling the window slightly, as though the world itself answers his prayer, lending weight to his words. He bows his head, shoulders trembling, hands pressed together on his knees.
"Grace… please… wake up."
Outside, the snow falls harder, whirling thick and heavy, blanketing the dark night as time seems to blur.
The door creaks open behind him. Monica steps in quietly but freezes, her breath catching as she sees Julian—head bowed, hands clenched, shoulders shaking. Silent sobs ripple through him, raw and unrestrained.
She stands there for a moment, watching this man who loves her daughter with such aching devotion. Then, without a word, she steps back, letting the door close again.
In the hallway, Monica exhales shakily, her thoughts heavy.
I need to tell him… to stop waiting for Grace. But how?
Monica's chest tightens with a weight that seems to press down from her very soul. The love she carries for her daughter runs deeper than words—an endless, fierce wellspring of hope and fear. She watches Grace lying so still, so fragile, and feels a pang of helplessness that twists her heart.
She's endlessly grateful to Julian—grateful that he shows up day after day, unwavering, refusing to give up, refusing to leave Grace's side. His presence is a quiet comfort, a reminder that Grace is not alone in this battle.
But beneath that gratitude lies a growing doubt. Monica has made a difficult decision, one born from the cruel patience demanded by hope stretched thin: she plans to ask Julian to stop coming. To let go. To accept that Grace's awakening might take much longer—perhaps even forever—and that holding on so tightly could only lead to more heartbreak.
Yet now, seeing Julian's face etched with genuine, raw devotion—the way his eyes hold nothing but pure love and desperate longing—Monica feels her resolve falter. How could she, in good conscience, ask someone so authentic and so utterly devoted to walk away?
Her throat tightens. The words catch, tangled in her heart like a knot she cannot undo.
For all her fears and doubts, she knows one thing clearly: Julian's love is a light in this dark place—a light Grace might one day need to find her way back to consciousness.
And so Monica remains silent, the heaviness in her chest growing heavier still, torn between protecting Julian's heart and holding onto a hope that won't yet let go.
"So, you stayed with a group of people who work to save those from being sold?" Mom's voice is gentle as we lie side by side on the narrow bed in the refugee unit—its thin mattress barely cushioning the weight of everything we've endured.
I nod slowly, the memory still fresh but softened by time.
"Yes. They helped me more than I can say."
I had already told my family everything when we reunited—how I was captured by the soldiers, how a man risked everything to save me, leading me to his Society, a sanctuary in the chaos. We talked for hours that night, sharing stories of survival and loss. I found some peace in knowing my family had found their ways to Costen, living as well as they could. Still, the tears they shed over me—over my disappearance—were heavy in my heart.
Now, lying here next to Mom, the quiet of the night settling around us, the last remnants of our conversation linger.
"I really want to meet that man who helped you escape," Mom murmurs softly, her voice almost a whisper against the hum of the distant generator. "I want to thank him."
My throat tightens. I close my eyes, but the tears begin to sting behind my lids.
"Yeah… me too," I whisper, voice barely audible.
I think the tears spill because I don't know if I'll ever see June again—the man who gave me hope when everything else was lost. The image of our last farewell at the port burns clear in my mind: his steady eyes, the desperate grip of his hand, the promise that maybe, somehow, we'd meet again.
"Do you…" Mom's voice falters, hesitant and soft. "Do you want to go back?"