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Chapter 106 - Where am I

In the stillness of the hospital room, the clock reads 3 a.m.—a time when the world feels suspended between moments. Monica stands quietly beside her daughter's bed, eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of Grace's chest. The sterile hum of machines fills the heavy silence, their steady beeps a fragile heartbeat in the dark.

She pulls out her phone, the soft glow illuminating her face for a brief moment, then slips it away as if reluctant to break the fragile peace.

With deliberate tenderness, Monica reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair from Grace's pale cheek, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"I'll come back tomorrow, Grace," she whispers, her voice barely more than a breath.

One last lingering glance—filled with hope, worry, and unspoken prayers—before Monica turns and walks slowly toward the door. Her footsteps fade down the quiet hallway, leaving the room swallowed in shadows.

Inside, Grace lies utterly alone.

In the heavy silence of the dark room, something stirs—a faint, slow movement in her left hand. Her fingers twitch lightly against the cool hospital sheets, as if reaching for something beyond the stillness.

A subtle furrow creases her brow, a quiet sign of unrest in the endless night.

I walk through the night—an ethereal mix of bluish and purplish hues stretching across the city's towering skyline. The buildings rise like silent sentinels, their glass facades reflecting the flicker of neon signs, while the street lamps stand in perfect, measured rows, casting pools of golden light onto the spotless pavement below.

Snow drifts gently from the ink-black sky, each flake catching the faint glow before melting into the cold air. I tilt my head upward, watching the slow dance of the snow, but the city around me feels strangely unfamiliar.

I have no idea where I am.

This place feels like something out of a future dream—so impossibly clean, so orderly, so alive with light and yet eerily silent. It's a world apart from the refuge center in Costen where I shelter with my family, a stark contrast to the chaotic, cramped rooms I once shared with June.

Here, the cold seeps in—not biting or harsh, but crisp and clear, like the breath of a new world.

I glance into the window of a clothing store—its lights dim for the late hour. Through the glass, the neon from nearby signs catches the reflection of my own face.

I'm wearing a white t-shirt and a black coat draped over my shoulders. The coat feels impossibly soft, almost too perfect, as if it were stitched from the fabric of the future itself.

And in the mirror's surface, I see myself—unchanged, yet somehow out of place.

"Where am I…?" I whisper, voice barely more than the cold wind brushing past.

A sudden crunch of footsteps on snow draws my attention. I turn slowly, my eyes finding a figure across the street.

He stands alone, framed by the red glow of a traffic light, the empty road between us a silent boundary.

The streetlight glows red, and we both stand there, frozen in place across the empty road, caught in the fragile pause of a world waiting to shift.

The crosswalk lies some distance away, too far for me to see his face clearly, but the silhouette ignites a flutter deep in my chest.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a long, graceful neck, his tousled black hair falls just so, and those black-rimmed glasses catch a glint of the neon haze.

The man in the black coat—he looks so familiar.

I know June never wears glasses, but this figure, this stranger, is too close to him not to be.

My voice breaks through the cold air, hoarse yet trembling, "June…?"

The traffic light shifts—green now—and he starts walking toward me.

Step by step, his face comes into focus beneath the pale street lamps.

It's June.

Closer, closer—each footfall synced with the countdown on the light.

The number blinks down from ten, nine… eight…

"June," I call out again, urgency tightening my throat as he draws near.

Five… four…

He pauses just shy of the crosswalk's edge, the light lingering at two, as if time itself hesitates alongside us.

Snowflakes hang suspended in the air, frozen mid-descent, as if the night holds its breath.

How is this even happening?

His voice breaks the silence—low, soft, impossibly close.

"Grace."

The name catches me off guard, unfamiliar yet haunting.

I furrow my brows, confusion knotting my thoughts.

"Are you… June?" I ask, voice barely a whisper, "Or are you…"

A wrench twists inside me—an aching, inexplicable pain.

"Yes," he replies gently, "Yes, Grace."

My eyes flutter, a tremor coursing through me.

Why does that name strike so deep? Why does it feel like something lost, something irretrievable?

What is this name—Grace—that pulls at the very core of me?

Grace? Who is Grace?

And why does that name pull at me so strangely—so deep, so complex? It's as if it carries a weight I can't place, like it's tied to something vital within me.

June stares at me, frozen mid-step, with the snow suspended in midair around us, as though time itself has stopped to listen. The dark sky stretches endlessly above, the pale moonlight mingling with the soft glow of the streetlamps, weaving an ethereal aura I can't decipher.

"June… it's me. Hannah," I whisper, breath escaping in soft, white clouds. The cold bites my lungs, sharp and clean.

He doesn't speak. He only looks at me with those star-filled eyes, so impossibly deep I feel I could fall into them. His lips, perfectly shaped and tightly closed, tremble slightly, as though they hold back a thousand unspoken words. There's something in his expression—something silent, desperate—that tries to reach me, though I can't understand what.

"I… Where are we? Where is this place and…" My voice falters as I take in the closeness of him, as if seeing him for the first time. "And why are you here?"

Then it happens—the snow resumes its gentle descent, brushing cold kisses on my hair, my cheeks, my bare hands. I tilt my head back and watch it scatter across the night, an endless, delicate fall.

When I lower my gaze, June is gone.

The space where he stood is empty, as if he was never there at all.

Only snow remains, falling and falling, clinging to my skin as a strange ache rises inside me. This world feels too familiar, like a dream I've walked through before, like a memory just beyond reach—one I can't stop chasing.

In the silent hospital room, where the hum of machines is the only sound, Monica sleeps curled awkwardly in the guardian's chair, her head leaning against its stiff back. Her breath comes in soft, uneven sighs, exhaustion pulling her deep.

On the bed, Grace's fingers twitch—just once, then again, tapping lightly against the thin blanket. Outside the window, snow falls endlessly, a white veil blurring the world beyond.

Monica stirs at the faint sound, her eyelids fluttering open. She blinks at the dim light, at the shifting movement near the bed. Her brow furrows in disbelief.

Grace's fingers are moving.

"Grace…?" Monica's voice trembles, cracking at the edges. "Grace, are you… awake?"

She jolts upright, the chair scraping softly against the floor. Her heart lurches as she stares at her daughter, unable to breathe for a moment, hope crashing violently through her exhaustion.

The room is steeped in early morning quiet, broken only by the rhythmic beep of the monitor. Monica sits stiffly in the guardian's chair, her fingers locked tightly together, as if willing her daughter to wake. The doctor and nurse stand nearby, their eyes fixed on the faint movement beneath the blankets.

Grace's fingers twitch—first a tremor, then a steady tapping. There's no mistaking it this time. She's coming back.

"Her motor response is improving," the doctor murmurs, glancing at the monitor.

And then, almost too quietly to notice, Grace's eyelids flutter. Slowly, painfully, they lift. Her gaze meets the dim room, washed in the pale blue light of dawn spilling through the window.

"Grace!" Monica's voice cracks as she lurches forward from the chair, disbelief and hope colliding all at once.

The first thing Grace sees is the ceiling above her—dark and unfamiliar—then the soft blue glow painting the room in gentle hues. Her lips part slightly as if trying to make sense of it.

"Grace, did you wake up?" Monica whispers, her voice trembling like glass.

Grace's eyes shift toward her mother, slow and heavy, as if she's peering through water.

Monica's tears spill over instantly. 

"You woke up… finally." She's sobbing openly now, covering her mouth before reaching out to grip her daughter's hand.

"Your daughter has woken up. Congratulations, Professor Silver," the doctor says warmly, his voice softer than usual.

Grace blinks at them all, her expression blank, almost childlike.

Monica leans in, clasping her daughter's delicate hand in both of hers.

"You were in a deep sleep for over two weeks. But now you're here. Are you okay, sweetheart?"

Grace's eyes wander—from Monica, to the doctor, to the nurse. She blinks again, slowly, as if the world is foreign.

"Grace, do you see everything clearly?" Monica asks, her own breath hitching at the confusion clouding her daughter's face.

There's a long pause, silence thickening in the room. The doctor and nurse exchange a glance, both sensing something wrong.

Finally, Grace speaks, her voice quiet, almost detached. 

"Who… are you all? And… who's Grace?"

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