Beep... Beep... Beep...
The sound was the first thing to break the long silence. It was a steady, repeating noise that pulled him out of a deep, dark place.
His body felt like it didn't belong to him. It was heavy, like a bag of rocks, and it wouldn't listen to his thoughts. A dull ache throbbed deep in his bones. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt stuck shut. He tried to move a finger. Nothing happened. It was like his mind was disconnected from his body.
He was breathing, but it was shallow and felt wrong. He could feel something taped to his arm and a thin tube in his nose.
Where was he?
The question brought a rush of confusing pictures to his mind.
...the loud screech of tires on a wet road. The whole world turning sideways, then the sound of breaking glass and crunching metal...
Then, another memory pushed its way in. It smelled like pine trees and damp dirt. The weight on his body felt different. It wasn't a broken feeling; it was the heavy weight of metal armor on his shoulders. He felt the handle of a sword in his hand. A different name was whispered in the wind: Hero.
Beep... Beep...
The sound from the machine pulled him back to the present. He was the boy on the road, but he was also the man in the forest. Which one was real? He was scared and confused.
He had to see.
He used all his strength, a force so strong it felt like it could break him, just to open his eyes. A thin line of light cut through the dark. It was so bright it hurt. He shut them again quickly. His heart pounded against his ribs, fast and hard.
...a dark throne room. A terrible, inhuman scream. The taste of blood in his mouth. A loud, angry voice yelling his name... "Shartak!"...
Shartak. That was his name. He held onto that thought.
He tried to open his eyes again, this time more slowly. The room was blurry, mostly white and grey. The ceiling was a flat, white surface high above him. He saw a metal pole next to him with a plastic bag of clear liquid hanging from it. A tube ran from the bag down to a bandage on his hand. An IV.
He forced his head to turn. The small movement sent a sharp pain through his neck. He saw a machine with a green line jumping up and down. The line jumped with every beep. A heart monitor.
The pieces came together in his mind with a cold, awful feeling.
The clean smell. The IV bag. The beeping monitor.
He was in a hospital.
The thought did not comfort him. It terrified him. The memory of the truck crash was real. But the five years in the other world felt just as real.
How long had he been lying here?
He wanted to ask, to say something, anything. He took in a weak breath and tried to push a word out.
But only a little puff of air came out. He couldn't make a sound.
At that moment, the door to the room opened.
A woman in a white uniform walked in. She looked at a clipboard in her hands.
Shartak watched her, his mind screaming. I'm here! Look at me! I'm awake!
The nurse finally looked up from her clipboard. Her eyes passed over him, then snapped back. She froze. The calm, professional look on her face vanished. It was replaced by pure shock. The clipboard dropped from her hands, hitting the floor with a loud clatter.
She gasped, a sharp, loud sound in the quiet room.
For a second, the nurse just stared, her face pale. The sound of her dropped clipboard still echoed in the quiet room. Then, her training took over.
She rushed to his bedside.
"Can you hear me?" she asked, her voice a little shaky. "Can you squeeze my hand? Just a little squeeze."
She gently placed her fingers into his palm. Shartak heard her. He understood. He focused all his mind on his right hand, ordering it to close. In his memory, this hand had swung a sword that could cut through solid rock. It had held magic powerful enough to light up a dark sky.
Now, he tried to make it squeeze. He strained until he felt a bead of sweat on his forehead.
Nothing happened. Not even a twitch. A cold feeling of failure washed over him.
The nurse didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were wide with a mix of fear and excitement. "Okay, okay. Don't try to move. Just stay right there. I'm getting the doctor."
She turned and hurried out of the room, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor.
Shartak was alone again, but the room was no longer silent. He could hear his own heart beeping on the monitor, faster than before. He was awake. Someone knew he was awake. The thought was both a relief and a new kind of trap. He was here, but he was a prisoner in his own body.
A few moments later, he heard rushed footsteps and voices from the hallway. The door swung open again. This time, the nurse returned with a man in a white coat. He looked older, with tired but kind eyes. The doctor.
"It's true," the doctor whispered, more to himself than to the nurse. He walked quickly to Shartak's bed and shone a small light into his eyes. Shartak flinched from the brightness.
"Pupils are responsive," the doctor said. He gently tapped Shartak's knee with a small rubber hammer. There was no reaction. "No reflex. The muscle atrophy is severe, as expected."
He looked at the nurse. "How long has it been, exactly?"
"He was admitted July 23rd last year, doctor," the nurse replied, reading from a new chart. "Today is August 7th, 2025. A year and fifteen days."
A year. The word hit Shartak like a physical blow. He had been lying in this bed, a sleeping body in one world, while he had lived five full years in another.
The doctor looked at Shartak with a serious expression. "Son, my name is Dr. Aris. You've been in a coma for a long time. Your body is very weak. We're going to take care of you, but it will be a long road."
Shartak could only stare back, his mind racing. A long road? He didn't have time for a long road.
The doctor turned to the nurse. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. He's awake. That's the miracle. Go on, make the call. She's been waiting every single day."
The nurse nodded and quickly left the room again.
She?
A new feeling rushed through him—a mix of hope and fear so strong it made his heart monitor beep even faster. He knew who the doctor meant.
He heard a voice from the hall, strained and hurried. "Is it true? Is he really…?"
The door burst open.
A woman stood there. She was thinner than he remembered, with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair had streaks of grey he'd never seen before. But it was her. His mother.
For a moment, she just stood there, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears that began to spill down her cheeks. She took a shaky step forward, then another, as if she were afraid he was a dream that would vanish if she moved too quickly.
"Shartak?" she whispered, her voice choked with tears. "Oh, my baby. You're… you're awake? You're really awake?"
She reached his bedside and fell into the chair. She reached out a trembling hand, but hesitated, hovering over his arm as if he were made of glass.
Shartak looked at his mother's tired, tear-streaked face. The warrior inside him, the hero who had faced down monsters and kings, felt himself break. This was not a general or an enemy. This was his mom. And seeing the pain and love in her eyes hurt more than any wound he had ever received.
A hot pressure built behind his own eyes. The white ceiling blurred. A single, warm tear escaped and rolled down his temple into his hair.
His mother saw it. A sob escaped her lips, a sound of pure relief and a year's worth of pain being released all at once. Her fear seemed to melt away. She finally touched him, her warm, soft hand gently closing over his cold, still one.
"You're here," she cried softly, squeezing his hand. "You're really here."