Waiting Through the Storm
Black.
He didn't fall into unconsciousness. He was dragged into it, yanked out of the world like a loose thread being pulled. And yet—there was still something.
Shapes. Colors that didn't exist. A shifting horizon that seemed to stretch infinitely, folding in on itself like ripples on water that had no shore. In the center—something vast, something that felt alive without form. It pulsed, not like a heartbeat but like a rhythm too fast to follow. Threads of gold—no, not gold, not light at all—streaked and wove around him.
He was moving.
No—he wasn't moving. The world was moving through him, peeling past in impossible streaks. He felt like he was falling and standing still at the same time. The sensation was dizzying, intoxicating, terrifying.
A whisper curled at the edge of hearing—too soft to be words, too heavy to ignore. It was gone before he could grasp it.
Another flash—shadows of people, or maybe not people, standing in a line that stretched forever. Their outlines shimmered, and their faces—if they were faces—were blurred, each one turning toward him as if they'd felt his presence.
POV Switch
When the school called, Hiroki Ito had just been winding down for the evening. He had just finally sat on the recliner, feet up, remote in hand—but the call changed everything.
"Mr. Ito?" The principal's voice was tight. "Your son—there's been an incident. He's… unresponsive. The school bus was struck by lightning. We… we need you at the hospital now."
Hiroki barely remembers grabbing his coat, throwing it on, and glancing at Aya. She looked like she'd been punched.
"We have to go," he'd said. No hesitation. Just necessity.
Aya drove.
On the way, she gripped the steering wheel so hard it whitened her knuckles. Hiroki reached over and squeezed her hand—something small to remind both of them that they were still together. The rain streaked the windshield, and every traffic light blurred into surreal smears of green and red.
They didn't talk much. Words felt too big, too clumsy. Just the hum of wipers against glass.
Kenjiro's mind wasn't empty during the blackout. It was full of fragments.
A whisper, so close: "It's okay."
A smell, faint, of ozone and metal, sharp as a memory.
A flash of warm—that weird glow from the ink, shimmering gold on the page, burning slowly into vision.
Then nothing.
Fragments that hovered just behind the latch of awareness. And then, silence.
Parent's POV
Hiroki's hand tightened on the hospital ID card the nurse had handed him, his knuckles whitening. Aya's grip on his arm was firm but trembling, a quiet tension that mirrored his own. The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor felt too harsh, too unreal, and the distant beeping of machines from somewhere beyond the double doors only made it worse.
"Is he…?" Hiroki's voice was caught somewhere between hope and dread.
Aya shook her head, hair falling forward as she pressed her palm to her mouth. "We'll see him soon."
The nurse led them through the sliding doors, and suddenly, there he was. Kenjiro lay in a hospital bed, pale against the stark white sheets, tubes and wires running here and there. His hair, usually messy but alive with energy, now seemed almost still, like a shadow cast in dim light. His small chest rose and fell with the rhythm of a ventilator, the subtle hiss of oxygen punctuating the quiet hum of the room.
Hiroki stepped closer, instinctively reaching out, but Aya's hand on his forearm held him back.
"He's… okay. They're doing everything," the nurse said softly.
Aya wipes her eyes, blurring the thin line separating the monitor screen from Kenjiro's still form. The doctor stands across the room, eyes guarded.
"Mr. and Mrs. Ito," he says, voice even but precise. "Your son is stable. We've done CT and MRI scans. Nothing obvious—no bleeding, no swelling. No trauma."
Aya's breath hitches.
"No signs of seizure, no metabolic problem.
The doctor nods thoughtfully. "He's in a coma. We—it's rare not to have a clear cause. We can try stimulants, therapies, but we might be looking at a long rest."
The words float over them like dust motes. Aya presses a hand to her mouth, tears spilling silently. Hiroki leans forward, placing his hand on Kenjiro's chest—though he knows that's not what matters.
"Take all the time you need," the doctor says gently. "We'll do everything we can."
Aya nods, voice hitching between tears. "Thank you, doctor."
Days. The period after a strike like this gets long. Hospital smell, same routine— Aya sits by the bed in the day; Hiroki returns in the evening after work. They take turns hovering, reading, sleeping in plastic chairs.
Hiroki would watch the monitors: heart rate, breathing, brainwaves flickering like timid flames. Not much changed day to day, but every small detail becomes a mountain. A twitch of a finger. A change in temperature. A breath held longer.
Sometimes, Aya comes in with a damp cloth, running it gently over Kenjiro's hand. The memory of that spark—static electricity that jumped between them—was stuck in her mind. Tiny, sure, but more real than any optimism she had.
Now and then, Kenjiro's face twitches—an eyelid flutters, a breath catches in his throat. Minimal signs, but Aya lays a finger on his palm and almost smiles.
She hums softly, and every time the monitor hiccups, she thinks it might be for him, that maybe it's his return stopping the room.
Hiroki holds her from behind as she murmurs "please come back" like a prayer.
Three months in, there were near-moments. A deep breath when she leaned in. A flutter like a flicker of light. Every time, the nurse, would come in, check projections and say, "It's just nerves."
Aya and Hiroki looked at each other with exhausted hope in their eyes.
By month six, the glow of rewriting scenes in Hiroki's head had gone dim. They were exhausted, coffee cold, day and night blended.
But neither gave up.
Six Months Later
It's quiet in the room. Early morning light streams through blinds. Aya sleeps in a chair again, blanket draped over her knees. Hiroki is reading quietly—but he's more tired than usual, slouched over his newspaper.
The monitors beep steadily. Then a pause.
Hiroki's head snaps up.
Aya opens her eyes.
On the bed, Kenjiro's fingers twitch. His eyelids flutter, and then, just as softly, they lift.
That breath he takes is the first of new mornings.
Eyes open. Black turns to color.