Homecoming
The hospital smells follow me out the door. Sterile, sharp, unmistakable. Antiseptic clings to my clothes, my skin, even my breath. After more than nine months inside, stepping past the sliding doors feels unreal.
Mom is right beside me, carrying a small bag of belongings, her arm brushing mine as though she's afraid I might stumble. Dad holds the discharge papers tight, shoulders squared, expression calm in the way he always tries to be—calm, controlled, but I see the exhaustion underneath.
The air outside hits differently. Softer, fresher, alive. I close my eyes briefly, breathing it in. The city hums faintly in the distance. Tires on asphalt. Voices. Birds. Wind. It feels louder than I remember, but also clearer, sharper, almost too much. I shake it off and tell myself it's because I've been inside too long.
The car ride is quiet. Mom asks little questions—am I comfortable, do I want the window down, does the light hurt my eyes? I answer as best I can, keeping it simple. Dad drives steadily, both hands on the wheel, his jaw set in that way that means he's thinking too much.
When we finally pull into the driveway, the house feels… smaller. Familiar, but like a memory warped by time. Mom squeezes my arm as we walk up the steps, almost guiding me though my legs are steady now. Dad unlocks the front door, hesitates for half a second, and then pushes it open.
Home.
The smell hits me first—wood, faint detergent, something warm that lingers like cinnamon. Everything is exactly where it should be. Shoes lined neatly by the entrance. A family photo by the hallway. The living room couch, the rug, the books stacked unevenly on the low shelf.
Mom fusses immediately, adjusting the cushions before I sit down. Dad sets the bag aside, clears his throat like he wants to say something but doesn't. The silence between us feels heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… unfamiliar, as though we're all relearning what it means to be here together.
"I'll make dinner,"Mom says finally, her voice brighter than it should be. She disappears into the kitchen before either of us can protest.
I sink into the couch. The cushions give in the same way I remember, but somehow softer. The ticking clock on the wall sounds louder. My heartbeat feels louder. Everything has a strange clarity, as though the world has sharpened while I was gone.
Dad sits across from me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He doesn't say much, but his eyes stay on me, searching, studying. Not like a doctor, not like a father, but something in between.
"You'll get used to it," he says after a while, nodding toward the room, the house, the silence. His voice is steady. "It'll feel normal again."
I nod, not sure I believe him, but I don't argue.
From the kitchen, Mom's voice floats back. "Almost ready! Just sit and relax, Kenjiro."
The clatter of dishes follows, the familiar rhythm of her moving through cabinets, drawers, pots. It feels so normal it almost makes me smile.
I hear her footsteps returning. She carries a tray with bowls and plates balanced carefully. Steam rises faintly, carrying the smell of miso, rice, fish. Home. For a moment, I forget everything—the hospital, the months of fog, the strangeness. It feels like nothing has changed.
And then it happens.
One of the plates slips.
I don't think. I don't move consciously. Something inside me acts first. The world tilts, shifts—slows. Mom's gasp stretches, long and distorted. The plate hangs in the air, descending impossibly slow. The steam curls in delicate spirals I can almost trace with my eyes. Even the ticking clock pauses between beats.
I move.
It's instinct. My arm shoots out, my body leaning forward faster than thought. I feel the air tear past me, feel the space fold. My hand closes around the plate just before it shatters on the floor.
And then—everything snaps back.
The world rushes in again. Mom's gasp cuts off into silence. Dad's chair scrapes against the floor as he bolts upright. I blink, staring at the plate in my hand, perfectly intact, the warmth of the porcelain burning into my palm.
Mom's eyes are wide, frozen on me. Dad's mouth opens slightly, then closes again, his breath caught. Neither of them move.
I look at the plate. Then at them. My heart is pounding, but not from exertion. From something else. Something I can't name.
"I—" I start, but my voice cracks. I don't even know what I'm trying to say.
Mom swallows hard, her face pale, her lips trembling. She takes one step forward, her voice breaking as she stammers, "H-hospital. Now!!"
Her words hang heavy in the air. Not a suggestion. Not even a request. A command, trembling with fear.
I look down again at the plate in my hand, whole, steady, safe. My hand is shaking. My parents are staring.
And for the first time, I realize—something is happening to me.
(Sorry about the short chapter, am dead tired pumping this out and i need some sleep. Will probably make 2-3 chapters tomorrow, but anyway i need comments on your thought's and how to improve the story(apart from the pacing issue), and what you guys would like to see). The pacing should get better as we get more into the action. Thanks for Reading)