I do not know when everything began to change.
Perhaps since that night. The night I heard his scream. A scream that did not reach my ears, yet pierced straight into my chest. I woke with my heart racing, breath ragged, and Ken's name upon my lips. Since that night, nothing has been the same.
This morning I woke as I always do. The sun was already peeking through the curtains. Birds were singing outside the window. Everything seemed normal. Everything seemed fine. Yet I... I felt something missing. Something hollow. As though a room within my heart had been emptied without warning, and I do not know what to fill it with.
I brushed my hair slowly. Every strand. Every end. A motion that once brought calm now felt mechanical. Empty. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, and I saw a woman who was weary. Not a physical weariness—though I have indeed been sleepless. But a deeper weariness. A weariness born of uncertainty. Of questions unanswered. Of a fear I cannot explain to anyone.
Where are you, Ken?
I ask that question every morning. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Every time I open them again. Where are you? What is happening to you? Why can I feel your pain? Why does your scream reach all the way here, to my heart, like a dagger thrown from a great distance?
I have no answers. I do not know if I will ever have them.
This afternoon I walked to Liora's stall. As always. As I always do. The streets of Elysion remain the same—clean, bright, filled with smiling faces. Yet their smiles feel foreign to me now. As though I see them through glass. Present, yet beyond my touch.
The doorbell chimed as I entered. Liora greeted me with her wide smile, as always. She asked if I wanted the special chicken noodles, as always. I nodded, as always. Yet nothing about any of this felt ordinary.
The bowl before me is still full. The steam has long since vanished. The noodles have gone cold. I picked up my chopsticks, pinched a small bite, and placed it in my mouth. Yet I tasted nothing. Bland. Not because Liora's cooking had changed—her food has always been delicious. But because I have changed. I have lost the ability to savor small joys.
Do you feel this too, Ken? Wherever you are? Do you also feel hollow? Do you also feel afraid?
I do not know. I know nothing...
Only my heart knows that you are suffering. And that... that destroys me.
Liora asked if I was all right. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say that I feel shattered—that I cannot sleep, that I hear your scream every night. Yet the words would not come. I only smiled and said I was fine.
But I am not. I am not fine.
I want you to return, Ken. I want to hear your voice again. I want to see your eyes again—those eyes, cold yet holding a warmth only I can feel. I want you to know that I am here. Waiting. Always waiting.
But for now... I can only sit here. On this bench at Liora's stall. Staring at a bowl gone cold. And hope upon a prayer I do not know will ever arrive.
ELYSION 6:30 PM
The afternoons in Elysion have always possessed their own quiet ritual—a way of coaxing time itself to slow, as if the sun, suspended upon the horizon, grows reluctant to sink. It spills its deepening gold into every crevice of the city: the worn cobblestones, the drowsy window-boxes, the arches of the old stone bridges, all catching the light as if they might hold it a little longer. The air stirs just enough to carry the scent of baking bread from the ancient bakery and the distant laughter of children still chasing one another through the gardens. The temple bell sounds—not in warning, but in gentle remembrance that the day has begun its slow fade.
At Liora's chicken noodle stall, the evening wears its usual face. Steam billows from the great bubbling pot, filling the stall with the deep savour of garlic and slow-stewed spice—a fragrance so familiar it has become a promise of comfort. Wooden benches, worn smooth by countless patrons, stand in neat rows before the long counter. At one end, the Old Man—a loyal fixture who never misses a sunset bowl—sips his broth with unhurried reverence.
Liora works behind the counter as she always does. Her right hand stirs the pot while her left reaches for a bowl, yet her mouth never stills. "Old man, don't just finish the broth! The noodles must be eaten too, or I'll be the one who loses out! Xixixix…!"
Behind her, near the kitchen doorway, Hector crouches low over a cutting board. His knife moves through a slab of chicken, but his jaws work no less busily—chewing a piece of meat that ought to have found its way into a customer's bowl. "Liora, the chicken seems to be running short… Shall I add more?"
"Running short how?! You're the one finishing it all!"
"It wasn't me… It was Oren."
A plump orange cat—Oren—sits beside Hector, its tail swaying in slow, nonchalant arcs. Green eyes regard Hector with an expression utterly flat, as though deeply offended by the accusation. Hector taps the cat's head with one finger, then slips it a tiny morsel of chicken. Oren seizes the offering with practiced speed and resumes its composed seat, as if nothing of note has occurred.
It is a warm scene. An intimate, familiar scene. The kind of scene that ought to draw anyone into its comfort.
But Seraphina feels none of it.
She sits on the front bench, directly before the wooden counter. Her bowl of chicken noodles remains full, untouched. The broth has begun to thicken and settle; the noodles, left too long, have swollen and drunk up all the liquid. Her chopsticks rest motionless across the rim.
Her gaze drifts over the stall. Toward Liora, laughing. Toward Hector, stroking Oren's fur. Toward the Old Man, savouring his meal with peaceful indulgence. Everything looks exactly as it always does. Everything appears normal.
So why does it all feel so foreign?
The back-and-forth between Liora and Hector passes through her ears like a radio left murmuring in another room—present, yet never truly arriving. She can hear Liora teasing Hector, can hear Hector defending himself, can hear the clink of spoons and the clatter of pans. But it all merely drifts by.
Oren leaps from Hector's side and pads toward her. The plump little cat winds its body around her ankle, mewing softly, seeking notice. On any other afternoon, Seraphina would have bent down to stroke its head and offered a shred of chicken. But this time she simply stares at the creature with vacant eyes. Her hands remain folded in her lap.
Oren mews again, louder this time. Hector glances over. "Sera… my cat only wishes to keep you company. He's not a bother…"
" Eh?! S-sorry, Oren… I didn't see you there…"
She picks a sliver of chicken from her bowl and holds it out for the cat. But her hand moves slowly, mechanically—like a doll executing a command without feeling. Oren snatches the morsel and licks her fingers. Once, that would have drawn a soft, tickled laugh. Tonight, only silence.
Hector and Liora exchange a glance. No word passes between them, but they both know something is wrong. Something impossible to name. Something that has turned this warm noodle stall suddenly, inexplicably cold.
Outside, the sun sinks lower. Its gold bleeds to amber, then to violet, then to the slow-creeping dark. The temple bell sounds again. Shops draw their shutters. Children are called home.
Yet inside the stall, Seraphina remains. Her bowl still full. Her gaze still vacant. The world around her spins on—Liora bustling with customers, Hector slicing chicken, Oren mewing softly—but she feels trapped inside a bubble no one can reach.
Everything feels strange. Wrong. Hollow.
And she does not know when this feeling will ever end.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•
I knew something was wrong the moment the doorbell chimed.
Not because the sound was different. That old bell always rings the same note—ting ting—no matter who walks through the door. But the way Sera stepped inside, the way she closed the door behind her, the way she stood at the threshold without immediately sitting down... it was different. Strange. Unsettling.
I have known her long enough to recognize when she is not all right.
Usually, Sera would slide straight onto the front bench, rest her elbows on the counter, and ask in that lazy drawl of hers, "Anything happen today?" or "Did that customer come back?" while glancing toward the corner. And I would answer with a long complaint about the Old Man and his endless requests for more broth, or about Hector constantly stealing chicken from the kitchen. We would laugh. We would trade stories.
But today... no.
Today she simply sat. Silent. She ordered the special chicken noodles—I remember it clearly, because she always orders the same thing—and ever since, she has only stared at that bowl as though it were some foreign object. Her chopsticks untouched. Her noodles uneaten. The broth left to cool. She only gazes forward, toward something I cannot see, with eyes so vacant they make my chest ache.
I kept stirring the pot. Kept serving customers. Kept chattering on as usual. But inside, I was counting. How many minutes had she sat there without moving? How many times had she drawn a long, shuddering breath? How many times had I watched her shoulders tremble faintly, as if holding back something she could not release?
"The noodles will go cold. Please eat. I'd hate for all my hard work to go to waste."
That is what I said. But it is not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was: "Sera, what's happened? Why are your eyes so empty? Why won't you talk to me? Can I do nothing to help you?"
Yet I did not say it. I only asked whether she was still thinking of Ken. And when she answered—her voice nearly breaking, her tears nearly falling—I knew. I knew the answer even before her lips parted.
She still hears his scream. She still feels his pain. She is still trapped in that night, when something beyond explanation tore straight through her heart.
I could bear it no longer...
My hand moved on its own—twisting the knob, killing the flame. The simmering broth slowly began to still. The little bubbles on its surface vanished one by one. I removed my apron, folded it carelessly, and laid it upon the counter.
"Old Man, forgive me... The stall closes early today."
My loyal customer looked up at me with a raised brow. But he did not protest. Perhaps he saw what I saw. Perhaps he felt what I felt.
Hector stared at me from near the kitchen doorway. "Huh? Closing already?? Aghh... the women of Elysion haven't even had the chance to stop by..."
"Wait here... Just feed Oren...!"
I did not wait for his reply. I walked past the wooden counter, past the empty benches, and came to a stop right beside Sera. I reached out and touched her cold shoulder.
"Darling..."
The endearment slipped out on its own. A name we have used since long ago, since we were still two young girls who knew nothing of the world. A name that has always made Sera smile.
But this time, she did not smile.
She only looked up, meeting my eyes with her own damp gaze, and I understood at once—whatever is happening to Ken, whatever Sera is feeling... it is far worse than anything I had imagined.
I only wanted to sit beside her. To hold her—to let her rest her weight against my shoulder.
"I am here, Darling. Tell me everything..."