But I knew I had to wait for the answers… because nothing in reality comes easily. Reality isn't like the fantasy novels I sometimes lose myself in.
And I knew, in this tiny family, I had only myself—and my dad. I would make sure he lived his life not just with practiced smiles, but with the real ones.
With that promise, I gently guided him toward his massive bedroom—something he had once dreamed of sharing with my mother. His room was more beautifully decorated than I remembered… yes, he had done it all himself. Different from most men. Different from me. He loved doing things his way, even something as simple as decorating his own space, rather than relying on maids or servants like I sometimes did.
I laid him carefully on the soft mattress, his heavy, unconscious body sinking gently into the bed. His long hair fanned out across the white sheets like ink on paper. I covered him with the blanket, noticing goosebumps rising along his wrists from the cold. The night wind brushed gently against his skin through the open window.
After tucking him in, I moved to close the window, pausing to admire the night city. For me, the lights scattered below looked like floating lanterns in a dark sky. They reminded me of those late-night walks with Mom and Dad… Mom's little puppy, Yū, always by our side, trailing along, preferring the night over the day.
Dad never liked letting Mom walk alone at night, so the three of us used to go together. How strange life is, isn't it? Now, I walked alone at this hour. Or sometimes, Dad slept after drinking, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I lingered at the bedroom door for a moment, looking back at him one last time before stepping out.
Life felt heavy and monotonous… yet, Dad and Le Lan had their ways of making everything bright and funny. Sometimes I wished I could be like them—carefree, smiling, unburdened by memories that pulled at the heart.
With thoughts like these, my steps felt heavier than usual. Still, I managed to reach my room, turn on the lamp, and finally feel my eyes grow tired under the weight of my emotions. I removed my suit and went to the washroom for a cold bath, my usual routine to cool down my head.
I stepped into the shower, expecting the cold splash to clear my thoughts as usual. But the water burned against my skin in a way it never had before. Sharp, almost cruel, it made me flinch and stagger. The only sound in my ears was a strange perching noise I couldn't identify—soft, rhythmic, and maddeningly persistent.
My legs trembled as I tried to keep upright. Each breath felt heavy, dragging at my chest. I feared losing balance, hitting my head on the tiled floor, smashing against the glass walls. The water, instead of calming me, seemed to press against me from all sides, as though it had weight, as though it were trying to push me into the floor.
I sank slowly, deliberately, until my bare body pressed against the cold, damp tiles. My head leaned back against the wall, water streaming over my closed eyes and tangled hair. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, a harsh echo that seemed louder than the perching sound.
I tried to reason it out. Low blood pressure, maybe. Skipped meals catching up with me. My body protesting in the only way it could. I had to focus. I had to breathe. But each inhale drew the cold water deeper into my senses, and the perching sound, whatever it was, pulsed in rhythm with my thoughts—mocking, insistent, almost sentient.
I thought of Dad. He had no one else. If he knew I was like this, if he saw me weak and trembling, he would worry—panic even. And so I stayed silent. I waited. I closed my eyes harder, pressed my palms against the floor, and let the water pound over me, counting each beat of my heart as if it were a tiny lifeline.
Eventually, the dizziness eased. Slowly, carefully, I lifted myself, letting my legs bear my weight once more. My muscles were still shaky, but functional. I dried off methodically, letting the chill linger on my skin like a reminder, and slipped into a soft, comfortable shirt for sleep.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another chance to live fully, to cherish moments, to make them real—not like the stories in books, but tangible and human.
Tomorrow would be another day. And as Dad always said, I would try to make each one special… to remember each moment, each life.
Just like the patient he had motioned toward earlier—a life lived with courage, even in the face of hardship.