Darkness clung to him, thick as wet cloth. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming. His mind drifted like it had sunk somewhere deep, the surface far above, unreachable.
Something hummed nearby, a low mechanical rhythm — beep…beep…beep. The sound cut through the void, faint but steady, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Leo blinked. At least, he thought he did. His eyelids scraped dryly against each other, and faint shapes bled through the black. A ceiling swam into view — pale gray, with a light fixture that flickered weakly, buzzing like an insect caught in a jar.
His lips cracked as he tried to whisper. Nothing came out but a dry rasp. His throat burned.
The air bit sharp and chemical. He tried to lift his hand — nothing. Not a twitch. Not even a tremor. His body lay heavy as stone, pinned by something invisible.
Panic bloomed, quick and hot.
Why can't I move?
He pushed against the weight with all his focus. His chest strained. A finger trembled, then stopped, the effort leaving him dizzy.
The steady beeping beside him quickened, betraying his struggle.
He shut his eyes again. The last thing he remembered wasn't this room. It wasn't lights and machines and antiseptic air. It was…
His chest tightening. His voice failing. The car, the rain against the window, his mother's face bending over him, her eyes wet with tears—
Leo's breath caught in his throat.
"Mom…" The word scraped like sandpaper, barely more than a hiss.
Silence answered him.
He tried again, a little louder, but his voice cracked into fragments. No footsteps, no warm hand on his head, no familiar face leaning close. Just the beep of the machine and the buzz of the dying light.
Tears prickled hot at the corners of his eyes. He wasn't supposed to be here. This place didn't make sense. He was supposed to be home, in his own bed, with his mother reading softly from a book. Grandpa should've been there too, grinning, calling him "little lion" in that rumbling voice of his.
Instead, he was alone, his body not his own, his chest rising shallow like it might give up at any moment.
Leo swallowed against the dryness, forcing sound out in a cracked plea. "Help… someone…"
The words crumbled halfway into silence.
He closed his eyes again, fighting the weight that pressed down on him, the terrifying thought that maybe no one would come. That maybe he had slipped somewhere too far away, and the world had forgotten him.
The beeping steadied, mocking in its calm.
Leo let the sound wash over him, clinging to it like a rope in the dark, the only proof that something — anything — was still alive in this room besides him.
The door hinges groaned.
Leo's eyes shifted toward the sound, lids heavy as lead. A slice of brighter light leaked into the dim ward, spilling across the floor in a pale rectangle. For a moment, he thought maybe his mother had finally come.
A woman in scrubs slipped in, her steps brisk but casual, a clipboard hugged against her side. She didn't look up at first, her focus on the machines, tapping their screens, jotting notes. Her pen scratched steadily, the rhythm of someone who had done this a hundred times before.
Leo's heart thudded. He tried to speak, but his throat betrayed him again. What came out was a strained whisper, hoarse and broken: "H… hello."
The nurse froze.
Her pen halted mid-scratch. Her head lifted slowly, uncertainly, as though she'd imagined it. Then her gaze found him — and the clipboard slipped from her hands, clattering to the tile floor.
"Oh my God." Her voice split between shock and disbelief.
Leo blinked back at her, trying to form words, his mouth too dry, lips sticking together. "Wa…ter," he rasped, the sound almost inaudible.
She stepped back, hand clamping over her mouth. The flicker of the light danced in her wide eyes. She stared, frozen, as if she'd just seen a ghost.
Leo forced his tongue against his cracked lips. His voice cracked like glass. "P… please."
That broke her trance. She spun toward the door, fumbling for the handle. "Doctor! Doctor!" Her shout echoed down the hall, sharp and panicked, so much louder than the whispers he remembered from the funeral.
The door banged open as she bolted out, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor.
And just like that, she was gone.
Leo lay staring at the space where she had been, the silence collapsing back around him. His chest heaved shallow, weak breaths. She had seen him. She'd looked right at him, called for someone else. That meant he wasn't imagining this.
Still, his throat burned. His tongue felt swollen, his mouth desert-dry. He tried to swallow but only coughed weakly, the sound barely rising above the monitor's steady beep.
"Don't… leave," he whispered to the empty room.
The walls didn't answer. The machines beeped on, calm and indifferent.
His arms still refused to move more than a tremor. His legs may as well have been filled with sand. Even turning his head too far sent sparks behind his eyes.
Panic crept back in. What if she didn't come back? What if she told them and they didn't believe her? What if this was another dream, and he'd sink again into the dark before anyone returned?
Leo shut his eyes tight, fighting the thought, fighting the fear. He replayed the nurse's face in his mind, the way her mouth had fallen open, the way the clipboard had slipped. That had been real. It had to be.
The door burst open again, hurried footsteps filling the room. Voices overlapped — sharp, commanding, certain. A man's voice cut through them, steady and firm.
"Clear the way. Let me see him."
Leo's eyes opened just enough to catch a glimpse of a white coat approaching.
The man in the white coat leaned over him, glasses slipping low on his nose. His eyes darted to the monitor first, then to Leo's face. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just looked — not like the nurse had, with shock, but with careful study, like he was trying to confirm whether what he saw was real.
Leo's lips cracked open. "Wh…water."
The doctor nodded quickly. "Get me saline," he ordered over his shoulder. One of the other staff rushed off.
He bent closer to Leo. His voice was low, gentle, practiced. "Can you hear me, Leo?"
Leo swallowed hard, throat rasping, and managed the faintest nod. The effort sent a ripple of exhaustion through his limbs.
"Good. Good," the doctor said, relief softening his face. He glanced at the nurse, who had reappeared in the doorway, still pale. "Vitals?"
"Stable," she said, though her voice shook.
Leo licked his lips, desperate. "Water," he croaked again.
The doctor reached for a cup with a straw the nurse handed him. He guided it to Leo's mouth, careful, letting only a thin trickle touch his lips. The first sip burned down his throat, then eased, leaving him shaking with both relief and weakness.
When he finished, the doctor eased the cup aside and adjusted his glasses. "Leo, listen to me very carefully. I need you to stay calm."
Leo tried to nod again, though his head barely moved. His chest rose shallow, uneven.
The doctor hesitated, then spoke slowly, each word deliberate. "You've been asleep for a long time. In a coma."
The word sat strange in Leo's ears. Coma. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but it sounded like something broken.
"You've been here…" the doctor continued, "…for seven years."
Leo blinked. He tried to laugh, but what came out was a rasp of air. His lips formed the word without strength: "No."
The doctor didn't flinch. "It's true. You were brought here after you collapsed in the car. Your body shut down. We did everything we could, and you… stayed with us."
Leo's eyes widened, darting to the nurse, to the others in the room. Their faces told the same story — not shock now, but confirmation. They believed it.
His chest tightened again, not from sickness this time, but from disbelief. Seven years? He was only eight. He was eight yesterday. He remembered it. He remembered Grandpa's funeral. His mother's face. His father's voice. It hadn't been long ago.
"…I'm eight," Leo whispered, as if saying it would make it true.
The doctor sighed through his nose. "Not anymore."
The words cut deeper than any needle.
Leo's breath hitched, panic climbing. His mind spun, rejecting every explanation. Seven years. Seven years where he hadn't lived, hadn't spoken, hadn't seen anyone.
He wanted to scream, but his throat was too raw, his body too weak. He managed only a choked sound, eyes burning.
The doctor reached out, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. "I know this is frightening. But you're safe now. Do you understand?"
Leo's answer was a tear that slipped sideways down his cheek, vanishing into the pillow beneath his head.
His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shallow, catching at the top of his throat. His fingers twitched against the sheets, desperate to grab hold of something real, but his body refused him.
The doctor spoke softly, his tone steady but cautious, as though trying to calm a trapped animal. "You've been asleep, Leo. Seven years is a long time. I know it doesn't make sense yet, but—"
"No," Leo rasped. His voice cracked in the middle. He tried again, louder, the effort making his throat ache. "No. I'm eight. I'm eight years old. You're lying."
The nurse glanced at the doctor, her face tight with pity. The others shifted uncomfortably, staring anywhere but at him.
Leo's eyes darted around the room, wild. He searched for proof, something familiar, something to cling to. But all he found were machines, wires, the sterile smell of disinfectant.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, his own face unreadable. Then, with a slow exhale, he nodded to one of the staff. A hand reached into a drawer and pulled out a small rectangular mirror, the kind used for quick examinations.
"Leo," the doctor said carefully, "look at yourself."
The mirror tilted toward him.
Leo's breath froze.
A pale stranger stared back. Gone was the round-cheeked boy from yesterday. The face was longer now, hollows under the eyes like shadows carved deep, hair hanging uneven in strands he didn't recognize. His skin looked stretched, as if it had been waiting too long for him to return.
For a moment, he didn't recognize the reflection at all. He almost asked who that boy was.
Then the boy's lips parted when his did. The boy's eyes widened in the same panic.
"No…" Leo whispered, the word breaking apart in his throat.
He strained to lift his hand, forcing every ounce of strength into it. His fingers shook, heavy as stone, but slowly they lifted, reaching for the mirror. When his fingertips brushed the cold glass, the boy's trembling hand touched back.
Tears blurred his vision. The reflection shimmered and warped, but it didn't change. He was no longer eight. Seven years had stolen that boy, replaced him with this stranger.
His denial crumbled. The room spun around him, voices muffled, the doctor saying something he couldn't hear.
Leo turned his face into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. He wished the darkness would take him again, even for just a moment, because the truth staring back at him was too heavy to hold.