The hum of machines had become a constant, a rhythm Leo couldn't escape. He stared at the ceiling until his vision blurred, the faint flicker of the overhead light tracing phantom shapes against his eyelids.
The door opened.
He turned his head as far as his stiff neck allowed. For a second, he thought maybe it was another nurse, or the doctor again with his clipboard and his patient calm.
But it wasn't.
It was his mother.
Her hair, once dark and glossy, now carried strands of silver that caught the harsh fluorescent glow. Her face was thinner, lines etched where none had been before. But her eyes—wet, trembling, wide—those were the same.
"Leo." Her voice broke before she even reached the bed.
She stumbled the last few steps and collapsed into the chair, her hands grasping his as though she might lose him if she let go.
"You're awake," she whispered, as though repeating it would keep it true. Her tears streaked down her cheeks, landing on his wrist, warm and startling against his skin.
Leo's lips parted. His throat still rasped, but the word forced itself out, weak and uneven. "Mom?"
Her breath hitched. She pressed her forehead to his hand, nodding quickly, desperately. "Yes. Yes, it's me. It's me, baby."
He blinked at her. For a heartbeat, he wanted to believe nothing had changed, that she would lift him from the bed and hold him the way she used to. But her shoulders shook as she wept, and her hair brushed his arm, longer and duller than the mother he remembered from yesterday.
Behind her, the door opened again.
His father stepped in.
The sight knocked something loose in Leo's chest. His father's hair had gone almost entirely gray, not just peppered but washed with it. Deep creases framed his mouth and eyes, his once-straight posture bent as if an invisible weight pressed him down.
He didn't rush forward. He lingered in the doorway, one hand tight on the frame, eyes fixed just off the bed — close enough to see Leo, but refusing to.
Leo blinked, his voice shaking. "Dad?"
His father's throat bobbed. His lips moved, but the first attempt at sound failed. He cleared his throat, the sound rough, then managed: "Leo."
Just his name. Nothing else.
Leo waited for him to come closer. To smile, to say something reassuring, something like you're safe now. But he didn't. His father's gaze flicked briefly to the machines, to the doctor standing quietly at the back of the room, then back to the floor.
Leo felt his chest tighten. The distance hurt worse than the stiffness in his body.
"Is… is it really you?" he whispered, his eyes darting between them.
His mother nodded quickly, squeezing his hand even tighter. "Yes. It's us. We never stopped waiting." Her voice broke again, and she pressed his hand to her cheek as if she could anchor him there.
His father said nothing. Only shifted his weight, shoulders rigid, and nodded once—short, clipped, as though the movement alone had to serve as proof.
The silence between them filled the room heavier than the beeping machines.
Leo swallowed, his throat raw, and looked at them both. They were his parents. He could see it. And yet, the faces were older, sharper, weighed down by seven years he hadn't lived.
Seven years he hadn't been there.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. Only the ache of realizing that even though they stood before him, they felt almost like strangers.
The door hadn't closed. In the shadowed frame, two smaller figures lingered, half-hidden behind the doctor's coat.
Leo blinked, his dry eyes struggling to focus. At first he thought he was seeing things, shapes blurred by the harsh light. But then one of them shifted, a small hand clutching at fabric, and the other tilted his head curiously.
His mother turned and beckoned. "Come here. Don't be shy." Her voice wavered with fresh tears.
The little girl stepped forward first, her hair tied in uneven pigtails that swung as she moved. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, darted to Leo and then away again. She clung to her mother's arm the moment she reached her.
Leo's breath caught. He remembered her only as a pink, wrinkled bundle wrapped in blankets in the back seat of the car. A newborn with a faint cry. Now she was taller than his chest would have been when he last stood.
His mother smoothed the girl's hair. "Leo, this is Yuki. Your sister."
Yuki peeked up at him, then buried her face in their mother's dress.
Leo's lips parted, but his voice came small, uncertain. "Sister…" He tried to smile, though it trembled on his face. "Hi, Yuki."
She didn't answer.
The boy stepped in next, smaller, round-faced, with hair that stuck up at odd angles. He stopped just short of the bed, staring openly at Leo with wide, unblinking eyes.
"And this," his mother said, softer, "is Alex. Your brother."
"Brother?" The word felt strange on Leo's tongue. He had never seen this boy before. Not even once.
Alex tilted his head, his little nose wrinkling. "He doesn't look like us."
His mother hushed him quickly, but Leo felt the words land sharp. He wanted to laugh, to brush it off, but the sound died in his throat.
Instead, he tried to lift his hand. The effort dragged at him like lifting stone. His fingers rose trembling inches from the blanket, extended shakily toward them. "I… I'm Leo," he whispered. "Your big brother."
Yuki pressed closer into their mother's side. Alex didn't move, just stared, curious but wary, like Leo was some strange animal brought into the room.
The silence stretched until Leo let his arm drop, too heavy to hold.
His smile faltered. Inside, the truth clawed at him: they didn't know him. They had lived years he had missed. To them, he wasn't a brother. He was no one.
Yuki stayed pressed to their mother's side, refusing to look up. Alex leaned on the bedframe, still studying Leo as though he were a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
Leo's gaze flicked back to his parents. His mother hadn't let go of his hand. Her grip was tight, desperate, as though she feared he'd vanish if she loosened her hold even slightly.
Tears tracked down her face in new streams. "Seven years," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Seven years we thought we'd lost you."
Her head lowered until her forehead rested against the back of his hand. "I prayed every night. Every single night. I—" Her words dissolved into sobs, shoulders shaking as she bent over him.
Leo swallowed hard. His throat still burned from earlier, but he forced the words out, raw and uncertain. "I'm… I'm here now."
She nodded quickly, pressing his hand to her cheek. "Yes. You're here. You're finally here."
Her warmth soothed him, yet at the same time made the gap sharper. She felt familiar, but changed. Older. Fragile in a way she hadn't been before.
He turned his head toward his father.
The man stood stiffly, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He hadn't stepped closer, not once. His eyes stayed fixed on the monitors, the tubes, the steady green line that traced Leo's heartbeat.
"Will he recover fully?" his father asked, directing the question at the doctor, not at Leo. His tone was flat, professional, like he was discussing someone else.
The doctor adjusted his glasses. "It will take time. Months of therapy, perhaps more. His muscles have weakened from disuse, but his vitals are stable. He's young — that will help."
Leo stared. His father hadn't looked at him, not once.
"…Dad?" His voice cracked on the single word.
His father flinched, almost imperceptibly, but still didn't meet his eyes. He cleared his throat, muttered something under his breath — a question about medicine, about schedules, about next steps. Anything but the boy in the bed.
Leo's stomach twisted. He remembered a man who used to hoist him onto his shoulders, who would laugh as Leo shouted that he could see the whole world from up there. That man stood only a few feet away, but it felt like miles.
He forced out the words anyway. "Why won't you… look at me?"
The silence that followed was louder than the beeping machines. His father's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Still, his eyes stayed elsewhere.
Leo's mother's sobs filled the space instead, her tears wetting his hand as she held it tighter than ever.
Leo blinked hard, fighting his own tears. He had thought waking up would bring him back to them. But right now, it felt like they were farther away than ever.
Leo's throat ached, but the silence pressed too heavy to bear. He turned his eyes toward the children again, searching for something to say that might break the distance.
"Yuki," he whispered. The name felt both strange and familiar on his tongue, as if he'd been waiting years to use it. "You were just… so small. When I last saw you."
Her head tilted slightly, eyes flicking up at him before darting away again. She pressed her face deeper into their mother's side, pigtails brushing against her shoulder.
Leo's smile faltered, but he tried again, softer this time. "And you, Alex… I've never met you before. Not really."
The boy's eyes narrowed with childish curiosity. "You don't sound like a brother."
His mother hushed him, but the words clung in the air, too sharp, too honest.
Leo forced a laugh, weak and cracked, that died quickly in his throat. He lifted his trembling hand from the blanket again, palm open, a gesture as fragile as the rest of him. "I am your brother. Even if… even if it doesn't feel like it right now."
Neither child moved closer. Yuki peeked at him from behind their mother, then buried herself again. Alex tilted his head but stayed planted at the foot of the bed, arms crossed.
Leo's arm gave out. His hand fell back to the mattress with a soft thud.
The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker, the walls pressing in. His mother's grip on him was warm, desperate. His father stood in rigid silence, refusing his gaze. His siblings—his siblings—looked at him like a stranger.
The memories he carried, the home he remembered, had been left seven years behind. What lived in this room now was something different.
He shut his eyes, letting the beeping machines mark the seconds slipping by.
Family filled the room, their voices, their hands, their eyes. But Leo had never felt so far outside of them — as if he'd woken into someone else's life.