The days blurred into a rhythm of white walls and fluorescent hum. Mornings began with the scrape of curtain rings on metal rails, the sting of disinfectant, the rattle of carts rolling into his room. Afternoons belonged to therapy.
Leo hated therapy. Not the people—they were kind—but the way every task reminded him of what seven years had stolen.
"Just stand," the physical therapist would say, her voice patient but firm.
He'd grip the bars, knuckles white, legs trembling like twigs in a storm. His muscles burned as though rusted shut, every motion grinding against him. Sometimes he managed a few seconds before collapsing into the chair, sweat stinging his eyes. Other times he failed completely, sagging down before balance ever came.
"You're improving," the therapist always said. "Little by little."
But to Leo, each step felt borrowed, like he was impersonating someone stronger.
Speech therapy wasn't easier. His tongue lagged behind his thoughts, words catching and cracking as though his voice belonged to someone else. Still, he forced them out, because silence was worse.
And yet, there were victories.
The first time he crossed the room without support, his mother burst into tears. The first time he managed to lift a cup, Alex giggled like it was magic. Even Yuki peeked at him then, eyes softening before she quickly hid again.
Leo clung to those fragments.
One evening, after a session that left his legs jelly and his shirt damp, the doctor entered. His expression was grave, but his eyes carried a flicker of warmth.
"You've made remarkable progress," he said, flipping through a chart. "More than I expected."
Leo sat on the edge of the bed, catching his breath. "So… I'm done?" His voice was steadier now, but still rough.
"Not done," the doctor corrected gently. "But stable enough to leave. Therapy will continue at home." He paused, looking directly at Leo. "And you'll need something else—routine. Normal life. It's time for you to go back to school."
The words landed heavy. School. Crowds. Strangers who hadn't lost years the way he had. He pictured their faces turning toward him, their whispers.
His hands tightened in his lap. "I… don't know if I'm ready."
"No one ever is," the doctor said. "But healing doesn't happen in rooms like this. You'll have to step back into the world, even if it feels like it moved on without you."
Leo looked at his thin hands, veins sharp against his skin. The world hadn't waited. Now he was expected to return to it. He nodded slowly, because refusing wouldn't change anything.
The doctor patted his shoulder. "You'll manage."
Leo wasn't sure.
The school gates loomed taller than he remembered, iron bars freshly painted, stone pillars scrubbed clean. His chest tightened as if they were walls closing in.
His mother walked beside him, fingers brushing his sleeve every few steps. She hadn't let him go anywhere alone since he woke. At the entrance, she hesitated, eyes fixed on the tide of uniforms streaming past.
"You'll be fine," she whispered, though her thumb worried the edge of her palm. She bent to kiss his hair, lips trembling as though she wanted to call him back—but she didn't. "Go on, Leo."
He nodded, throat tight, and stepped through the gates alone.
The hallway swallowed him.
Shoes squeaked against tile, lockers slammed, voices tangled in a hundred conversations. Laughter spiked high and sudden, bouncing off the walls until it stabbed his ears. The smell of ink and sweat mixed with the metallic tang of polished floors. He moved stiffly, weaving through the crowd like a ghost.
No one looked at him twice. No one knew.
The classroom buzzed when he slipped inside. Rows of desks, chatter, shifting books. He hovered in the doorway until the teacher clapped for attention.
"Everyone, quiet. We have a new transfer student today."
Transfer?
"This is Leo Silva. Treat him kindly."
That was it. No story. No explanation. Just another name on the roll. As if he hadn't vanished. As if he hadn't existed at all.
Leo turned to face the class. Thirty pairs of eyes blinked at him—curious, appraising, already whispering.
His stomach knotted.
He bowed stiffly, then shuffled to an empty seat by the window. The lesson began, chatter resumed, and he was erased as quickly as he'd been introduced.
To them, he was nobody. A transfer. Not the boy who had disappeared. Not the child they whispered about at funerals. Just a stranger with borrowed notebooks.
The chalk squeaked across the board. Leo tried to follow the words, but whispers scratched louder than the chalk.
"Who's he?""Transfer, didn't you hear?""Looks pale.""Bet he won't last."
He hunched lower, wishing the window would open, wishing he could slip into the gray sky outside.
And then he saw them.
At the back, a tall boy leaned against his desk, posture loose but eyes sharp, a thin scar cutting through one eyebrow like an unfinished word. Beside him sat a girl with hair falling loose around her face, her gaze gentler but just as fixed. She didn't stare out of curiosity—hers searched, as if for recognition.
Something tugged at Leo's memory, slippery, unformed. He had seen them before. Somewhere.
He looked away, pulse quickening. When he risked another glance, their eyes hadn't shifted.
The lesson droned on, voices buzzed, chairs scraped, laughter flared and died. Around him, life flowed. But none of it touched him.
He stared at the blank page of his notebook, pen useless in his hand. His throat ached with silence.
When he finally looked up, the scarred boy and the quiet girl were still watching.
Not curious. Not bored. Waiting.