Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, brushing across Macon's face. His eyelids twitched before they opened, meeting the quiet stillness of his room. For a long moment, he didn't move—only listened.
The faint hum of the ceiling fan. The distant birds outside. The clink of a spoon from the kitchen.
Normal sounds.
Normal life.
He let out a shaky breath.
He was still here.
Vivian's voice carried faintly down the hallway. "You're awake, right?"
He blinked at the sound. Her tone wasn't casual—it was careful, like she was tiptoeing around something fragile.
When she appeared at the door, she hesitated before speaking. Her eyes flicked over him—not at his face, but lower. His chest. The place where, last night, she had seen blood.
She remembered kneeling beside him on the floor, pressing her hand against the wound that shouldn't have existed. The blood had been warm. Real.
But when the doctor came—it was gone. Not a drop. Not a scar.
Even now, she couldn't stop looking. Searching.
"You should eat something," she said finally, forcing a small smile. "Doctor said rest, not starve."
Macon sat up slowly, rubbing his head. "Yeah… I'll be down soon."
Vivian lingered, her eyes tracing him like she was memorizing the sight—just in case. Then she nodded. "Alright."
When she finally left, he stared at the ceiling.
He could still hear them. The soldiers.
Their voices chanting his name in unison, echoing across smoke and fire.
"General Macon…"
He pressed a hand to his chest—to the place that had glowed, that had hurt.
Nothing. Not even a faint sting.
He should've been relieved.
Instead, unease crawled up his spine.
Peace was supposed to feel good. So why did it feel borrowed?
---
The kitchen smelled like coffee and toasted bread. Vivian sat across from him, scrolling through her phone, pretending not to stare.
"You have classes today?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Think you can handle it?"
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
Her eyes flicked up. "You've said that three times already."
Silence stretched between them.
Vivian sighed, setting her phone aside. "You scared me, you know that? I thought you were—" she stopped herself, pressing her lips together. "I just don't understand what happened."
He looked away. "Neither do I."
Her expression hardened. "You're lying."
His fork froze midair.
Vivian's voice trembled. "You keep saying it's stress, but I saw it, Macon. You were bleeding. There was blood on the floor—on your shirt—and then it was just… gone. You expect me to believe that's stress?"
He swallowed, forcing calm into his tone. "Viv, listen. Maybe you imagined it. You were panicking—"
Her hand slammed the table. "Don't do that. Don't make me sound crazy."
He stared at her, speechless.
She took a breath, lowering her voice. "Whatever's going on, I'll find out. You can keep lying, but I'm not stupid."
Then she stood and walked out, leaving her untouched coffee behind.
Macon leaned back in his chair, staring at the faint reflection in the table's surface. For a moment, he saw himself—not in pajamas, but in armor. Then he blinked, and it was gone.
---
The day at campus blurred by like a dream he couldn't focus on.
Friends greeted him. Professors called attendance. Laughter drifted through the halls. Everything was painfully normal.
And yet…
he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was still calling his name.
"Macon?"
He turned.
A girl stood by the doorway, smiling shyly.
She had chestnut-brown hair tied in a messy bun, a sketchbook hugged against her chest, and glasses that slipped down her nose whenever she smiled.
"Hey," she said. "You're in Professor Dauda's class, right? You kind of disappeared last week."
"Yeah," he replied after a pause. "I wasn't feeling well."
"Oh. I see." She smiled, genuine and a bit awkward. "I'm Rina."
"Rina," he repeated.
She nodded. "You seemed… different today. Quiet. You okay?"
"Yeah." He lied again, and she caught it—her gaze softening, but not pressing.
"Well," she said, clutching her sketchbook tighter, "if you ever want someone to talk to who doesn't call you General or something—" she laughed nervously, "—I'm around."
He froze.
General.
The word hit like lightning.
"How did you—?" he began, but she blinked, confused.
"What?"
"You just said—"
"Oh!" She laughed again, waving her hands. "No, no, I meant, like, 'sir,' not… general-general. Sorry if that sounded weird."
He stared at her a moment longer before forcing a chuckle. "Right. My bad."
As she left, his heart wouldn't slow down.
Was that coincidence? Or something else leaking through?
---
By evening, the air outside had grown cool. Vivian sat on the couch, her laptop open but her eyes distant.
When Macon entered, she didn't look up.
"You should go to bed early," she murmured. "Doctor said rest, remember?"
He sank into the armchair across from her. "You're still mad."
"I'm not mad," she said, typing something. "Just trying to understand why my brother's turning into a stranger."
That stung more than he expected.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I just… don't want you to worry, okay?"
"Then give me a reason not to."
He looked at her—the faint lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the tremor in her voice she was trying to hide.
She cared too much. That was the problem.
"I'm fine, Viv," he whispered again.
"Stop saying that."
He opened his mouth, but she stood abruptly, closing her laptop. "I'll be in my room."
He watched her go, feeling like every word he spoke only pushed her further away.
---
Night came quietly.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The hum of the fan. The ticking clock. His own heartbeat.
No whispers. No glow.
For the first time in days, he wasn't being pulled away.
Maybe… it was over.
He sat up, exhaling slowly.
Maybe he could finally breathe again. Go back to classes, talk to Rina, maybe even laugh like a normal person.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror across the room—tired eyes, messy hair, a boy who'd been through too much for one lifetime.
"Normal," he whispered. "I just want normal."
The silence almost answered him.
Almost.
Because just as his eyes began to drift shut, a faint echo brushed his mind—so soft it could've been a dream.
"...General…"
He froze.
No, he thought. Not again.
But it faded instantly, leaving nothing but the sound of rain starting outside his window.
He lay back down, forcing his breathing to slow.
"It's over," he murmured. "It's over."
And yet, on the other side of the thin wall—Vivian sat on her bed, her laptop open to a medical forum.
She wasn't convinced.
Her gaze lingered on the faint stains she'd scrubbed off the floor the night before—the ones that shouldn't have existed.
She typed quietly, her fingers trembling.
"Can a person's wound heal overnight without leaving a scar?"
The cursor blinked, silent. Waiting.
Vivian leaned back, whispering to herself:
"I don't know what's happening to you, Macon… but I'll find out."
Somewhere upstairs, Macon stirred in his sleep.
The rain fell harder.
And far away—where thunder met smoke—
a single horn began to sound.