20 / 02 / 2019, 11:45 — Wednesday, Osaka Kaisei Prefectural Hospital, Osaka
The sky outside the hospital was bright and sunny, and thin clouds stretched as far as the eye could see.
A black sedan stopped before the main entrance.
Riscia Mikhailovich stepped out, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. The familiar chill of hospital air wrapped around her as she walked through the sliding doors.
The scent of disinfectant greeted her like an old friend, sterile, quiet, and unchanging.
She greeted the receptionist with a faint nod, exchanged a few polite words, and began her usual walk down the corridor.
White walls. White floor. The hum of fluorescent lights.
Everything was the same as yesterday and the day before, and the day before that.
Today was the 212th day since he fell asleep.
Initially, Ayato and Irina would come together, still sad but carrying hope in their hearts as they visited every weekend.
They would talk to their brother, whispering stories about school, about food, about games, and even comics.
But as time passed, those visits became rarer. Life pulled them back into its rhythm: exams, friends, the gentle tide of growing up.
And she didn't blame them.
People were meant to move on. Only the stubborn stayed behind.
Her footsteps echoed faintly.
Every step she took in this corridor reminded her that she was still waiting for something the world had already given up on.
---
The hall curved slightly, and her thoughts drifted as if carried by the echo of her steps.
The Mikhailovich Family. The name itself was enough to make people straighten their backs in Moscow, a line of industrial magnates, steel and shipping, and old wealth.
Her sister, Alicia, had always been the beloved one. The golden child.
Two years older than her, always smiling, always brimming with strange dreams. She was clever, too clever, sometimes.
And curious.
Painfully curious.
Riscia smiled faintly to herself, remembering.
There was a time when Alicia spent her entire allowance on comic books and figurines, cluttering her room with colors and paper and laughter.
She would stay up all night watching Japanese cartoons, claiming it was "research."
Father scolded her, but never for long. He would always end up smiling, too.
"Let her be," he used to say. "A dreamer builds worlds the realists can't."
Riscia had envied her then, her light, her fearlessness, her way of making the impossible seem simple.
And yet, she had loved her all the more for it.
When Alicia graduated, she announced over breakfast that she was moving to Japan to start a company.
Their father nearly choked on his tea. It was so sudden, far too sudden.
Riscia still remembered his words: "Then go. But you will pay back every yen within three years, or I'll drag you home myself."
Their mother just laughed softly, eyes kind.
And so Alicia left, with one suitcase, one dream, and the impossible confidence of someone who had never truly failed.
---
By the time Riscia next saw her, she was standing in front of a small office in Osaka — Bright Terminal Line, a shipping company. Her sister had actually done it. The once-scattered dreamer had built a company from nothing.
And not long after, she had met him.
Riscia's steps slowed. The memory was vivid still.
He was… otherworldly.
A man whose presence seemed to bend light around him, like a center of attention.
Polite, elegant, gentle, every word precise, every movement graceful. He wore a traditional kimono that day, though he wasn't Japanese by blood. His eyes were calm, impossibly calm.
Even Father, usually so strict, approved of him instantly.
Mother wept during the wedding. Riscia did too, quietly, and not entirely from happiness.
She had thought that would be their fairytale ending.
But fairytales were meant to end.
The last time she spoke with her sister was a year ago. Alicia had sounded tired, but still cheerful, talking about her children, Akane, Ayato, and Irina. She promised to call again next week.
That call never came.
And a month later, there was only the crater in Fukuoka.
---
Riscia blinked, the hallway returning into focus.
The air felt colder now. The hospital was quiet, save for the distant hum of machines.
Seven months. She had spent enough to fund a new hospital wing. Private specialists, brainwave monitors, neural resonance scans, all of them saying the same thing: his brain activity was too stable.
Almost unnatural.
As if his mind was somewhere far away, dreaming in another world.
Still, she refused to give up.
The click of shoes broke her reverie.
From behind her, the sound of hurried footsteps, a nurse, then a doctor, rushing down the corridor.
Riscia turned, frowning slightly.
The doctor, mid-40s, gray at the temples, spotted her instantly.
"Miss Mikhailovich!" he called, breathless.
Something in his tone made her heart falter.
A faint premonition of expectation mixed with wariness and worry tangled in her heart.
He stopped before her, catching his breath, and spoke quickly, voice trembling between disbelief and relief.
"We've just received a report, patient Shirakami Akane's vital signs are spiking."
She felt her heart stop, the air heavy in her lungs, and after what felt like an eternity, she finally managed to whisper, "Spiking?"
"Yes. Heart rate, neural response, everything. It's not random, it's rhythmic, like…" He hesitated. "Like the body is responding to the consciousness."
Riscia's pulse quickened.
Seven months. Seven months of nothing, and now this?
The doctor steadied himself. "We suspect it may indicate the onset of awakening. We should—"
He didn't need to finish.
Riscia was already moving.
Her heels echoed through the corridor, the sound sharp and urgent.
Her heart pounded against her very fiber, a step both dread and hope.
The doctor called out behind her, but she barely heard him.
The world around her blurred, the lights, the walls, the smell of medicine, all of it fell away until there was only the sound of her own breath and the thought that kept repeating, over and over:
It has been seven months. And, I will definitely be there.
She rushed into the corridor, through the familiar place once again, but with hope in her chest.
Then, she stopped in front of Room 607. The nameplate still read: Shirakami Akane.
In her heart, there is a mix of expectation and sorrow, along with a tangle of various emotions. Along with it is a hesitation. But in the end, her hope prevailed, and she raised her hand to hold the doorknob.
Click
There she met the boy's gaze; an open window allowed a gentle breeze to flow in.