The wheelchair moved steadily back along the pale corridor from which they'd come.
The return journey was far less "eventful" than the initial trip. Only the occasional pair or small group of sisters appeared from side passages or corners, still adhering to that bone-deep etiquette.When their gazes swept over them and their lips parted, the familiar blessing flowed forth:
"The Merciful Father blesses us."
Only this time, Erika's voice emerged trembling, shaking uncontrollably. Each forced reply scraped from his dry throat like sandpaper, forming broken, halting syllables. Pain, exhaustion, and lingering terror turned this simple repetition into a torment of its own.
Whenever this happened, Sela would give a slight tug on Erika's left hand—the one she held. The pressure was light, but it was a clear reminder, a silent prompt:
"Polite, Erika."
With extreme reluctance, after the tug, Erika would force the trembling response from his throat once more:
"The… Merciful… Father… blesses… us…"
Yet the sisters across from them seemed utterly indifferent to the strangeness of his voice or the slowness of his response. Their faces maintained that eternally unchanged, mold-cast smile, their eyes clear, as if merely completing a routine, emotionless interaction. Once they received the response, they naturally averted their gaze and continued on their way, as if Erika's pain and wretched state had never registered in their sight at all.
Sela is too strict with me, Erika thought vaguely, a thread of grievance and confusion winding through him. I was just… beaten like that by Lynus… I'm in pain all over, my mind's scattered… Why, even now, do I have to force myself to maintain this damned "politeness"?
However, each time this displeasure, this grievance—even a sliver of resentment—began to surface, the warmth from Sela's palm, transmitted through their clasped hands, would swiftly and firmly wash it all away. The warmth wasn't burning, but it was exceptionally steady and real—like the last ember that refused to die in the dark, like the only piece of driftwood one could seize while drowning.It spoke wordlessly of presence, of I am here. Erika's shattered body and mind needed that warmth so desperately that he found himself instinctively, greedily tightening his grip in return, swallowing back the grievance.
And so it went: one pushing in silence, the other passively holding on, amid the occasional trembling blessing and the eternal, silent smiles, the wheelchair crept forward.
Until they turned a corner and entered a slightly narrower section of corridor. The width here was noticeably reduced from the main thoroughfare, the walls on either side feeling more oppressive.
And there, ahead of them, at the other end of the narrow passage, another sister was pushing a wheelchair toward them.
A figure sat in that wheelchair, likewise bound, likewise silent, visible only as a slightly hunched back wrapped in a similar restraint garment. Clearly, this narrow corridor couldn't accommodate two wheelchairs comfortably; even passing would be a tight squeeze.
Sela didn't hesitate. With natural fluidity, she gently withdrew the hand that had been holding Erika's left. The sudden loss of that warmth left an indescribable hollowness in Erika's chest, his left hand unconsciously curling in on itself.
Sela raised her freed hand and made a concise, unambiguous gesture to the sister opposite—clearly signaling for the other to pass first. Her movements were smooth, her posture composed, as if this were nothing more than an ordinary everyday yielding of the way.
The other sister seemed equally accustomed. She gave a slight nod and proceeded to push the silent figure steadily into the narrow passage, approaching Erika and Sela.
Strangely, as the other wheelchair drew near, only the sister pushing it exchanged a nod and the murmured "The Merciful Father blesses us" with another passing sister. The bound, hunched figure sitting silently in the wheelchair didn't so much as part its lips, as if the entire ritual had nothing to do with him at all.
What the… Erika watched, the grievance and confusion bubbling up again. Sela really is too strict. See? That one doesn't have to do it!Why is she so demanding with me? Forcing me to repeat those empty words when I'm already in so much pain and misery…
As this thought crossed his mind, the other wheelchair arrived directly opposite them.
The ritual sequence played out again: greetings exchanged between the sisters, the blessing from the pushing sister directed at Erika, and Erika's repetition in return.
This time, however, when Erika's gaze, instinctively and unavoidably, fell upon the silent figure in the opposite wheelchair—
He froze.
Eyes that were dull and unfocused, as if veiled by a cloudy film, stared vacantly ahead, reflecting nothing. Facial muscles hung slack and distorted, the corners of the mouth and chin smeared into a mess of dried and fresh, glistening mucus and saliva, clotted together. The whites of the eyes were webbed with horrifying blood vessels, the sockets deeply sunken, the skin an unhealthy ashen gray.
If that could still be called a person.
The violent visual impact and deeper fear made Erika recoil from closer scrutiny, his stomach churning. He jerked his gaze away, his heart pounding wildly.
The other wheelchair didn't linger. After the brief ritual exchange, the sister swiftly pushed it onward, passing Erika and Sela.
At the exact moment the two wheelchairs crossed—when their occupants were closest—Erika's unnaturally keen ears caught an extremely faint, indistinct sound, a murmur wheezed out of what seemed like a leaking chest cavity, coming from that "non-human" figure:
"Con… fess…"
Two words—so shattered they were barely syllables—yet they struck Erika's eardrums like two icy needles.
Confess…
For a moment, without any clear reason, a cold shudder ran down Erika's spine. He couldn't stop himself from imagining—if… if one day, the person sitting in that wheelchair, reduced to that state… were him…
The chill that thought brought was colder than Lynus's fists.
Then, the familiar warmth returned to his hand.
It was Sela. After exchanging a final acknowledging glance with the other sister, she naturally reached out and took Erika's cold, faintly trembling left hand back into her own. The warmth was still steady, still carrying its soothing power.
Erika instinctively gave Sela's hand a slight tug. The motion was faint, carrying a trace of unconscious reliance and lingering fear.
"What is it, Erika?" Sela's voice came from behind and to the side, still gentle, carrying a question.
"...Nothing."
What could he say? Point out another's misery to highlight his own "luck"? Complain that Sela's "strictness" might in fact be what was keeping him from becoming like that? Or simply… seek some meaningless comfort?
In the end, he chose silence, only gripping Sela's hand tighter in return—a hold that carried a fragility he himself did not fully recognize.
The wheelchair continued its journey down the narrow corridor, gradually leaving that horrific image and the shattered whisper of "confess" behind in the pale silence.