When Sovey pushed the hospital's glass door, evening had dimmed the corridors into violet haze.
Her footsteps echoed against the linoleum.
Each step sounded like judgement.
She returned to the ward and sat on the same bed.
The same antiseptic smell.
Same recycled air.
No guards waited outside.
The world beyond flowed slowly.
Nurses avoided her glance.
She said nothing.
Eyes locked on the white sheet.
Breathing methodical.
Calm masking emptiness.
The door opened.
A man entered.
Sunlight contained by will.
Eyes half-closed.
Face gentle.
His calm clashed with beeping machines.
Dr. Marsh.
Herbs clung to him.
The scent stirred memory corners.
Words escaped her lips.
"What should I do?"
He didn't answer.
Regarded her quietly.
Smiled again.
Lips curved with years of patience.
"That is up to you."
He paused.
A decision forming.
"Maybe a story helps."
He sat beside her bed.
Soft tone, conversational.
"Twenty years ago," he began.
Eyes unfixed, chasing memory.
"Nobles birthed me. Real ones. Those who forget ground exists. Because the ground comes to them."
He exhaled, amusement fading.
"In those circles, poverty was theory. Talk for dinner sermons. Virtue given without bread. Noren Island's more than ninety-five percent live below human threshold."
He leaned on his hand.
"Noren: fifty thousand square kilometers. Beyond, mainland stretches endlessly. Millions or billions wide. Some say infinite."
His gaze grew distant.
"Our ancestors left long ago. They evolved to survive outer continents. The weak stayed trapped here. Infertile soil, scarce food. Myths fed hunger. Only endurance built."
He looked at her.
"The tree I worked for. The reason your father's kind hates me. The Punchin Tree. Grows in months. Its fruit doesn't complete nutrition. Eighty percent chance to live past fifty if eating only Punchin. Not luxury to the poor. Divinity. Yet soil refused to grow it faster. The rich hoarded. Sold. Worshipped profit through starvation."
His voice slipped away.
Air angled backwards in time.
Night spilled over his study in blue bands.
Teenage Marsh bent over notes.
Traced molecular sequences on screen.
Whispered formulas.
The door creaked.
His father's footsteps measured.
Shoes silent but heavy enough for judgement.
Stopped beside desk.
Studied papers, then boy.
"Son," he said.
"You're my heir. I indulge curiosity. But this?" He gestured sketches.
"Studying soil chemistry? Dreaming to heal land?"
Marsh stayed silent.
Learned silence less tiring than words.
His father sighed.
"If easy, humans would have done it. Those who could left long ago. You won't achieve what millions didn't. Be practical. Buy hospital. Hire healers. But don't waste yourself."
His voice hardened.
"Being doctor adds nothing to table. Remember that."
He left.
Leaving silence instead.
Next evenings found Marsh at desk.
Days folded into weeks.
Weeks into months.
Months into seasons.
Years passed through paper.
Seasons danced outside.
Inside, youth erased on white sheets.
One afternoon, a knock.
"Marshy!" A friend called.
"Come play DolBall. Seventeen players. Need one more."
Marsh hesitated.
Pen trembling.
"Sorry. Not now."
"Maybe next time," he said.
Friend smiled.
Next time never came.
He waved.
Watched them run.
Dust rose behind feet.
Echoes faded.
He turned back to notes.
Time collapsed.
Marsh exhaled.
"That's history."
He folded hands.
"If I learned anything—Persistence lives in monotony. Not miracles."
"You won't understand all. Your being here—Connects to my failure. I'm sorry."
She blinked.
Apology shocked.
"Your fault? Why care for those who don't?"
He smiled faintly.
"Because I chose before seeing corruption. My principles aren't inherited. They're accidents of conscience. Years I wanted to quit. But had a friend. He built a safe village. Thousands live free. I want more. Not villages but survival. Food for every mouth. Solve hunger before I die."
Sovey's chest felt new weight.
Not guilt.
Not light.
Pieces understood.
Nobility.
Isolation.
Pride as principle.
Mirror she almost knew.
Elsewhere, Mr. Jerry sat hunched.
Hands pressed on temples.
Fingers holding skull.
Room lights blurred yellow.
Everything too near or far.
The phone rang.
Voice scraped, tired.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Jerry. Adric speaking. Business with your father. Odd Jobs association. I own it."
Jerry tried focus.
"Odd… jobs?"
"Yes. Your father was A Grade. You inherit B Grade."
He frowned.
"What job this time?"
"Isolated project. Actors perform society roles. Hundred people. Sixteen years. Recruiting now. Pay two million Franz. Food and housing covered."
Jerry's thoughts fractured.
Hopeless practicality flickered.
"I'll take it."
Pause.
"You, Mr. Jerry? Isolation? For that pay? Ten percent of mansion's price."
Jerry voice trembled.
"Doesn't matter. Mansion burned. Everything gone. Please. Accept."
Adric softened.
"B Grade is gold. Hired."
Fifteen minutes later, Jerry entered hospital wing.
Numbness replaced panic.
Entered Sovey's room.
She was awake.
Weak but composed.
Before he spoke,
She said,
"Father. When I die, Donate my organs. All of them."
Pain clenched him.
"I will."
Silently thought,
Even if sixteen years pass, I'll find money. I'll bring you back.
Marsh approached.
Face lost serenity.
"Mr. Jerry."
Jerry shook head.
"Not your fault."
Marsh looked down.
"Partly mine. Say goodbye. She'll coma soon."
Turned and left.
Jerry leaned close to Sovey.
Her eyes sluggish.
Breath shallow.
Forehead touched shoulder.
Arms moved uncertain.
Her hand lifted weakly.
Touched hair.
Patted once.
The comfort children give adults.
She exhaled.
Body slackened.
Tears spilled.
"Even if sixteen years."
He whispered.
"I'll bring you back."
Elsewhere, city glittered indifferent.
Frostveil's father leaned.
Gray-cloaked man opposite.
"You mean Marsh made her ill?"
Shrug.
"Rumors. No proof."
Press.
"Our income depends on Punchin fruit. Marsh's soil method kills trade. No one pays for abundance. We'd kill him. He infects millionaire children. Disease only he can cure. Protection insurance. Rich avoid him."
Other man sighed.
"Perfect story. No proof. Rumors die in daylight."
Frostveil's father laughed hollow.
"Daylight ends me too. It's over."
They lingered.
Listening to city hum.
Hospital machines hummed cold.
Marsh wrote quietly.
Calm face.
Weight beneath smile.
Unreadable.
Not guilt.
Not triumph.
Tired conviction.
Thought,
Children he made sick
Mostly recovered fast.
This child—sixteen years still sick.
What have I done?
Outside, Noren's sky darkened.
Neither storm nor night.
Color of uncertainty.