The days passed slowly, marked not by time but by routine.
Every sunrise began the same: the clink of porcelain on silver, the soft knock at the door, and Robert's quiet footsteps entering with the morning tray. Warm bread. Sweetened milk. Steamed clothes. Gentle greetings met by silence.
Kael had been awake for five days.
But he hadn't left the room once.
Robert moved with practiced care, mindful not to startle the young man seated near the window. The curtains had been drawn halfway to shield the glass from reflecting too much light. Even now, Kael wouldn't go near a mirror. He had reacted violently the first time—his hands trembling, his breath sharp. He had fallen, confused and afraid, when he caught a glimpse of a face he didn't recognize.
A face that belonged to him.
Since then, Robert had covered every reflective surface. Even the silver trays were dulled with cloth.
Elric had made the decision swiftly.
"He's not ready to face the world," she'd told Robert days ago, handing over a sealed document of restriction. "No one is to enter this room without permission. No one. Not even servants. He only trusts you. For now, let's keep it that way."
Robert hadn't disagreed.
Kael barely tolerated Elric's presence. Anyone else brought panic—eyes wide, breath quickened, body retreating instantly into corners. He'd grown used to silence and shadow.
And Robert had grown used to staying.
He remained by Kael's side day and night, only leaving briefly to fetch food or clean linens. He assisted with every small task—helped Kael sit up, fed him with careful hands, guided trembling fingers to hold a spoon or cup. Even trips to the washroom were done with Robert's arms around his back, supporting his weight when his legs refused to hold him.
Kael had tried once to go alone.
He had risen with effort, fists clenched, jaw tight—but the moment his hand released the bedpost, he collapsed with a heavy thud, nearly pulling down the curtain rod with him. Since then, Robert hadn't let him attempt anything without help.
He wasn't cruel about it—just quietly insistent.
"You're still recovering, Young Master," he'd whisper every time Kael looked toward the door. "Your mana is unstable. You're weak from the coma… or perhaps from the battle. It's hard to say. But your body isn't whole yet."
Kael never responded.
He only listened.
Sometimes, his gaze drifted out the window, watching the sun rise with a blank expression.
Other times, he would grip the sheets with frustration, his eyes flickering between the walls and floor, never truly resting.
Today, Robert brought something different.
A small ceramic cup. Steam rose gently from its surface, carrying a soft scent of roasted beans and sweetened milk.
"I remember," Robert said as he set the cup on a linen cloth near Kael's seat, "you always had coffee during our travels. Morning rituals. No matter where we were—before battle, after scouting, even in the coldest northern camps—you would never miss it."
He handed the cup over, steadying Kael's hands so they wouldn't shake too hard. "I made it the same way. I hope… it still feels the same."
Kael took the cup.
He drank slowly.
The taste hit differently. Not unfamiliar, not unpleasant—just… nostalgic.
For the first time, something stirred in his chest. A feeling.
A memory not his, and yet not entirely foreign.
Robert noticed.
The faint change in Kael's eyes. The way he sat a little straighter. The twitch of his fingers as they wrapped more firmly around the cup.
"You still like it," Robert said, voice softer. "That's a good sign."
The sunlight caught Kael's pale hair, making him look more ghost than boy. But there was life in him now—faint, but real.
Robert leaned back against the chair across from him. "What if we tried more of what you used to love? Not just the coffee, but the other things too. Sword drills… your reading hour… even the way you arranged your books by height instead of title." He chuckled to himself.
"You never let me fix that."
Kael looked at him—not quite with understanding, but not with rejection either.
It was the most engagement Robert had seen in days.
But what came next caught him completely off guard.
Kael set the cup down with both hands, carefully, then spoke—his voice quiet, rasped, like something unused for years.
"Aren't you bored always being with me?"
Robert blinked.
It's the first time for a while Robert heard his voice.
The question hung in the air.
He stared at Kael as if seeing him for the first time all over again.
Five days of silence. Five days of waiting. Of hoping.
He wanted to shout in relief. He wanted to grab his master and pull him into a hug. But he didn't.
Instead, he smiled gently and shook his head.
"Not even once."
Kael said nothing after that. He returned to his coffee, staring out the window, as if the moment had never happened.
But Robert's smile remained.
Because a voice, no matter how small, meant something had awoken inside.
Not a memory.
Not clarity.
But a spark.
And for now, that was enough.