Try our luck…
Erika chewed over the phrase. It was like a candy with an unknown filling, its exterior a familiar, seemingly harmless sugar shell, the inside potentially anything at all. What would happen with good luck? What would happen with bad? He couldn't imagine. His memory offered no precedent for reference, only a vast emptiness and that lingering, instinct-rooted chill.
The sister had moved to the metal cart by the wall. With practiced ease, she lifted the insulated lid, and an unusually enticing, steaming aroma instantly filled the room, aggressively invading the previously monotonous air. The scent was complex and rich—the charred fragrance of roasted meat, the clear sweetness of stewed vegetables, the unique note of some spice, and the reassuring, warm smell of freshly baked bread.
The sister turned, carrying the tray to the bedside. Erika's gaze fell upon it: a perfectly roasted cutlet, its edges glistening with golden fat, rested beside a thick, glossy sauce; brightly colored, crisp-looking vegetables were arranged artfully on the other side; a small bowl of fragrant broth sprinkled with herbs; and a piece of fluffy, steaming white bread.
"You need more nourishment," the sister said softly, her tone carrying a kind of unquestionable concern. She picked up the knife and fork and began meticulously cutting the meat into bite-sized pieces, her movements elegant and focused, as if performing an important ritual."To recover soon," she added, lifting her eyes to give him that familiar smile."The Merciful Father watches over us."
Nourishment. Recovery. Merciful Father.
Erika's attention could not focus on the tempting food at all. His gaze, involuntarily, once again fell on the empty, flatly draped sleeve on his right side. The sense of that missing presence gripped him more powerfully than any aroma. This sudden feast stood in unbearably sharp, unsettling contrast to the glaring physical void.
He looked up at the sister, his voice dry with urgency and confusion:"What happened? My hand… what happened to it?"
The question aimed directly at the core, attempting to pierce this warm, food-scented haze.
The sister's hands never paused in their cutting, nor did she look up. Her smile remained, but its curve seemed to have subtly hardened. She dipped a small piece of meat into the sauce, speared it securely with the fork, and brought it to Erika's lips. Her voice was soft, yet carried a gentle, decisive force that neatly closed the topic.
"You'll know," she said, calm as if stating tomorrow's weather."Now, be obedient. It's time to eat."
"Be obedient."The word carried a soothing yet dismissive authority—a condescension reserved for children or pets, a top-down reassurance that allowed no argument. It sealed off any further questioning completely.
She gave him no chance to speak. Still smiling, she urged him silently and insistently—with her gaze, and with the food held at his lips.
The scent of the food was immediate, the sauce glossy and inviting. Physical weakness and instinctive hunger stirred within him.
Under the sister's calm, unyielding gaze, before that flawless face marked by both tear tracks and a smile, Erika, with excruciating slowness and a profound sense of helplessness, opened his mouth.
Warm, richly flavored meat slid onto his tongue. It was genuinely delicious.But swallowing it felt like forcing down a cold stone, heavy with questions and unease.
The sister smiled with satisfaction and began methodically feeding him the next bite.
The room held only the faint clink of utensils and the sound of Erika's silent chewing and swallowing.
The abundant meal was delivered to him bite by bite, accompanied by gentle whispers of "recover soon" and that eternally unchanged smile.And the questions—What happened? What about my hand?—like stones cast into deep water, were softly, thoroughly pressed into silence by that single word, "obedient," and the act of eating that followed.
The answer was deferred to the future—"You'll know."
For now, he only needed to be obedient.Only needed to eat.Only needed to wait passively, to recover passively amid scent and feeding.
As for what he was recovering into, and for what purpose… those belonged to the watchful gaze of the Merciful Father, to the domain of "luck"—matters he neither needed nor was permitted to probe.
Erika accepted the feeding numbly. His taste buds registered flavor; his inner world remained a frozen wasteland. The empty sleeve swayed faintly, mockingly, with every swallow.
The unspoken question grew like a vine in his hollow chest."How long did I sleep?"
This simple question became the first fragile measure of the time that had been taken from him.
He swallowed another tender piece and seized the brief moment as the sister cut the next portion. His voice was muffled by weakness, but he forced it steady:
"I… how long did I sleep?"
The sister's knife paused in midair—only for a heartbeat—then resumed its smooth rhythm. She didn't look at him. Her attention remained on the plate, while the corners of her mouth curved into a broader, strangely emotional smile.
"Oh, I envy you, haha."She laughed lightly. The sound was clear, almost cheerful—and it made Erika's heart tighten.
There was no malice in it. Only a distant, unsettling detachment.
"I never sleep well," she continued, lifting her head. Her smile was bright, but her gaze drifted somewhere far away, tinged with gentle self-mockery."I keep worrying—what if you woke up and I wasn't there?"She lowered her voice, as if confiding a secret."Sometimes I even have nightmares."
Her tone was natural, almost affectionate—carrying a faint, unsettling dependency.
At least one thing became clear to Erika: he must have slept for a very long time.What had been done to him during that time—why his memories were blurred, why his hand was gone—remained unspoken.
The sister interpreted his silence as acceptance. Her smile deepened. She scooped up a spoonful of thick broth, blew on it carefully, and offered it to him.
Her voice softened further, almost like a prayer:
"The Merciful Father watches over us."She met his eyes fully now."I hope you didn't have any nightmares."
He avoided her gaze and stared at the food, beautiful and utterly unappealing.
"Nightmares… of course not."After a pause, he added quietly—so softly it barely carried—yet with an unrecognized chill of truth:"I felt nothing at all."
No nightmares.No dreams.No fear. No joy.
Only a smooth, washed-out blankness—and beneath it, the vast, undeniable absence itself.
The sister showed no surprise. She merely hummed softly, satisfied, as if he had given the most correct answer possible. She nudged the spoon closer, almost touching his lips.
"Mm. Good. Finish this first, okay?"
Erika looked at the spoon. The broth reflected the pale ceiling light—and faintly, his hollow eyes and the sister's eternal smile.
Silently, he opened his mouth.
Warm broth slid down his throat, bringing nourishment—and deeper, unspoken questions about time, sleep, obedience, watchfulness. They sank with the food, settling in his stomach and in the empty depths of the consciousness that bore his name.
The sister, still wearing that face of tears, smiles, and infinite patience, continued the feeding.
At last, the final bite. The final sip.His stomach was full—heavy—while his mind felt weightless and hollow.
The sister wiped his mouth gently and cleared the tray. Metal touched porcelain. The cart rolled softly. Every sound felt too loud in the quiet room.
An overwhelming fatigue swept over him—not merely physical, but like a forced shutdown. The nourishment dragged his consciousness downward instead of strengthening him. His eyelids fell before the sister even finished tidying.
He lay half-awake as the last sounds faded—the towel folded, an object set down, the cart clicking into place.
Then silence.
Absolute silence.
The sister remained a moment longer, standing or sitting beside the bed, waiting.
Time thickened.
At last, she released a quiet, deeply relaxed sigh—as if letting go of something she had been holding all along.
Soft footsteps. Fabric rustling.
Before the door opened, her voice came—gentle, low, routine, yet unbearably heavy in this moment:
"See you tomorrow, Erika."
The door closed softly.The lock clicked.
Silence returned, leaving only him—full, exhausted, empty—and those words hanging in the air.
See you tomorrow.
What would tomorrow bring?
As his final thread of awareness slipped away, Erika thought dimly that her sigh had felt more genuine than any smile or tear.
And "See you tomorrow" sounded both like a promise—
—and an appraisal.