Consciousness slowly rose from the depths of a stagnant, dreamless dark sea.Erika felt as though the sensation of perceiving the world through thick, frosted glass—and the difficulty in thinking that had plagued him before—had been wiped of a layer of condensation. His mind operated a bit more clearly now. Though still empty, his perception of the present and his speed of processing information seemed to have regained a basic level of fluidity.
He opened his eyes.
The room was unchanged. Pale walls, cold light, still air. Everything was exactly as it had been before he "fell asleep," as if time were frozen within this box.
He tried to move. His body remained heavy, but his left arm seemed to possess a faint, additional sliver of controllable strength. He attempted to push up with his left elbow and, with noticeable effort, managed to lift his upper body slightly from the flatbed.
Propped against the headboard, his gaze swept around this cage-like space.
The wheelchair sat quietly in its usual spot. The metal cart was against the wall.Then, his gaze halted.
The sister was leaning against the small cart, her head slightly bowed, eyes closed, the rise and fall of her chest slow and even—she was dozing. In the vague impressions remaining in his memory, the sister was always energetic, perpetually maintaining her poised smile and alertness. This slightly weary, utterly unguarded sleeping face revealed a fleeting crack of genuine reality in the perfect shell of the "caretaker."
Yet, the crack did not last.
Almost the instant Erika propped himself up and his gaze fell upon her, the sister's eyelashes fluttered, then swiftly opened. There was no confusion of waking. Those pale eyes cleared almost immediately, and simultaneously her body had already reacted—raising a hand to adjust her already-tidy hairline and collar. Her face shifted as if a switch had been flipped, instantly assuming that familiar, gentle, flawless smile.
She stood up, her movements fluid and natural, as if the brief nap had never happened. Her gaze settled on Erika's propped-up form, her smile deepening with approval.
"Recovering well," she said cheerfully, walking to the wheelchair and picking up that gray-white, thick, stifling restraint garment.
"Obedient."
She approached with the garment, her voice soft.
Erika did have questions—about how long he'd slept, the change in his mind, her fatigue just now…But at this moment, the thoughts that had just cleared slightly seemed utterly powerless before the word "obedient" and the impending "procedure." Any notion of resistance or questioning dissipated before it could fully form, swallowed by a deeper, almost habitual compliance.
He did not speak, nor did he resist. He simply allowed the sister to maneuver him into the restraint garment. The fabric rubbed coldly against his skin. Each strap was pulled tight with precise efficiency. His body was arranged like a doll, and his clearer consciousness could only act as a more acute—yet equally powerless—observer.
"There," the sister said lightly, making a final adjustment to his empty right sleeve. "Hopefully we won't keep him waiting too long."
Him?
The word dropped into the lake of his heart like a small stone, sending ripples of unease.
The sister offered no explanation. She had already turned the wheelchair toward the door.
As the wheels rolled forward, a physiological instinct surged—perhaps hunger from the digestion of that lavish breakfast, or perhaps a primitive attempt to grasp a shred of control.
"I'm hungry," Erika said, his voice unsteady with the motion.
The sister did not slow. Her voice came from behind, still gentle, carrying a soothing reassurance that allowed no change to the schedule, like placating a child fussing for candy on the way to the hospital.
"Obedient. It won't be long."
Obedient.The third time.
The word—paired with the promise of not long—sealed his need.
The wheelchair entered the corridor of constant light. Bound, Erika moved forward. His newfound clarity made him acutely aware of the confinement, the vibrations of the wheels, the coolness of the air—and his hunger, his confusion, and the tangled fear and twisted anticipation toward the coming meeting with "him."
Not long.
Was it comfort—or a countdown?
The wheelchair maintained a steady, almost silent pace down the empty corridor. The sister's footsteps were light. Erika could only hear the faintest whisper of wheels on smooth flooring, his own slightly rapid heartbeat and breathing. The eerie silence seemed to amplify everything around them.
To combat the growing clarity of hunger in his stomach and the intangible pressure of this quiet, Erika's thoughts drifted involuntarily back to yesterday—or the last time he was awake—to that unusually sumptuous meal. The tender, juicy cutlet, the rich, mellow broth, the soft, warm bread… Memories of taste seemed more stubborn, clearer. They replayed in his empty mind, offering a brief, illusory comfort, and even… the sister's focus while cutting the food, her gentle eyes while feeding him, the softness of wiping his mouth…
No.
Erika violently cut off this reminiscence. That feeling of "gentleness" was familiar yet utterly blurred, as if viewed through fogged glass. He forced his attention back to reality, to this cold, silent, forward-moving corridor.
Just then—
"The Merciful Father blesses us."
A calm, aged yet vigorous female voice suddenly sounded ahead, shattering the corridor's silence.
"The Merciful Father blesses us," the sister pushing the wheelchair responded almost instantly. Her tone was equally calm, carrying a natural reverence.
This brief, password-like exchange yanked back all of Erika's drifting attention. Only then did he realize that an older sister now stood at the corridor junction ahead—where there had been no one moments before.
She wore the same style of habit, yet the fabric appeared stiffer, starched to flawless precision. Delicate piping traced the cuffs and collar. Her face bore the marks of age, kindly and composed, and she gazed at Erika with a beaming smile. Her eyes were deep—penetrating past the external restraints and inner confusion, as if she were confirming something long anticipated, or quietly assessing his readiness.
A wave of unease washed over Erika.
Instinctively—almost pleadingly—he glanced sideways, toward the sister who always cared for him.
She had already stopped pushing the wheelchair. Half-crouched beside him, her posture was humble. She looked up at him, still wearing that mild smile, but now her eyes carried clear encouragement and expectation—and a trace of barely concealed tension.
"Erika," she reminded him softly, her voice low but precise."Be polite."
Polite?
To this suddenly appearing, clearly higher-ranking elder sister?
His heart thudded heavily in his chest.
Erika turned his gaze back to the elder sister's smiling, watchful face. His throat was dry. He licked his lips, struggling to recall the exact pronunciation and cadence of the phrase. Hesitantly, word by word—awkward and uncertain—he spoke:
"The… Merciful Father… blesses… us?"
The sentence emerged dry and halting, stripped of any true conviction. It was not faith—it was recitation. The repetition of a newly learned phrase, still foreign on his tongue.
The elder sister's smile deepened.
It held understanding—and satisfaction—as though she were witnessing expected progress. She gave a slight nod. Her voice was kindly, yet carried an authority that allowed no doubt.
"Correct, child. The Merciful Father blesses us."
With that, she did not linger. She neither addressed nor acknowledged the younger sister beside the wheelchair. Maintaining that benevolent smile—as if having completed a necessary inspection—she turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner with steady, measured steps, as abruptly and quietly as she had appeared.
The younger sister released a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief and quickly straightened. She did not immediately resume pushing the wheelchair. Instead, she leaned down and gently brushed a few stray strands of hair from Erika's forehead, her movements gentle.
"Good," she murmured.
Then she took hold of the handles again and resumed pushing. The pace was a fraction faster than before, though the wheels remained nearly silent.
Erika sat rigidly in the wheelchair.
The forced words of blessing still lingered on his tongue, leaving behind a strange, faint sensation. The elder sister's all-seeing smile, the younger sister's encouraging yet tense gaze, and this seemingly simple yet profoundly significant act of "politeness"—all of it fell upon his newly clarified consciousness like cold rain.
He was not merely being fed, restrained, and pushed toward an unknown "him."
He was being taught.Disciplined.Instructed in how to exist—politely—within this environment.
"The Merciful Father blesses us."
The phrase was no longer just something others said.
It had become a passcode—or perhaps a shackle—one that he was expected to learn, remember, and recite at precisely the right moments.
And ahead, that "him"—the one who "wouldn't be kept waiting long"—and the unknown destination continued to draw closer, steadily and silently, with the smooth advance of the wheelchair.