The young man slowly opened his eyes, finding himself lying on a soft bed. The room around him was spacious, prestigious, and filled with quiet luxury—ornate curtains, polished furnishings, and a faint scent of herbs lingering in the air.
Sitting beside him was a young woman in her teens.
He tried to sit up, but the moment he moved, weakness surged through his body and he fell back onto the bed.
"Take it easy," the young woman said urgently, reaching out to support him.
With her help—and great effort—he managed to sit upright, breathing heavily as he steadied himself on the edge of the bed.
After a long while of sitting silently beside her long-lost brother, Mary finally mustered the courage to speak. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.
"So… how are you, Ether?" she asked gently, her eyes searching his face for a sign, any reaction.
But no answer came.
After a few moments of heavy silence, two words finally escaped Ether's lips:
"Mother… Father."
Though the sentence was incomplete, Mary immediately understood what he meant. The longing, the questions, the fear—they were all in those two words.
Yet, instead of addressing it, Mary avoided his gaze, stood up, and began moving toward the door.
"We will talk about it later," she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. "For now, you need to rest and get better."
Ether watched her carefully, a flicker of surprise passing over his face. Something about her behavior felt… off. He could tell she was deliberately postponing the topic. And a dark possibility crept into his mind—they might be gone.
Yet, despite the thought, his expression remained calm, his emotions seemingly untouched. Perhaps it was because he was someone who had long since learned to adapt to the death of others, who had long walked among loss without faltering.
After a few moments of sitting in silence, Ether lay back on the bed, letting his body sink into the soft mattress. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift, immersing himself in memories—some bitter, some sharp—of the place he had long despised.
Yet, despite the weight of those memories, he wanted to leave them behind. He wanted to start anew, to carve out a life that was truly his own. The first step, he realized, was simple, yet profound: happiness.
He tried to express it, to feel it, to smile—but found he could not. The muscles of his face felt foreign, unfamiliar with the gesture of joy. Frustration mingled with longing as he raised his hand and gently stretched his lips, attempting the motion he could not naturally summon.
Then, in a voice rough from disuse, words finally escaped his lips:
"I… am… back."
Even in the simplicity of those words, there was a quiet strength—a declaration to the world, to himself, that he was no longer a shadow of the past. He was here. And he was ready to live.