The sky was unnaturally still that evening—no breeze, no rustle of leaves, only the weight of something ominous pressing down on everything.
Aria was cleaning up the tiny bookshelf in her room when her brother barged in, his face pale and breath heavy. "Aria… it's Ichiro. He's… he's been in an accident."
The world stilled.
For a moment, she didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Just stared at him like the words hadn't made sense in her language. Then it hit her like a wave.
"Which hospital?" she croaked.
"Central General. ICU."
She was out the door before he could say anything more.
---
The corridor of the hospital was cold and buzzing with quiet chaos. Aria's legs felt numb, her feet moving on instinct. Nurses rushed past her, doctors mumbled codes and instructions, machines beeped endlessly—but all she could hear was the violent pounding of her heart.
She finally reached the ICU, and her knees nearly gave out when she saw him.
There he was—her sunshine, her calm, composed Ichiro—lying unconscious, tubes running through his arms, machines monitoring every breath, and blood crusted at the edge of his hairline. His face looked too still. Too pale.
The doctor said the words like they were reading a report: "Spinal trauma. Multiple fractures. He underwent emergency surgery. He's stable now, but…" A pause. "We're not sure if he'll walk again."
Aria didn't cry. Not then. She just stared, unmoving, as if her stillness could reverse time.
She stepped into the ICU quietly, heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. Her fingers trembled as she reached out but stopped just short of touching his hand. Instead, she sat on the stool beside him and whispered, "You're going to be okay. You always are."
She watched him through the night. When the nurses changed shifts. When the lights dimmed. When the world outside kept moving, uncaring.
In that long silence, her memories betrayed her. His laughter. His scolding voice calling her "kiddo." The yellow roses. The rejection. Her promise to move on.
But she never did.
---
He woke up two days later.
His eyes opened slowly, unfocused, blinking against the light. Aria was there—still sitting beside him, still holding vigil.
"Dr. Ichiro?" she whispered, leaning in.
He blinked again, slowly turning his head. His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "Where…?"
"You're in the hospital. You had an accident." Her voice was trembling now, no matter how much she tried to hide it. "But you're okay. You're alive."
He stared at the ceiling, silent. No emotion, no questions. Just a long, haunted silence.
Later, when the doctor explained his condition in full detail, Ichiro didn't say a word. He just turned his face away from everyone, jaw clenched.
Aria stood behind the others, unable to speak. His hands were clenched into tight fists.
"He'll need extensive therapy. Long-term care," the doctor said. "It's likely he'll never walk again."
Ichiro didn't flinch. But his silence screamed louder than any cry.
That night, Aria overheard him yelling at the nurse.
"Turn the light off! I don't need your pity! Just leave me alone!"
The nurse left quietly. Aria stood outside the door, frozen.
He wasn't the same man anymore.