I rose from my seat, restless, clutching a phone that wouldn't stop vibrating—at least in my memory.
"Excuse me, Ma'am. I need to step out for a moment," I said as calmly as I could—though the trembling had already crept from my fingertips into my breath.
The math teacher, a middle-aged woman with sharp, judgmental eyes, turned away from the blackboard.
"Sit back down, Ray. Class isn't over."
"I'm sorry, Ma'am. This is important…"
"They all have important things too. But we're in class. So sit."
I swallowed hard. "Please. I really have to go."
The room fell silent. Every eye turned to me.
My head hung low, but I could feel the weight—those accusing stares, the whispers almost like laughter stifled behind hands.
The teacher approached. Her voice softened, but it was the softness of a knife wrapped in cloth.
"What excuse are you making up this time? An emergency? What is it—your cat's sick? You forgot your wallet?"
I closed my eyes. Held it in. Breathed deep. Swallowed it all into a chest that felt too small.
But she didn't stop.
"Do you even realize how many times you've used an excuse to leave class, Ray? You think this is funny? You think you're the only one whose life is hard?"
I looked up. Our eyes met.
And in that moment—something inside me broke.
"MY SISTER WAS IN AN ACCIDENT!!" I screamed.
My voice echoed like a crack through a cavern.
"MY SISTER, MARIA—SHE NEEDS ME RIGHT NOW!!"
My fists clenched, my breath came in bursts, my face burned with fury I could no longer contain.
But my teacher's gaze remained cold. Frozen.
"Again?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Not this time, Ray. Stop this nonsense."
Silence. The world stopped spinning. But my heart raced faster than ever.
I said nothing.
I just turned—and ran.
Not just out of the classroom, not just out of school—I ran from those who never believed. From a world that always thought I was pretending.
My steps were heavy, but my heart was heavier.
Running down the school stairs, I dialed my father's number. My fingers trembled like leaves in a storm.
The voice on the other end answered quickly.
"Dad… where's Maria?" I asked, nearly choking on panic.
"At the hospital near home. I'm here now. Come quick."
I hung up.
My feet moved faster than my thoughts. Pavement and faces blurred like mist.
I had one goal.
Maria.
And I wouldn't let anyone stop me this time.
My footsteps struck the street like impatient clock chimes.
I ran—through the city crowd, past sidewalks full of strangers who knew nothing of the fear of losing.
The sky above was gray, as if it too held the weight in my chest.
I don't know how far I ran.
My heartbeat thundered like a war drum, my breath ragged—but I didn't stop.
Until… everything turned blurry.
My legs faltered.
My breath lost rhythm—wild and painful.
I forgot.
For a moment… I forgot what I was chasing.
Forgot why I had to keep running.
Forgot who was waiting for me.
I stood still at a street corner, the world spinning slow. My head was heavy. My vision dim.
Then…
That face.
Maria.
Her soft giggles. Her mischievous eyes. Her morning voice calling out—
"Wake up, Ray! The world needs you!"
But I was the one who needed her.
Everything came back. Everything condensed into one sentence in my mind:
"Maria needs me."
My legs moved again—not from strength, but from love.
I ran past red lights, through empty alleys, until the old hospital building came into view.
Worn. Quiet. Almost like a fading dream.
I pushed open the front doors with trembling hands, greeted by the chime of an old bell.
At the reception desk, a young woman looked up at me and smiled gently, as if she'd known me a long time.
"You've finally arrived, Ray," she said, her voice warm… too warm.
I froze.
"Uh… have we met?" I asked, still breathless.
She only smiled and slid an old hospital map toward me.
The paper was faded, its corners yellowed, but the lines were precise—drawn by a hand that knew every secret corner of this place.
"Maria's room is here," she said, pointing to a spot in the upper right corner.
I stared at the map.
It felt strange… too detailed… too old for a hospital that was just renovated a few years ago.
And what bothered me most…
"How do you know her name?"
She looked at me, and for a moment, her smile shifted. Not cruel—but hiding something.
"Those who come with love always leave a trace," she whispered.
I gripped the map. I didn't ask again.
Because what mattered most now…
Maria was waiting for me.
I walked through the hospital corridors—clutching that old map like a compass in a world gone dim.
The walls were pale white, but seemed to absorb all sound. Quiet, but not silent. There were whispers in the air—something unspoken.
Then…
"Morning, Ray."
An old man in a wheelchair smiled at me warmly.
I turned—confused. I didn't know him. But he looked at me as if we shared deep memories.
Before I could respond, a young nurse passed by with a stack of files.
"Be careful, Ray. Don't run too fast," she said with a soft giggle.
I froze.
My pace slowed.
Behind a glass window, a little child waved, her face bright.
"Ray, you came again!" she cheered.
Again?
A doctor in a white coat walked past me, patting my shoulder. "You're right on time this time."
The voices kept coming.
From the left, the right, from waiting rooms full of families—they looked at me with warm eyes. As if I was part of this place. As if I was someone they'd been waiting for.
But I didn't know any of them.
Still…
Somehow, my chest felt warm. As if this path had already been written, as if this corridor wasn't just a way to a patient's room, but a way home to something greater.
I turned to the wall.
Old paintings hung neatly—some showing people smiling under trees, sitting on hospital benches, or gazing at the night sky through a window.
And among them… I felt like I'd been there.
"Ray," greeted a middle-aged woman with a gray shawl, sitting alone, waiting for someone.
I just nodded slightly, unsure what to say.
Then I saw the door at the end of the hall.
The room number from the map.
My hand slowly gripped the doorknob.
I took a deep breath—because I knew behind this door wasn't just Maria.
It was my answer.
To why everyone knew me. To why this place felt like a dream I had long left behind.
To love, to loss, and maybe…
To redemption.
Without waiting another second, I pushed the door open.
"Mar…?"
But the word caught in my throat.
Not a bed.
Not an IV.
Not my sister's frail body.
What I saw…
Was a middle-aged man, sitting calmly behind an old wooden desk. Dressed neatly, round glasses perched on his nose, and a warm smile carved naturally across his face.
"Welcome, Ray," he said gently, as if I had arrived right on time for an appointment I didn't remember making.
I stood frozen. My eyes scanned the room.
This… wasn't part of a hospital.
No scent of disinfectant. No machines humming. No hurried footsteps of nurses.
Only books, soft paintings, and the dim glow of a desk lamp.
"I… I'm in the wrong room," I muttered quickly, turning and stepping out—the door closed softly behind me.
But when I grabbed the handle again…
The world changed.
No hospital corridor.
No receptionist with a knowing smile.
Outside that room was only white fog… and a silence too perfect.
No other doors. No way back.
I stood frozen, until that soft voice called again from within.
"You've arrived, Ray. Come. We don't have much time."
I turned slowly.
He was still there. The psychiatrist. With eyes full of understanding… and something else behind his gaze. Something that knew more than I ever wanted to.
I stepped inside—what else could I do?
The chair welcomed me. Cold. But real.
I sat.
Silence hung heavy.
Only the ticking of an antique clock in the corner kept time—if time still existed here.
Then… my eyes were drawn, unknowingly, to something in the room.
A mirror stood there—behind the old bookshelf.
My reflection stared back. But not the me I knew.
My forehead… wrapped in bandages.
Faint red stains spreading—like dried blood, not yet forgotten.
I said nothing. My heart caught.
My right hand slowly rose… touched my brow.
And I felt it.
The bandage was real.
The wound was real.
I didn't know when—didn't know how.
All I could do was turn, slowly, to face the psychiatrist who no longer just smiled.
His gaze had changed.
Deeper.
Like someone waiting to reveal a truth long buried.
"Ray," he said softly. "Shall we begin today's session a little early?"