The room was dim, the walls pale and sterile. A thin strip of afternoon sunlight slipped through the half-closed blinds, falling across the bed in uneven bars. Dust motes hovered lazily in the light, drifting above Jun's still body. The soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the silence, steady and mechanical. The faint, intermittent drip of the IV at his bedside added another layer of quiet, a small, predictable splash each time the fluid dropped into the plastic tubing.
The door slid open with a low, metallic squeak. The sound scraped across Jun's ears, subtle but sharp enough to make him twitch. A nurse stepped inside, her shoes clicking softly against the linoleum. She pushed a small cart with a bucket of water balanced on top, the metal frame rattling slightly with each step. Her uniform smelled faintly of antiseptic and soap, the sterile scent biting at the back of Jun's throat.
"Another day," she muttered under her breath, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. Her voice carried weariness and faint sympathy. "Poor kid's been unconscious for months… lying here while the world keeps moving."
She bent over Jun's bed and dipped a cloth into the water, wringing it carefully between her hands. The damp cloth made a soft squelching sound as it was twisted, water running over her fingers and dripping into the bucket. She adjusted her grip, her nails scraping lightly against the rough edge of the fabric.
Then she froze.
Jun's fingers twitched.
A subtle movement, almost imperceptible, but enough to make the nurse's heart jump. She gasped softly, letting the damp cloth slip from her hand. It landed with a wet, heavy splash into the bucket, water sloshing over the rim. Her eyes widened, hands trembling as she froze mid-step.
Jun's eyes opened.
They were wide at first, unfocused, scanning the ceiling and the dim walls. The hospital light above his head made him wince, his pupils contracting sharply. His eyelids fluttered, trying to adjust to the brightness. His lips parted slightly, a dry rasp of air escaping his throat. His tongue felt thick and sluggish, sticky against the roof of his mouth.
The nurse stumbled backward, letting out a startled cry. "Y-you're… awake?!" Her voice trembled, high-pitched with disbelief and relief. Her fingers flexed nervously at her sides, then she recoiled, nearly tripping over the small cart as she stepped back.
Jun's chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. Each inhale scraped against his throat, dry and raw. His heart thumped loudly in his chest, each beat heavy and unsteady. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. His body felt weak, limbs heavy, unresponsive.
The nurse bolted toward the door, her shoes squeaking sharply. "Doctor Kurosawa! Doctor Kurosawa! I need you—right now! Urgent!"
Jun flinched. The name reverberated sharply inside his skull, jarring his senses. The steady beeping of the heart monitor seemed to grow louder, each thump hammering against his temples. Ringing erupted in his ears—shrill, relentless, high-pitched. He pressed his palms weakly to the sides of his head, his fingers shaking. His eyelids squeezed shut against the assault of sound.
Where am I? His mind struggled. Am I in a hospital bed? How long have I been here?
Images flickered across his vision—brief flashes of faces, a girl's tearful expression, the sting of betrayal—but they slipped away before he could hold onto them. His chest heaved, ribs rising and falling unevenly. His arms felt like lead, every small movement straining muscles that had grown stiff from inactivity.
The door burst open again. A man in a crisp white coat strode in, his shoes making a soft tap against the floor. The nurse followed, still glancing nervously over her shoulder. The doctor's hair was streaked with gray, slightly disheveled at the sides, and his glasses slid down his nose as he moved. Each step was precise, controlled, deliberate.
"Jun," the doctor said, his voice firm and calm. He placed his hands briefly on the bed rail to steady himself, leaning slightly forward. "Stay calm. I need to check your condition."
Jun flinched as a penlight was brought close to his eyes. The narrow beam passed across his pupils, forcing them to contract sharply. The light reflected off the moisture gathered on his eyes, tiny beads forming at the edges. The smell of antiseptic intensified as the doctor leaned closer.
"Eyes reactive… good," the doctor muttered, checking for response. He carefully lifted Jun's eyelid with a gloved hand, the latex cold and rough against his skin. "Can you follow the light?"
Jun's gaze wavered, slow but deliberate. He tried to move his eyes in the indicated direction, muscles stiff and untrained after months of stillness.
"Ears?" Kurosawa asked. He tapped a tuning fork against his palm, then pressed it lightly near Jun's temple. A low hum resonated in the air, vibrating faintly against the thin bones of Jun's skull. Jun flinched, pressing his palms against his ears instinctively. "It's… too loud…" he rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper.
The doctor exchanged a brief glance with the nurse, eyebrows tightening in thought. He sighed, setting the tuning fork aside. He removed his stethoscope, its metal cool against his hands, and placed it against Jun's chest. The rhythmic thump of Jun's heart echoed in the quiet room, each beat loud in the space around him.
Finally, Kurosawa straightened, adjusting his glasses and letting his hands fall to his sides. His expression softened.
Jun's voice broke as he tried to speak, rough and strained. "How… long… have I… been here?" His throat felt raw, muscles stiff from disuse. Each word scraped against his vocal cords.
"…You've been unconscious for four months," the doctor said gravely. "You were in a coma. I was the doctor assigned to you while you slept."
The words hung in the air. Jun blinked rapidly, trying to focus. They sounded distant, almost unreal. His throat burned, every syllable scraping painfully as he repeated them to himself. "…Four… months?"
The nurse pressed a trembling hand to her chest, eyes glistening. "We… we thought you might never…" Her words faltered, and she shook her head.
Doctor Kurosawa adjusted his glasses, glancing briefly at the monitor. "You were struck in the head during practice. Severe trauma. It's… a miracle you're awake."
Jun's mind reeled. Practice. Sunlight on fields. The sound of a bat cracking against a ball. A voice calling his name—then nothing. His chest rose and fell rapidly, shallow and uneven. His fingers flexed and unflexed on the white blanket, nails pressing into the soft fabric, seeking some grounding.
"I… I don't remember…" Jun whispered, voice trembling. His lips were dry and cracked, tongue thick in his mouth.
"Don't force it," the doctor said, voice firm. "Memory loss after a coma of this length is common. Your mind has been asleep for a long time. It may take time to recover. If it ever does."
Jun's hands shook as they rested atop the blanket. His fingers fidgeted with the edge, pressing into the rough cotton, feeling the subtle weave. His arms were weak, muscles atrophied, every slight movement taking effort. His chest tightened, hollow, as if carrying some weight he couldn't place. Faces hovered at the edge of his mind—blank, faceless, incomplete.
"…Who am I?" he whispered, voice breaking, barely audible above the steady beeping of the monitor.
The nurse covered her mouth, eyes glistening, as if she couldn't believe the words.
Kurosawa placed a firm but gentle hand on Jun's shoulder. The pressure was steady, grounding, cold through the thin hospital gown. "You're Jun Hashimoto. That much is certain. You've been given a second chance at life, though your memories are hazy. For now… rest. We'll take this one step at a time."
"Shiraishi, I trust you'll take care of him," Doctor Kurosawa said, his voice firm as he stepped out.
Yes doctor, the nurse nodded, voice soft. "I'll be back with a cleaner cloth and more water. Please bear with me Jun." She moved carefully, each step measured against the wet floor near the bucket.
Jun stared at the ceiling. The sunlight had shifted slightly, now forming a thin line across his face. He felt the rough edge of the blanket beneath his fingertips, the faint chill from the IV line against his arm, the sticky residue of sweat from the past moments of consciousness.
Jun. A coma. Four months.
His heart thudded unevenly, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The monitor's beeping filled the room, a sharp reminder of life continuing, of time lost.
And yet, no matter how precise the sounds, no matter how clear the lights, a hollow weight pressed down in his chest. Something important, delicate, and precious had been left behind in the darkness, and he couldn't reach it.
He flexed his fingers, feeling each joint creak faintly. He shifted slightly, testing his legs and arms, noting the stiffness and heaviness. Every small sensation was new, every movement a test.
Jun exhaled sharply, shivering lightly. The hospital air was cool against his bare arms. He tasted faint metal on his tongue—an aftertaste of the IV and antiseptic. Each small movement sent tingling through his limbs. His eyelids felt heavy again, but his mind couldn't rest. The faint ringing still hummed inside his skull.
Everything was unfamiliar, yet achingly precise. Each sound, smell, touch, and movement reminded him he was awake. He was alive.
And somewhere beneath it all, something in his chest throbbed with the memory of what he had lost.