Ramses stared at his reflection in the hospital mirror.
The man who looked back at him was pale, weak, and thin, his muscles softened by months of stillness. Dark circles underlined his eyes. His hair was messy, uneven, and his frame hunched forward from weakness.
Yet inside, he still felt like the man who had conquered silence, who had risen through loneliness, who had wrestled with his demons in the stillness of a frozen city.
Two versions of himself stared at one another across the glass. One broken, one rebuilt.
"Which one am I?" Ramses whispered.
Physical therapy began the next week. His therapist was patient but firm, guiding him through the simplest tasks—lifting his legs, standing with support, shuffling a few steps with the aid of parallel bars.
Every movement burned. His legs trembled like reeds in the wind, his arms shook with the effort of holding his own weight. Sweat poured down his back from the effort of doing what had once been natural—walking.
"Good," the therapist encouraged. "A little more. Just one step at a time."
But Ramses's mind rebelled. In there, I could run for miles. I could do push-ups until my arms gave out. I was strong. I was free. Why am I so weak now?
The disconnect gnawed at him. In the frozen world, his progress had been steady, visible, powerful. Here, each step felt like a humiliation, a reminder that he had to start over.
And worse, no one here understood.
At night, Ramses tried to explain it to his mother.
"I don't think you understand," he said softly. "It wasn't just a dream. I lived there. For months—maybe years. I fought for myself. I changed." His hands trembled as he clutched the sheets. "And now, it feels like I woke up and… none of it counts."
His mother stroked his arm gently, eyes filled with sympathy. "Of course it counts. Look at you—you're alive. You came back to us."
He shook his head. "That's not what I mean. I mean the lessons. The discipline. The strength. It's like I lost all of it the moment I opened my eyes."
Her silence was long. Finally, she said, "Maybe the body forgets, Ramses. But the heart doesn't."
Her words struck him, but he didn't know how to believe them.
The next day during therapy, frustration boiled over. Ramses collapsed halfway down the bars, his legs buckling, his chest heaving. "Damn it!" he shouted, slamming his fists against the cold metal. The therapist tried to calm him, but Ramses's anger overflowed.
"In there, I wasn't like this! I wasn't broken! I was strong. I was someone!" His voice cracked, echoing through the sterile room.
The therapist only placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "Then bring that someone here."
The words silenced him. Simple, but piercing.
That night, Ramses lay awake thinking about it.
He remembered the rooftop, the journal, the meditations, the endless hours of silence where he had rebuilt himself piece by piece.
He realized something important: the frozen world hadn't given him muscles or power. It had given him habits, discipline, perspective.
The physical strength was gone, but the mental strength remained.
That was what he needed to bridge the two worlds.
The next morning, Ramses approached therapy differently.
Instead of measuring his progress by what he had lost, he focused on what he could build. One step. One repetition. One small victory.
He counted in his head like he had during the silence.
One breath. One step. One moment.
Slowly, something shifted.
He still shook. He still sweated. He still stumbled. But now, the frustration was tempered with patience—the same patience he had learned in the frozen world when days stretched endlessly.
For the first time, he felt a spark of connection between who he had been there and who he was now.
Later, his younger brother visited again. They walked slowly down the hallway together—Ramses leaning on a walker, his brother walking beside him.
"You're getting better," his brother said with a grin.
Ramses smirked faintly. "Feels like I'm learning to walk all over again."
"Then maybe it's your second childhood," his brother teased.
Ramses chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe. But this time, I know what kind of man I want to grow into."
That night, Ramses asked his mother for a notebook. She brought one the next day, and he began to write again.
Not just about the frozen world, but about the bridge between them.
How patience in silence could become patience in recovery.
How resilience forged in loneliness could become resilience in struggle.
How belief in himself could survive, even when his body failed.
Each word anchored him, tied the man of the illusion to the man in the hospital bed.
One evening, as the city lights flickered through the hospital window, Ramses sat upright, staring out at the world beyond.
The cars moved. The people walked. Time flowed.
And for the first time since waking, he didn't long for the frozen world.
He smiled faintly to himself. "I don't have to choose. I can carry both."
The illusion may have shattered, but its lessons were real.
And Ramses would build his future on the bridge between the two worlds.