The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic, a clean sterility that Ramses had grown used to in the days since he'd awakened. At first, every sensation had felt like an assault—voices too sharp, lights too bright, time itself moving too fast after months of stillness. But now, as he sat upright in his bed, strength slowly returning, Ramses felt something else stirring inside him: a determination that hadn't been there before.
For so long, the frozen world had been his prison. Then, it became his teacher. And now, it felt like a dream that left him with a gift no one else could see but him.
His mother sat by his bedside, knitting quietly. She had aged in ways he hadn't noticed before, lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes. His father stepped into the room moments later, holding a paper bag of food. Their presence anchored him. For the first time in years, Ramses didn't feel like a burden to them. Instead, he felt a fierce urge to prove that their patience, their love, hadn't been wasted.
"Anak," his father said softly, setting the bag down. "You're looking stronger today."
Ramses smiled, not the forced smile of the old days but something genuine. "I feel stronger."
It wasn't a lie. Though his muscles still trembled from disuse, he remembered the countless hours of push-ups, running, and training he had endured in the frozen world. His body might not reflect all of it now, but his mind did. The discipline, the endurance, the sheer willpower—it was all still there.
That evening, when his parents left to get some rest, Ramses picked up a notebook and pen one of the nurses had left for him. The pages were blank, waiting. His hand shook as he began to write, but the words came like water breaking through a dam.
He wrote about his time in the still world. About the silence, the despair, the moments when loneliness almost broke him. He wrote about the nights when he thought he'd go mad, the mornings when he forced himself to stand tall, and the gradual, painful process of becoming someone he didn't recognize at first—a better version of himself.
Every line felt like bridging two worlds: the dream and reality, the past and the future.
The next morning, Ramses asked the nurse for help walking to the rehabilitation area. His legs, weak from months of inactivity, resisted him at first. Each step was a reminder of what he'd lost physically—but also of what he'd gained internally. The therapists encouraged him, guiding his unsteady movements. And though the struggle was real, Ramses felt no bitterness. In the frozen world, he had trained without anyone's applause, without anyone even noticing. Now, every bead of sweat, every ache in his body, felt like proof that he was alive and moving forward.
By the end of the session, he collapsed back into the wheelchair, drenched in sweat but smiling. "Tomorrow," he whispered to himself. "Tomorrow I'll go further."
Over the following weeks, Ramses' life began to take shape again. His siblings visited, wide-eyed at seeing him awake. His mother often cried, though they were tears of relief now. He re-learned how to walk confidently, each milestone a quiet victory.
But the biggest challenge wasn't physical—it was internal.
There were moments when fear gripped him. What if the frozen world had been an illusion, just a fantasy his mind invented to cope? What if, outside of his coma, he fell back into old habits—self-pity, laziness, fear of failure?
Yet, each time the doubt crept in, Ramses countered it with action. He remembered meditating on his fears back in the frozen world, staring them down until they lost their power. That practice hadn't left him. So when those thoughts threatened to overwhelm him, he sat still, breathing deep, reminding himself: I am not the same man I was before.
One night, sitting with his younger brother, Ramses shared something he'd never admitted before. "I used to think I was worthless," he said quietly. "That I'd never amount to anything. But… I learned something when everything else was taken from me. The only thing that makes us worthless is if we stop trying."
His brother listened, eyes shining, and Ramses realized that this was another gift he could bring into the real world: his story. Maybe no one else had lived through what he had, but everyone knew loneliness, fear, and failure. His journey could help them too.
Slowly, Ramses began planning. He wanted to return to college. He wanted to help his family financially. He wanted to live—not just survive. And though the road ahead looked daunting, it no longer paralyzed him.
The frozen world had taught him discipline. Now, reality would test it.
Weeks later, when he was finally discharged from the hospital, Ramses stepped outside and felt the warmth of the sun on his skin. The sound of people talking, the movement of cars, the endless rhythm of time—it all felt overwhelming, but in the best way possible.
He stood there, breathing it in, tears stinging his eyes. This was his new beginning. Not in a world frozen still, but in a world that moved, fast and chaotic, filled with both beauty and pain.
And this time, Ramses was ready to face it all.