The hospital lobby greeted Matteo with that familiar sterile hush—a mix of faint antiseptic, rustling paperwork, and the muted hum of distant machines behind half-closed doors.
It was a silence that pressed down on his chest, not comforting but suffocating, as though even the air demanded he hold his breath.
He didn't pause at the reception desk. He didn't need to.
Everyone here knew him.
The security guard gave him a respectful nod.
The nurse behind the counter smiled faintly, the kind of smile meant to soften the weight of worry, but no words passed between them.
They had long since learned that Matteo preferred silence to sympathy.
His footsteps echoed softly against the polished tiles, each one deliberate, heavy with the kind of dread that had carved itself into his bones.
The hallway stretched before him in calming pastel hues, walls painted to soothe anxious families.
But to Matteo, it was only a tunnel, a narrow passage carved from repetition.
He had walked it too many times, and each time it felt longer, colder.
He passed the maternity wing. Behind frosted glass, a newborn's cry pierced the air—life, fragile and demanding.
He passed the oncology ward. A man sat slouched in a wheelchair, staring out at the gray wash of sky beyond the window, eyes hollow with waiting.
Matteo did not linger. He never did. His gaze remained forward, his expression unreadable.
Second floor. Left wing. Room 208.
His body moved out of habit, the steps etched into him as if he were a ghost retracing the same path night after night.
A nurse stepped out of a room ahead, clipboard in hand. For a second she hesitated as though she might speak, but when their eyes met, she simply lowered her head and stepped aside.
Matteo gave a polite nod, nothing more.
At the corner, his hand brushed against the wall, grounding himself—an anchor to hold steady against the tide inside his chest.
Then he was there.
Room 208.
He stopped, standing before the door like it was a threshold to another world. His chest rose slowly, then fell, each breath heavier than the last.
His fingers tightened around the handle.
And then he opened it.
Stepping into the quiet world where Felix still slept.
The machines hummed steadily, their beeps like faint reminders that life still clung stubbornly within the fragile body lying on the bed.
Tubes ran like veins of plastic, carrying silent streams of medication, keeping Felix tethered between two worlds.
Matteo lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, his movements careful, reverent.
He hadn't spoken in hours. Maybe days.
His coat lay folded neatly on the chair. His shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves rolled unevenly from nights too long and mornings too early. His face was pale, shadowed with exhaustion.
One of his hands gently cradled Felix's limp fingers, holding them as though they might vanish if he let go.
His other hand covered his mouth, pressing against his lips as though sealing in a silent prayer.
His thumb brushed across Felix's knuckles, again and again—small, repetitive movements, the only rhythm that kept him from shattering.
A deep breath. Then another.
But his chest trembled, shoulders betraying the strength he tried to hold onto.
And then—without warning—a tear slipped free.
It traced a slow, fragile path down his cheek and fell onto Felix's hand.
Just one.
But that single drop spoke more than all the words Matteo had locked away over the past six months.
Inside Felix's mind…
The sky was endless. White. Silent.
Felix sat curled into himself, arms around his knees, chin pressed against bone. His eyes were dull, unfocused, lost in a stretch of time that no longer held meaning.
Days? Weeks? Years? He didn't know.
He had screamed until his throat broke. He had begged until his voice cracked. And always, the faceless man returned with the same whisper: Not yet.
The memory made Felix's shoulders twitch.
A quiet groan slipped from him, too exhausted for tears.
But then—something shifted.
A ripple.
Through the suffocating stillness, something warm stirred.
Felix's head snapped up.
There. A tremor—like someone tugged at the invisible thread binding his chest.
He blinked rapidly, confusion fighting through the numbness.
And then he saw it.
Matteo.
Through the haze of white, he saw him—kneeling, shoulders trembling, head bowed over clasped hands. Matteo's lips moved silently, words Felix couldn't hear but could feel.
Felix's breath caught.
Matteo never cried.
Not when they fought. Not when he lost. Not when grief tore at him. Even at his mother's funeral, Matteo had stood like stone, unyielding, unbreakable.
But now—
He was crying.
Felix rose slowly, bare feet pressing into the endless white. His voice trembled as it left him.
"Matteo…?"
His chest heaved as he turned in circles, shouting into the blankness. "Where are you?! Let me go back—please! Don't you see? He needs me! He's crying—"
His voice broke.
"—please… I have to go back!"
The silence was unbearable.
Then, from the whiteness, a figure emerged—like smoke curling into form.
The faceless man.
Felix dropped to his knees, palms pressed against the ground.
"Please," he begged, voice hoarse. "I'll do anything. I'll start over, I'll suffer—I don't care. Just let me go back to him."
The shadow loomed, still and cold.
"You shouldn't return," the voice said. Low. Final.
Felix lifted his head, desperation burning in his eyes. "Why?"
"He doesn't want you anymore. He has moved on. You belong here now."
Felix's chest squeezed painfully. But he shook his head, tears streaking his face. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" the voice asked, cruel and calm.
Felix's fists clenched. He shut his eyes and saw Matteo's face, saw that single tear falling, heard the whisper he could not catch but felt in his bones.
"I don't care if he hates me. I don't care if I'm forgotten," Felix whispered, steady now. "I want to go back. I need to."
A long silence.
Then—
"…Fine."
Felix's head snapped up.
"One chance. Only one. You will not get another."
Before he could respond, golden light cracked the endless white, spilling warmth and life into the void.
Felix staggered to his feet, breath stolen.
The light pulled him forward.
Behind him, the voice whispered, "But only on one condition—"
Felix didn't wait to hear it.
He was already running.
Toward the pain. Toward the love. Toward Matteo.
A flicker.
A twitch of fingers.
Matteo's head jerked up, his entire body going still.
Then Felix's eyelashes fluttered. Once. Twice. Slowly, his eyes opened.
Matteo froze, unable to breathe, unable to believe. His lips trembled, voice breaking as he whispered—
"Felix…?"
Felix blinked, dazed, his gaze drifting until it landed on the man beside him.
He stared.
And then, with a frown of quiet confusion, he asked,
"Who… are you?"
The words struck Matteo like ice. His body didn't flinch, but his eyes—just for a second—flickered, like a candle fighting the wind.
His lips pressed into a trembling smile.
"I'm… Matteo."
Felix studied him. There was no recognition. Just polite confusion.
"You don't remember me," Matteo said softly.
"…No," Felix admitted, almost apologetic. "I don't."
Matteo's grip tightened around his hand, grounding himself in the only thing that still felt real.
And then, with a breath that shook, he lowered his forehead to the bed's edge and whispered—
"That's okay. We'll start over."
Felix stared at him uncertainly, but Matteo's gaze never faltered. His thumb stroked across Felix's skin, gentle, steady.
"You don't have to rush anything," Matteo said, his voice firm now, quiet but certain. "Just stay. I'll wait—no matter how long it takes."
The machines beeped steadily behind them, a rhythm like a heartbeat.
Felix didn't speak.
But slowly—hesitantly—his fingers curled faintly against Matteo's hand.
And for Matteo, that small spark of contact was everything.
For now, it was enough.