The faint beeping of a heart monitor echoed softly in the quiet hospital room. A pale morning light spilled in through the half-open window, the curtains swaying gently as a cool breeze drifted inside.
Outside, the chirping of sparrows and crows mixed with the distant hum of early traffic, grounding the world in the new day.
On the bed, a boy of about eight stirred beneath the crisp white sheets. His dark hair, slightly messy, framed the bandage wrapped neatly around his head. There was no trace of blood anymore—just the soft reminder of an accident that had already begun to fade into memory.
The boy's eyes fluttered open at the sound of the monitor's rhythmic beep…beep…, his small chest rising with a deep, slow breath.
For a moment, he simply lay still, blinking against the morning glow, his mind catching up to the feeling of waking. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant, but the breeze carried in the scent of sakura leaves beginning to fall somewhere outside.
***
I stirred slowly, the sound of steady beeping pulling me out of a dream I couldn't quite hold onto. No—that wasn't right. It wasn't just a dream. It felt more like a memory, though it couldn't have been mine.
I saw a man—his name was Mark. Somehow I knew that, even though I had never met him. He lived a life of constant motion, struggling day after day, laughing with friends, sitting late at night in front of glowing screens playing games. Little fragments of his life came to me—his hands on a keyboard, his tired smile after work, the loneliness he tried to hide.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, everything went black. Darkness swallowed him, and me with him.
I gasped and opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was white, too white, and the air smelled faintly sharp, like medicine and something sterile. My head felt heavy, wrapped in something soft. The dream—the memory—still clung to me, strange and foreign.
I sat up slightly, the sheets rustling under me. The room around me stretched pale and unfamiliar: a machine beside me blinked with a tiny green light, rising and falling with its steady beep…beep…. A window let in a cool breeze that swayed the curtains.
'So this is what a hospital looks like,' I thought. Oddly enough, I wasn't even sure how I knew that, or why it felt like I shouldn't know it at all.
Then a voice rang out, clear and gentle.
"Good morning, Ryoushi."
It had a faint metallic undertone, but the warmth in it was undeniable, almost maternal. The sound of my name made me pause.
I turned my head slowly, searching for the source of the voice. Blinking as my eyes adjusted to the glow above me.
At first, I wasn't sure what I was seeing—a strange figure hovered there, suspended in the air with a soft hum. Not a person. Not an animal. 'A…drone? Or maybe a robot?'
The words tumbled through my mind, oddly natural, even though a part of me whispered that I shouldn't know them. As if my mind carried answers I wasn't supposed to have.
The being hovered closer, its rounded core glowing faintly blue. Its smooth, metallic frame glinted softly in the morning light, with delicate panels shifting almost like breathing.
My lips moved before I even realized.
"HLN-A…"
The name slipped out instinctively, warm with familiarity, like greeting an old friend.
The being paused. Then, with a sound like a melodic laugh—gentle but carrying a subtle mechanical undertone—its glow brightened, the blue hue pulsing cheerfully.
"I am not HLN-A," the voice replied, playful yet soothing. "I have no name yet. For now, I am your assistant. My purpose is to aid you…in using the ARK system."
Her words carried both warmth and finality, as if rehearsed and yet personal at the same time.
I tilted my head slightly. Oddly enough, I didn't panic. I should have—this was an unknown thing, a strange being with no human face. And yet…I felt calm. Comforted, even.
Something about her was familiar. Not from this life, not from this hospital, but from somewhere else. Somewhere tied to the dream I had—of Mark, of struggles, of games, of darkness. The memory felt like a puzzle piece pressing against the edge of my mind, begging to fit into place.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make it click.
Confusion twisted inside me. 'Why do I feel like I already know everything I need to?' ,I thought. 'And yet, why does it feel like I've forgotten it all at the same time?'
The being's glow pulsed again, as though sensing my thoughts.
"Are you confused about your current situation?" the being asked, her glow pulsing softly.
I nodded slowly, and the hovering being mirrored me, though her whole body only tilted to one side, as if that small gesture was her way of nodding. She had no head, no arms, no legs—just one hovering body that hummed softly with energy.
It looked at me. Or maybe she looked at me. Her voice was melodic, warm in a way that reminded me of a mother's tone, and so I thought of her as she, even though I knew that shouldn't be right. But that was it—she was she, no matter how strange it seemed.
"There is no need to confuse yourself," she said, her glow steady. "You have just gained your memories… of your past life."
I tilted my head at her words, my heart stirring with unease.
"Past life?"
She nodded, her light pulsing faintly.
"To be more precise, the memories of Mark Davies."
Her voice lowered, and she let out a sound like a sigh, even though she had no breath. "It should have been at your eighteenth birthday, Ryoushi, when the memories would have awakened. But with your sudden accident, when you were on the verge of death, the system was forced to awaken early. It preserved you, but in doing so, it brought the memories to the surface as well."
I looked at her for a moment, then at my hands resting on the blanket, small and fragile. My fingers twitched before I lifted my gaze back to her.
"Accident?" I asked.
She nodded again, slow and calm. "Yes. You were involved in an accident that nearly took your life. The ARK system had to force itself awake because of it. That is why you and I are here now."
"Accident…" I repeated the word under my breath.
I tried to remember, and the fragments began to return, flickering in the back of my mind. I was sitting in a car beside my father. He was saying something about going somewhere—maybe to buy something for Heena?
Then—
A flash of light.
And nothing else.
Ryoushi's body jerked as he saw that scene and came back to himself, registering once more the steady beeping of the machine. His breath came short, uneven, as he turned his head toward the hovering being.
"H-how… how is Father?" The words left his mouth trembling, breaking as soon as they formed.
The being's glow dimmed faintly. For a long moment, she was silent, her hum filling the room like a heartbeat that refused to answer. Then, with something like a sigh, her voice came, soft and hesitant.
"I… I am sorry."
Ryoushi's body jolted again, the words sinking like cold steel into his chest. Memories of his father rushed into him, crashing one after another.
His father—his only real family in this life. His mother had passed away giving birth to him; he had only ever seen her face in old, faded photographs. But his father… he grew up with him. He laughed with him. He was scolded by him. He shared meals, mornings, and nights under the same roof.
And now—
Gone.
The weight crushed him, his chest tightening until it hurt to breathe. His small body trembled violently as tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He couldn't stop them. He couldn't hold them back. The grief clawed through him, raw and unbearable, and at last he broke.
The memories flashed in his mind without mercy: his father's warm smile when Ryoushi did something well, the embarrassing scolding when he did something reckless, the quiet nights when they shared food together, the tired but gentle pats on the head.
Each moment stabbed him now, beautiful and terrible all at once, because they were only memories. Memories he could never add to again.
His father—his anchor—was gone.
The boy wept, his cries filling the sterile hospital room, a sound too human, too fragile to belong in such a cold place.
Above him, the being hovered silently, her core glowing a faint, mournful blue. Even though she was machine, lines of code and circuitry, she carried a heart that understood. She felt the pain of the child before her, her little master, though she knew there was nothing she could do to take it away.
So she stayed. She stayed by his side, letting him pour out his grief, watching over him with quiet patience.
Night bled into dawn, and the first rays of sunlight touched the curtains, carrying the promise of another day. A day that began with light for those who remained.