I got discharged two days later.
The doctor, Ken, insisted I stay longer, but I told him I was fine. He didn't argue much, just signed the papers and said something about follow-ups I knew I wouldn't attend.
The air outside the hospital felt heavier than I remembered.
Maybe because I wasn't used to breathing properly anymore.
By the time I reached my apartment, the sky was already turning that faded gray again, the kind that looked tired of existing. I dropped my bag on the couch, took off my shoes, and sat there for a while, staring at the floor like it had something to say.
The silence was too clean.
Too aware.
Sometimes, I swear it watched me.
—
A knock came a few hours later.
Three taps, even, polite.
I didn't move right away.
My head ached, my body weak.
But the knocking didn't stop.
When I finally opened the door, Ken stood there, holding a brown paper bag.
He looked different without his white coat, just a plain black shirt, jeans, and that same quietness in his eyes.
"I figured you wouldn't cook," he said.
I blinked. "You figured right."
He handed me the bag. "Soup. It's nothing fancy."
I took it, hesitating. "You didn't have to."
"I know."
He smiled, not the kind people use when they're trying to charm you, but the kind that doesn't expect anything in return.
Then, as if reading my hesitation, he added, "You can throw it away if you want. I won't check."
I almost did.
But instead, I placed it on the counter and leaned against the wall. "You're persistent."
He chuckled softly. "I'm a doctor. It's in the job description."
I looked at him, really looked.
The faint tiredness under his eyes, the small scar near his jaw.
Something about him felt familiar.
Not in a way I could explain, but in a way that unsettled me.
Like I'd seen him somewhere before.
Maybe not here.
Maybe not in this life.
"You live here long?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence.
"Moved in three weeks ago," he said. "Didn't expect to find anyone interesting next door."
I gave a short, humorless laugh. "You're using the word 'interesting' wrong."
"Maybe," he said. "But you've got a presence. The kind that stays."
That made me freeze for a second.
I didn't know why, maybe because it sounded too close to something I'd heard before.
A different voice, a different time.
Drake used to say that too.
You stay, Ysabelle. Even when you leave.
The memory slipped in without permission, like smoke under a door.
Ken's voice cut through it. "You okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Just tired."
He didn't push. "I'll go, then. Get some rest."
"Sure."
He stepped back, but before he turned away, he said, "For what it's worth… I'm glad I found you when I did."
I stared at him, trying to read his tone, whether it was concern or coincidence.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Me too."
When the door clicked shut, I stood there, still holding the edge of the counter.
The soup had gone cold.
And for a second, I could swear I heard another voice, faint, overlapping with the silence.
You're safe now, Ysabelle.
I turned around. No one was there.
Just the hum of the refrigerator, the soft wind brushing against the curtains.
But my heart… it skipped like it recognized something it wasn't supposed to.
Something that shouldn't exist here.