Drip… Drip...
Gasp!
Lucien jolted awake, finding himself in a vast place of yellowish-white light that filled his entire vision. He turned left, right, and then spun around, searching. The place seemed infinite—hollow, yet strangely warm. Confused, he looked down to see his own reflection. Once again, it was incomplete, distorted, even though he felt he was standing on solid ground. At that moment, he felt it was perhaps normal for a place like this.
Am I dreaming again? he asked in his mind. He lifted his head, feeling compelled to move. He walked... kept walking... endlessly, until time and distance lost all meaning.
How long have I been walking? He was bewildered, but his legs moved of their own accord, unable to stop.
Have I been walking for a day? A month? A year? A century? There was no answer. He looked at his legs and saw them appearing distorted and bizarre, as if walking backward, moving against the direction of his motion. Confusion mounted, but he kept walking.
In the distance, a dazzling light appeared ahead. Slowly, he approached it. The light seemed to form a small, white-golden crystal. Lucien drew closer until his body suddenly halted. The white crystal floated silently before his eyes. Without realizing it, his hand reached out, yearning to touch it. But as his hand was close to the crystal, the bizarre returned; his hand appeared distorted, inverted, contorted, and performed erratic, involuntary movements. Yet, he felt no pain. His hand continued its slow approach.
He was mere inches from the crystal when the strangeness abruptly ceased. He reached out and finally touched it. At that very instant, the sky began to bleed black waves, like a tide, completely swallowing the white horizon in pitch-black darkness. Amidst the void, the small crystal shone, instantly pulling Lucien inside, leaving the room to fade into total darkness once more.
…
..
Crack!
Florence, sitting in the living room that afternoon, heard the sound of glass breaking, seemingly from Lucien's room. She stood up, hurried upstairs, and opened his door. Her eyes immediately locked onto Lucien, who remained unconscious. A flicker of relief crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by deep sadness seeing her nephew still in this state after two days. She sighed, her gaze shifting to the simple hypodermoclysis apparatus she had fashioned to supply saline and sterile glucose solution directly beneath the skin of Lucien's arm to maintain his hydration; it was now in disarray.
The glass container, covered in gauze, had fallen from the stack of books she had piled to elevate it. The rubber tubing now dangled limply to the floor, swaying gently, while the glass cannula tip dripped with remnants of sterile water. The hollow metal needle remained firmly embedded beneath Lucien's skin. She approached, swiftly pinching the hemp cord binding the tubing to shut off the flow.
Florence turned to gather her cleaning tools. She quickly cleaned the mess, sweeping up the glass shards with a metal dustpan and wiping the wooden floor clean of the spilled sterile solution. After cleaning, she went back down to the basement to make a fresh batch solution again.
Florence drew distilled water from the basement carboy into a beaker, measuring exactly 200 mL, then transferred it to an Erlenmeyer flask at her basement table before lighting the Bunsen burner with a high flame. As the distilled water boiled, she carefully weighed 1.8 grams of pure salt and 10 grams of glucose using brass apothecary scales, stirring until completely dissolved. Meanwhile, she prepared a basin of cold water, cooling the flask gradually by immersing its base, stirring constantly to lower the temperature quickly.
After testing a drop on the back of her hand to ensure it matched body temperature, Florence poured the liquid into a new sterile glass container and covered it with gauze. She brought it upstairs, set it atop the books, reconnected the tubing, and loosened the hemp cord. She looked again at her unconscious nephew, gently stroking his grey white hair, a deep, weary sigh escaping her lips that echoed throughout the room.
Just as she prepared to leave the room in the grey afternoon of the capital, she saw Lucien's eyelids flutter. Slowly, his eyes opened, revealing pupils that stared blankly and unfocused at the ceiling. His fingers twitched faintly; his tired eyes blinked slowly, struggling to process the grey light of his room. Florence was speechless. She could only shed tears, holding her breath, waiting with a heart full of mixed emotions.
Lucien moved his lips faintly. He struggled to move his tongue to speak.
"L…" he rasped, as if trying to say something, but the sound was hoarse and unclear. Florence held her breath, leaning closer to catch his garbled murmur.
"Li…" Lucien's breathing quickened as his eyelids moved, forcing another syllable past his lips. Finally, with the last ounce of his strength, he successfully articulated it.
"Lily…" The weak whisper was faint in the air.
Right after that name was uttered, Lucien's eyelids closed again from exhaustion. However, he did not faint; his breathing was now more regular. Realizing her nephew had returned, Florence moved quickly but carefully. She tucked two pillows beneath Lucien's head and shoulders, propping him up to a more comfortable seated position. Florence took a piece of clean linen, dipped it in a bowl of warm water, and gently wiped Lucien's chapped lips. Tenderly, she fed him a teaspoon of warm water, then waited with bated breath, watching his Adam's apple move as he swallowed.
Time crawled by in the quiet room. Three hours passed before Lucien's eyelids fluttered again, slowly opening for the second time. This time, his pupils did not stare blankly at the ceiling. His gaze moved slowly, focusing his remaining blurriness to recognize the silhouette of his aunt, who had been faithfully waiting by the bedside. As Florence clasped his hand tightly, Lucien's fingers gave a subtle squeeze in return, though his lips were still too stiff to speak.
Three more hours passed in silence. Darkness had just enveloped the capital, accompanied by a procession of thick, overcast clouds. A faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, triggering a gust of night wind that brushed against the window glass, signaling the coming rain. The grey room was now lit by the warm yellow glow of an old oil lamp in the corner. Lucien was now able to turn his head, and he finally had enough strength to speak. In the silence of the night, which was growing colder, he slowly began to form his first complete sentence without stuttering.
"Au… Aunt Flo…" His voice sounded a little hoarse.
Hearing this, Florence held her breath. She smiled and stroked Lucien's forehead, looking straight into his eyes.
"Ho- how long have I been asleep... my body feels sore, and what is this on my arm?" He looked around, trying to move and inspect his palms, feeling strange about his own hands.
"Don't move too much, dear. You've been unconscious for two days. I put this on your arm so you would stay hydrated" Florence explained softly, gently holding Lucien's wrist. Hearing that answer, Lucien fell silent. He leaned back against the pillows and remained quiet for a moment.
Tick... Tick...
Outside, the dense, overcast sky began to release small droplets that tapped on the window glass one by one.
"What happened after I performed the advancement, Aunt Flo?" Lucien asked in his raspy voice. He then turned his head slowly toward Florence and stared at her.
Florence took a breath and gave Lucien a gentle smile before answering.
"Nothing happened, you were just unconscious for these two days, dear," she answered quietly, trying to make her voice sound casual so Lucien wouldn't feel anxious. She stroked Lucien's hair once more to calm him.
Lucien fell silent, his eyes back to staring at the ceiling adorned with the yellow light of the oil lamp. But, He felt sad.
"Aunt Flo, am I alright?" he asked. Right after that question, the raindrops outside turned into a downpour, soaking the house and the city, bringing a cold chill that slowly crept into the room. Florence was stunned for a moment hearing that question. The gentle smile she had been wearing slowly faded, replaced by a gaze filled with deep pity. She knew what her nephew was actually feeling, but she tried to suppress her emotions once again.
"You are safe now, Lucien. You are with me," Florence answered softly while holding Lucien's hand a little tighter, deliberately avoiding the question.
That night passed, accompanied by the sound of rain that slowly subsided towards dawn. The next morning, the bedroom window began to be penetrated by warm morning light—a warmth rarely seen in the capital. Florence, who had been awake almost all night, carefully removed the metal needle from Lucien's arm and cleaned the puncture mark with a clean linen cloth. Not long after, Lucien slowly opened his eyes again. This time, there was no more stiffness or confusion in his pupils. His eyes swept the room, seeing Florence tidying up the simple apparatus she had made. Lucien tried to move his arm and all his fingers, which now felt lighter. He propped himself up, shifting upward to rest his back against the stack of pillows to make his position more comfortable. Florence, who heard the movement, immediately turned around.
"Good morning, Lucien. How do you feel this morning?" Florence asked gently with a smile on her face.
"Good morning, Aunt Flo" Lucien replied with a faint smile.
"My body feels much better, not as sore as last night," he continued. His voice was no longer as hoarse as it had been last night, though the remaining fatigue could still be heard in his tone. He sighed long, stretching his stiff shoulder muscles, and then looked toward the window where the warm light penetrating through looked beautiful. Florence, seeing her nephew smile, let out a sigh of relief. She then followed his gaze toward the window to look at the warm morning sun.
"Yes. Welcome back. It's a brand new day."
On this warm, bright morning, a new day was about to begin, along with the shadows that followed.