Breakfast was served on the first floor of the hotel.
It wasn't a proper restaurant. There was no sign, no counter, no clearly defined space meant for dining. Just a row of tables set close to the street-facing windows, close enough that you could see people passing by if you lifted your head.
Morning light slanted in through the glass at an angle, pale and uneven. Dust floated lazily in the air where the light cut through, visible only for a moment before disappearing again. The faint smell of the street drifted inside—concrete, metal, something slightly stale.
Outside, someone pushed a small cart along the sidewalk. The wheels scraped against the ground, producing a sound that came and went, uneven and dull. It wasn't loud. It wasn't important.
And yet it lingered.
I lowered my head and ate my bread.
I couldn't remember the taste clearly. Only that it was dry. Dry enough that it caught slightly in my throat when I swallowed, forcing me to drink water more often than usual.
Seven sat across from me.
As always, his suit was perfectly arranged. The fabric lay flat along his shoulders, the sleeves smooth at the cuffs. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single careless fold. He ate slowly, methodically, with almost no wasted movement. Every action felt measured, as if he were following a routine that had been practiced countless times.
It didn't look like enjoyment.
It looked like completion.
Then, without any change in posture, without lifting his head, he spoke.
"We need to go to the hospital today."
My hand stopped.
The piece of bread hovered just short of my mouth.
Seven didn't look up. He simply raised his cup and finished the water inside, his tone as calm and neutral as if he were making an observation about the weather.
"To see your grandpa."
For a brief moment, my thoughts went completely blank.
It felt as if something heavy had struck the inside of my head, knocking everything else aside. The room didn't change, the sounds didn't stop—but I felt disconnected from all of it.
Seven set the cup down and continued, his voice steady, without any emotional inflection.
"He's been waiting for news from you for a long time."
I didn't respond.
I couldn't.
Something seemed to lodge itself in my throat, making it difficult to breathe properly. My breaths grew shallow without me realizing it, as if my body were trying to avoid taking in too much air at once.
Seven didn't pause.
"The last time I ran into him on the street," he said, "he had left the hospital on his own."
I looked up sharply.
Only then did Seven glance at me. It was brief—so brief it almost didn't count as eye contact.
"He kept calling your name."
He paused, as if searching his memory for something insignificant.
"He stopped strangers. Asked every passerby he could find."
His voice remained even.
"He asked if they had seen 'Jimmy.'"
My fingertips began to lose warmth.
A dull cold crept in, starting at my hands and spreading slowly upward.
Seven continued, unhurried.
"At first, people would stop when they saw me."
His gaze dropped to the table.
"Then they started avoiding me."
There was no complaint in his tone. No judgment. Just a statement of fact.
"Only your grandpa."
He paused.
"He didn't avoid me."
"He ran straight at me."
In that instant, an image formed in my mind without my consent.
An old, worn coat.
A bent back.
Unsteady footsteps pounding against the pavement.
Running.
Calling out a name, voice hoarse and strained, yet stubbornly refusing to stop.
Seven spoke as if he were describing a scene that had already faded.
"If I had dodged at that moment—"
He stopped.
Just for a second.
"He probably would have fallen badly."
Something clenched around my heart.
Tight.
Sharp.
My eyes burned suddenly, without warning.
I lowered my head at once, afraid that even a single glance would give me away. My vision blurred, the edges of the table smearing together. Tears gathered uncontrollably, swelling against my eyelids.
I bit down hard and forced them back.
Before this, the hospital had already contacted me several times. They had been careful with their words, but the meaning was always the same.
If something happened to my grandpa outside the hospital, they wouldn't be legally responsible.
But it would still be trouble.
Still a stain on their reputation.
Seven's words felt like a nail being driven in.
I couldn't eat anymore.
The hospital corridor was long.
Longer than it needed to be.
The lighting was uniformly white, sterile and flat, with no warmth at all. It reflected off the polished floor in a cold sheen, making everything feel distant and unreal.
The smell of disinfectant filled the air, sharp and heavy, strong enough that I found myself holding my breath without realizing it.
I walked ahead.
But my steps slowed with each meter.
The closer we got to the ward, the more erratic my heartbeat became. It thudded unevenly in my chest, loud enough that I almost thought Seven could hear it.
Images surfaced one after another.
My grandpa lying in bed.
His face turned away.
His silence.
Was he angry?
Did he think I had abandoned him?
The ward door came into view.
It was half open.
I stopped.
My feet felt as if they had been nailed to the floor.
My hand lifted slightly, fingers curling—then fell back to my side.
And then, suddenly, I understood something.
If I stepped through that door now, I would never again be able to pretend that I had only been "away for a while."
I stood there.
Time stretched.
A nurse walked over from the other end of the corridor. She glanced at me briefly, then looked away without saying a word.
Seven stood behind me.
He didn't rush me.
He didn't speak.
He simply waited.
That silence pressed down on me heavier than any words could have.
I took a deep breath.
Still, I couldn't move.
Then, a hand rested lightly against my back.
It wasn't forceful.
It wasn't even a push.
Just a gentle contact.
But it stripped away my last excuse.
My body tilted forward.
The door opened.
"Jimmy?"
The sound of that voice broke me instantly.
Grandpa sat on the hospital bed.
He was thinner than I remembered. Much thinner. His face was pale, his shoulders slightly hunched.
But his eyes—
His eyes were impossibly bright.
"Where did you go?"
He reached out toward me. There was no accusation in his voice. No anger. Only urgency.
"I thought you got lost."
That was all it took.
In my grandpa's eyes, I was still the child who might wander off and never find his way back.
I rushed forward, dropped to my knees beside the bed, and wrapped my arms tightly around his legs.
"Grandpa—"
The word came out wrong.
My voice cracked completely, collapsing under its own weight. Tears poured out in a rush, unstoppable, blinding.
Grandpa froze for a moment.
Then he slowly, awkwardly patted my back.
"Why are you crying?"
"It's fine. You're back."
"That's all that matters."
His hands were thin.
But there was still strength in them.
I buried my face against his legs. My shoulders shook violently as everything I had been holding in finally spilled out.
Fear.
Guilt.
Running away.
All of it dissolved into tears.
I didn't look up.
But I knew Seven was standing in the corner of the room.
I didn't need to see him to know.
He stood straight, unmoving, his back like a rigid line.
His face showed no emotion.
Like someone who didn't belong here.
When it was time to leave, Grandpa hesitated.
He reached for a fruit basket beside the bed and pushed it into my arms, insisting.
"Take it."
"Eat it on the way."
The basket was heavy.
The fruit was fresh.
Probably from some old acquaintance.
Grandpa's hand lingered on the edge of the basket, then gave it a small pat.
"Come see me earlier next time."
I nodded.
I didn't dare speak.
Afraid that if I did, I would cry again.
Seven waited at the door.
No urging.
No turning back.
By the time we returned to the hotel, the sky had darkened.
The room was quiet.
Seven set the fruit basket on the table and picked up an apple.
He sat down and began peeling it.
His movements were steady.
The knife traced a smooth path. The peel fell in a single, continuous spiral, unbroken.
I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him.
The words I had been holding in all day finally surfaced.
"I'm not afraid of living a hard life."
My voice was hoarse.
Seven didn't respond.
He kept peeling.
"I really am not afraid."
My fingers tightened around the fabric of my clothes.
"What I'm afraid of… is Grandpa being hurt."
"Afraid he'll find out I'm doing odd jobs. Running errands."
"Afraid he'll be lying alone in a hospital bed. Waiting."
Seven finished peeling the apple.
He set the peel aside.
He said nothing.
But he was listening.
I knew that.
After speaking, it felt as though all my strength drained out at once.
My body relaxed. Drowsiness washed over me.
I lay down.
Sleep came quickly.
Before my consciousness faded completely, I registered the silence of the room.
I didn't know how much time passed.
Half-asleep, I sensed movement.
I opened my eyes slightly.
Seven was already dressed in his suit.
His movements were quiet.
Deliberately casilently
He walked toward the door.
Just as it was about to close, I reached out.
I caught the corner of his jacket.
The grip was weak.
But firm.
Seven stopped.
The room fell completely silent.