Days blurred into weeks. Shren drifted in and out of a fever dream, fueled only by the life-sustaining magic of the bracelet. When he finally opened his eyes for good, the house was silent and bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon sun.
He felt... different. The constant ache in his lower back was gone. The heaviness in his chest that made every breath a struggle had vanished. He felt light, like a bird ready to take flight.
He stood up. His old pajamas were shredded, the fabric unable to withstand the sudden shift in his frame. He walked toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the room—the same mirror that had haunted his nightmares.
He stopped. He blinked. He reached out a hand to touch the glass, his fingers trembling.
The boy in the mirror wasn't a "waste of space." The puffy, inflamed face was gone, replaced by a sharp, defined jawline and clear, piercing eyes. His slumped, heavy shoulders were now broad and squared, and his skin had a healthy, faint glow to it. He wasn't just healthy; he looked like a masterpiece carved from marble.
Shren stared at the stranger in the glass, his breath catching in his throat, utterly surprised seeing himself.