Watching Michael leave, Ryven's lips begin to curl into a small smile as his sister enters the room.
'Why is she still crying though?' He wondered as she approached his bed.
She sits on to the chair nezt to Ryven's bed, stuffing her face into the blanket, her sobs and tears continuing to flow.
'I appreciate how much she cares for me, but is there really ever a need to be crying so hard?'
Ryven scratches the back of her head. "I'm not dead, why are you crying so much?"
Sylven sniffles.
"Mom… she's still unconscious." She mutters. "It's already been three days."
"Three days!?" Ryven repeats, his head spinning and spinning.
His throat hitches as he sinks back into the bed. 'Dad is probably hearing about my condition right now. About the thing his son has turned into.' His chest heaves with guilt as he looks back upon Sylven.
'What do I even fucking say?' He wondered. 'I can't believe I'm thinking of myself in this situation.'
He forced a breath, slow and shaky, trying to clear the fog creeping into his head.
"Stop crying. She'll wake up, just like me." He told her, wondering whether or not she got pulled into the lunar plane.
Ryven watches as Sylven lays her head back onto his hospital bed. "But what if she doesn't?"
Ryven sighs.
"Stop thinking like that." He responds as the door slams open.
It's was none other than his father.
He walks over to us, putting a hand on Sylven's back. "Go sit next to your mother. Me and your brother need to talk." Sylven looks up into her father's tired and sad eyes with confusion, yet meeting his stern gaze, she decides not to argue.
Watching Sylven exit, his father takes her seat, merely watching. The pair stare at each other for a moment, creating an awkward silence. "I assume you talked with Michael?"
His father nodded. "I have. I'm still… trying to process it all." His gaze softened. "Looking at you, though, I don't see much of a difference."
The silence that followed felt heavy. Ryven hesitated before asking, "Are you… mad? Or maybe sad?"
His father's expression flickered with surprise, then exhaustion. "You know I've never been a fan of Dreamers," he said slowly. "But how could I be angry at someone who chose to survive in a situation where something wanted you dead? Let alone my own son. You couldn't have controlled any of this."
He leaned back, sighing. "We'll take it one step at a time. Figure out what your new powers mean before we do anything rash."
Ryven hesitated. "Do you think I should tell anyone?"
"Absolutely not," his father said, firm and immediate. "People already fear Dreamers. Some hate them. Who knows what the public would do, or what it would mean for my job."
Ryven nodded silently and turned toward the window. The sunlight felt distant, almost cold.
"For now, Michael has instructed me to make sure you do not fall asleep, and wait for the "tutor" he has requested for."
Ryven sighs.
"Help me up, will you?" He asks. "I've apparently been laying in bed for three whole days.
His father chuckles as he watches Ryven slide to the edge of the bed, grabbing him from the arm pits and helping him to his feet.
'Aghh' he groans. "I'm so soar." He mutters, grabbing onto his father.
"Just hold on, let's see if we can get to the cafeteria."
…
Hours pass. Ryven sits alone in his room, no blanket, no pillow, nothing. His father took them, saying that he couldn't risk him falling asleep.
Rain hits his window as the world outside begins to gray with clouds. The sun has begun to dip.
The rain is so soothing, Ryven wants to sleep, yet the alarm that sounds every few minutes keeps him awake.
His father and sister were with his mother. No doubt sobbing and praying that she'd turn out okay. Being left alone, forced to stay awake, all Ryven could do was think.
Ever since that first thought he had, that his mother may have also been taken into the plane, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Most individuals who die in the plane do not wake up, yet it's impossible to tell whether or not they have actually died yet. There's been a few cases of individuals climbing out of their own graves, and no doubt some have probably suffocated in them after awakening. For now, all we can do is be hopeful.
Ryven's head turns toward the door as footsteps arouse from the hall.
Opening the door, a woman steps inside, dressed just like a man. Similar to Michael, she wears a fitted black suit with a white undershirt and a narrow tie, the top button undone just enough to show she didn't care for formality.
Her hair, a deep ash brown with faint streaks of auburn that caught the dull light, was slicked back neatly, framing a face that looked both beautiful and dangerous. Her eyes were an unsettling shade of storm gray, and there was a faint scar tracing the right side of her jaw, disappearing beneath her collar.
She wasn't tall, nor did anything she to make me feel threatened, yet her stride and confidence made Ryven feel a little intimidated.
Closing the door, Ryven could smell the faint scent of rain and mint as she approached.
Her gaze swept across the room, over Ryven's pale face, the creaking bed, and even the rain tapping the window.
"You must be Ryven," she said, her voice calm and low, tinged with a subtle rasp. "I'm your assigned tutor."
She stepped closer, extending a gloved hand. "Atria Vale. You can call me Vale if you prefer.