Ethon woke up gasping, his chest rising and falling like it was trying to outrun his own body. Air burned on the way in, sharp and unfamiliar, carrying a sterile scent that made his stomach twist. It wasn't smoke. It wasn't soil or rain or wood. It was clean in a way that felt wrong.
His eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again as a dull ache pulsed behind them. Light pressed against his eyelids, soft but relentless, and when he finally forced himself to look, the world resolved into shapes he didn't recognize. Smooth white walls. A ceiling that hummed faintly. Thin lines of light embedded where there should have been lanterns or windows.
He tried to move.
His body didn't listen.
Panic flared immediately, hot and animal, but even that felt distant, as if it had to travel a long way to reach him. His fingers twitched at best. His legs might as well have belonged to someone else.
Sounds filtered in slowly. Footsteps, light and quick, passing beyond whatever room he was in. Voices too — layered, overlapping, too many to count — and beneath them all, a steady, mechanical beeping that rose and fell in rhythm with his heart.
Where am I?
The thought felt heavy, like it sank instead of floated.
A door slid open with a soft hiss, and a woman stepped inside. She wore blue clothes made of a material Ethon had never seen before, smooth and fitted, with symbols stitched near her chest. Her hair was pulled back tightly, her movements practiced and precise.
She froze when she noticed his eyes were open.
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other.
Then her face changed.
"Oh—" she breathed, then spun on her heel and rushed back out, calling for someone Ethon couldn't make out. Her footsteps echoed away, leaving him alone again with the humming lights and the beeping machine.
His thoughts drifted, slippery and slow. He tried to reach for memory, for anything solid, but his mind returned only fragments. A mountain. Wind screaming like it was alive. A hand gripping him with impossible strength. His grandfather's voice—
The door opened again.
This time, the woman returned with a man dressed in white and blue, older, with sharp eyes that immediately went to the machines beside Ethon's bed. He stepped closer, studying him like a puzzle that had just changed shape.
"Well," the man said quietly, disbelief threading his voice, "look at that."
He leaned closer, careful, as if Ethon might shatter. "Hello there," he said. "I'm Dr. Ivanco. Can you hear me?"
Ethon wanted to answer. He really did. But when he tried to speak, nothing came out. His throat felt dry, locked tight, and the effort sent a tremor through his chest.
Dr. Ivanco noticed immediately. "Easy," he said, lifting a hand. "Don't force it. Just blink if you understand me."
Ethon blinked.
The doctor exhaled slowly, then glanced at the monitor beside the bed. The numbers there were low. Too low.
"You're doing better than you have any right to," Ivanco continued, his tone careful now, measured. "I won't lie to you. This is… extraordinary. You were brought in barely alive. If emergency services had been even minutes later—" He stopped himself, then shook his head. "Let's not dwell on that."
The woman in blue hovered nearby, her eyes flicking between Ethon and the machines. "He's been unconscious for a long time," she added softly, almost like she was afraid to say it out loud.
Ivanco nodded. "Three years," he said, turning back to Ethon. "You've been in a coma for three years."
The words didn't land at first.
Three years meant nothing. It was just a sound.
But then images tried to force their way forward — his grandparents' cabin, the fields, the smell of supper cooking, Marla calling them inside — and something inside him recoiled violently.
His heartbeat spiked.
The beeping machine beside him grew faster, sharper, and Ivanco's expression tightened immediately. "Alright, alright," the doctor said, reaching for his wrist, checking his pulse. "Stay with me. You're safe. You're in a hospital."
A hospital.
The word felt foreign.
Ivanco continued speaking, slowly now, deliberately. "You were found after a house fire. Severe storm damage caused a lightning strike in your neighborhood. Your grandparents…" He hesitated, choosing his words with surgical care. "They didn't make it."
The world tilted.
The ceiling blurred.
Lightning.
The sky tearing itself open.
Arman's voice shouting for him to run.
Ethon's body began to shake, small at first, then harder, like something deep inside him was trying to break free. The monitor screamed.
"Get the sedative," Ivanco snapped, all calm gone.
The woman rushed forward, already preparing a syringe. Ivanco pressed it gently into Ethon's arm, his voice low and steady. "It's alright. You're not there anymore. You're here. Breathe."
The drug spread warmth through Ethon's veins, dragging him under before he could fight it.
Darkness closed in.
—
He dreamed of water.
Not the ocean exactly, but the idea of it — endless, moving, breathing. He stood on an island that didn't fully exist, its edges dissolving into static, the ground beneath his feet flickering like a broken image.
Ahead of him stood a door.
Silver. Tall. Wrong.
It glitched in and out of place, like reality itself didn't agree with its presence. Ethon felt drawn to it, compelled, and began walking forward despite the unease crawling up his spine.
Then a voice spoke.
Gentle. Feminine. Calm in a way that felt ancient.
"Not yet."
Ethon stopped, turning instinctively, but there was no one there.
"Wake," the voice whispered.
His eyes opened.
—
The room was the same, but quieter now. Dimmer. The woman in blue sat beside his bed, watching him closely, relief softening her features when she saw him awake again.
"Hey," she said gently. "You're alright. Take it slow."
This time, when Ethon tried to speak, his voice came out rough and weak, but real. "Where… am I?"
"In the city," she replied, checking his pulse. "You're safe. You've been stable for a week now."
She explained everything the way people explain things they've said a hundred times before — the storm, the fire, the firefighters who found him, the reports, the records. To her, it was simple. Tragic, yes, but ordinary.
To Ethon, it felt wrong.
"There was… more," he said quietly. "The lightning… it wasn't normal."
She smiled, sad and patient. "Your mind's been through a lot. Trauma does strange things."
"There was a man," Ethon insisted. "He moved—he wasn't human."
She hesitated, then stood and opened a drawer. From it, she pulled out a necklace and placed it gently in his hand.
"This was all they found on you," she said. "Your grandmother's, I think."
The metal was warm.
Too warm.
The nurse squeezed his shoulder. "Rest. We'll start rehabilitation soon."
She left him alone with the humming machines and a world that claimed nothing extraordinary had happened.
Ethon stared at the ceiling, clutching the necklace, a single thought repeating in his mind.
If nothing happened… then why do I remember everything?
Somewhere far away — or maybe very close — something watched.
And waited.