The next morning my mother insisted I try leaving bed, even if only for a few minutes. I couldn't walk yet. My legs trembled just from shifting positions. So Arin brought the wheelchair from the hallway—its frame polished, its cushion soft, as if someone had been preparing for this moment long before I woke.
"Are you ready?" she asked, hands already gripping the handles.
I nodded quietly.
She pushed gently, and the room I'd been hiding inside grew smaller behind me as the hallway opened forward. My new room, the one on the second floor near hers and Rin's, was warm and bright—too new to feel like home yet, but safe enough that stepping out didn't terrify me.
The hallway was wider than expected, full of soft lights set into the walls. Family portraits hung in frames, but I wasn't in any of them—their faces smiling around an empty space that belonged to a child who'd vanished ten years ago. My chest tightened seeing it, but Arin slowed the chair and said quietly, "We never replaced that space."
We reached the stairs. My father was already there, waiting. He lifted me easily—careful, practiced hands supporting my back—and carried me down as if I weighed nothing.
"You'll walk again soon," he murmured. "But not today."
His voice was a calm anchor in a storm I didn't know I was in.
The first floor opened into the main living area, warm with sunlight and full of small sounds—pots clinking in the kitchen, a window rattling slightly from the breeze, and Rin humming out of tune as he adjusted the strap on his gaming visor.
"This is where we spend mornings," Arin said, pushing the chair beside the sofa. "Dad reads there. Mom cooks. Rin throws tantrums."
"I do not!" Rin shouted immediately from the couch.
"You cried yesterday because your game crashed," Arin replied.
"That was a grown-up cry!" Rin yelled back.
Their argument made my lips twitch. Just a little.
My mother came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. "You're out of your room," she said softly, as if speaking too loudly might scare me back inside. She reached out and brushed my cheek with the back of her hand. "You look better in the sunlight."
My father took a seat across from me, silent but watching. His single red eye rested on me with a mixture of concern and something deeper—something like he was memorizing the shape of me, making up for ten years lost.
After breakfast—eaten right there in the living room with my blanket tucked around my legs—Arin leaned closer and whispered, "Come on. I want to show you something."
She pushed me down another hallway, one I hadn't seen yet. At the end of it was a door that looked older than the others—lighter wood, small carved patterns near the edges.
Arin stopped. Her fingers tightened on the handles.
"This was your room," she said softly. "Your first one. Before… everything."
My breathing stilled.
She opened the door.
The inside was small. Warm. Deeply familiar in a way I couldn't explain. A toddler's room. Not a big child's. Not a student's. A tiny bed with cloud-patterned sheets. A wooden toy chest painted with animals. A soft blanket folded on a rocking chair. Little shoes lined neatly near a mat.
Everything was preserved—not like a shrine, but like parents who couldn't accept their child might never return.
"We never changed anything," Arin whispered. "Mom cleaned it every week. Dad fixed the paint whenever it chipped. They said… they said if you ever came back, they wanted you to see it."
I stared at the little bed. It was too small for me now. Too fragile. But something inside me trembled. A life I didn't remember had existed here. I had slept here. Played here. Laughed here. Existed here.
My throat tightened painfully.
Arin stepped in front of me, kneeling until our eyes were level. Her green eyes softened. "I remember you," she said. "Not what you looked like now. But how you were then. You always crawled into my bed even though Mom said to stay in your own. You pulled my hair. You cried when I cried. You followed me everywhere."
She laughed weakly. The sound cracked. "I hated being alone after you were taken. I kept thinking if I looked behind me fast enough, you'd be there. I used to talk to that rocking chair like you were still sitting in it."
I looked at the chair. I didn't remember ever touching it. But suddenly I wished I did.
"I missed you," she whispered. "More than anything."
My chest felt too tight. My hands shook slightly on my blanket. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't. I just listened. I let her words fill the room.
She took my hand, gently, like asking permission. "You don't need to remember," she said. "Just… stay now. That's enough."
When we left the old room, my father was waiting in the hallway. He didn't speak as Arin pushed me past him. Instead, he placed a hand briefly on my shoulder—heavy, warm, grounding.
"Your affinity," he said suddenly. "You asked yesterday."
I blinked up at him.
He nodded. "Rin awakened wind and fire. Arin awakened ice. Your mother is ice. I am air. You… awakened something too. But we won't check your core until you're stronger. Awakening too early is dangerous." His jaw tightened with memory. "You've already survived enough."
He looked toward the kitchen, where Rin was practicing tiny bursts of wind that made his hair fly upward in wild tufts. "Cores awaken differently for each person. Some roar bright. Some flicker quiet. But the world feels it either way."
I followed his gaze. "And mine?" I asked softly.
"We don't know yet," he said. "But your core stirred the moment I touched you the day I found you. It responded. Strongly." His eye narrowed thoughtfully. "We'll explore it when the time's right."
Arin leaned over the wheelchair handle. "Don't worry. Dad will explain everything. Just not today."
Rin ran over with sparks crackling between his fingers—tiny, weak, but real. "Look! Look! I can do it now! It doesn't even burn me anymore!"
Arin rolled her eyes but smiled. "It burned you yesterday."
"It was a SMALL burn!"
My father sighed. "Rin. Away from the curtains."
My mother peeked out of the kitchen. "Rin! Don't set your sister on fire again!"
"It was an ACCIDENT!"
Their chaos swirled around me like warm air.
We moved toward the stairs again, and Arin pushed my wheelchair back up to the second floor. She parked me between her room and Rin's—my new room, freshly decorated for someone older, someone returned.
She stepped in front of me again, expression softening. "You're home," she said.
I didn't know how to respond. So I just whispered the truth.
"I… want to stay."
Her smile broke something open in my chest.
She squeezed my hand. "Then stay. We'll help you learn everything again."
And for the first time, I believed her.