Suddenly, flashes of images came into his mind, like broken pieces of a dream.
He saw a man walking, alone, but he couldn't make out his face. Then a girl with blonde hair appeared, her hair blowing in the wind, but her face was hidden from view.
Then, something darker appeared. A small boy was in a dark room, being tortured. His skin was being pulled painfully, and salt was being rubbed into his wounds. He screamed, but the images only lasted for a second, too quick to really see clearly, yet the pain felt real in the boy's mind.
The flashes stopped abruptly.
Suddenly, he woke up.
He was a boy with black hair. His face was wet, tears running down, but it wasn't a child's crying. The tears fell slowly, like a human being crying in deep pain, heavy and quiet.
He sat up and looked around the room, his eyes wide with shock. His hands trembled as he touched his face, feeling the wetness of his tears. Then he looked at his fingers, his legs, even his clothes. Everything seemed strange, as if he was seeing it for the first time.
He kept touching his face and hands, trying to understand what was real. His heart beat fast, but he could feel nothing familiar around him. The world felt strange, cold, and empty.
His eyes slowly moved to the door. Standing there was a girl with red hair, around sixteen years old. She was holding a tray carefully balanced in her hands. On it were glass cups, a small glass kettle, a spoon, and a sugar cube. Everything looked delicate, like it could break with the slightest touch.
When the girl noticed that he was awake, her eyes widened. She froze for a second, and then the tray slipped from her hands. The cups and kettle clinked and tumbled to the floor, breaking the quiet of the room.
Before he could say anything, the girl turned and ran, disappearing down the hallway. She didn't speak. She didn't explain. She just vanished, leaving him staring at the mess she had left behind.
The boy's heart beat faster. He tried to remember her face. It seemed familiar, like he had seen it somewhere before, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't place her. It was like looking at a half-forgotten dream.
After some time, the girl returned. This time, she wasn't alone. A man appeared behind her, around fifty years old, with the same red hair as hers. His presence filled the room, and the boy could feel something heavy in the air, a mix of relief and fear he couldn't name.
When the old man saw him, his eyes welled up with tears. His hands trembled as he stepped forward. Then, without a word, he pulled the boy into a tight hug. The girl joined immediately, wrapping her small arms around him as well.
The old man's voice broke through, choked and shaking.
"Finally… you woke up," he whispered over and over, as if saying it could somehow undo all the pain of the past. "Finally…"
The boy froze for a moment. Then, his own voice came, soft but certain.
"Dad…"
Yes. The old man was his father.
He turned slightly toward the girl, his eyes softening.
"And you… Zara," he said, recognition and relief coloring his words.
The girl's small face lifted to him, and for the first time that day, a faint sense of warmth broke through the heavy, tense air. She was his little sister.
For a moment, the room was quiet, except for their breathing and the unspoken weight of the things that had happened while he was unconscious. Though relief washed over him, a small, uneasy part of him could feel that this reunion was only the beginning, and that darker events were still waiting outside the fragile walls of that room.
Suddenly, the boy pushed himself off the bed.
His legs trembled violently. Each step felt heavy, unsteady. His knees shook so badly that he almost fell more than once.
Somehow, he managed to stumble forward, his movements awkward, uncoordinated.
He went straight to the mirror embedded in the dressing table. His hands gripped the edge as if it would hold him upright, his chest rising and falling in short, panicked breaths.
Then he looked at his reflection.
The boy froze.
It wasn't just fatigue or dirt from the day. His face… it was completely different. Nothing about it felt familiar. His features had changed in ways he couldn't understand—eyes sharper, skin paler, lines and shadows where they had never been before. Even his own expression seemed alien, as if he were staring at someone else entirely.
He stumbled back slightly, fingers brushing against the mirror as though trying to touch the truth of it. His heart raced. He could feel his own pulse thudding in his ears, the room spinning slightly around him.
For the first time, fear settled deep into his chest.
Something had happened to him—something irreversible. Something that made him no longer entirely himself.
And the reflection in the mirror… it seemed to be waiting.
His father came closer, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Don't panic," he said gently. "Just relax. I'll explain everything."
He guided him toward the bed. "Sit down… and drink some water," he added, handing him a glass. The boy's hands shook as he took it, the cool liquid grounding him slightly.
Once he had settled, his father spoke, his voice low but firm.
"When you were thirteen," he began, "you were taken. Arrested… for telling the truth to the public. About the plans they wanted to keep hidden. You told what you knew, and they couldn't let it go."
The boy's eyes widened, a mix of fear and confusion gripping him.
"They tortured you," his father continued, "trying to force the truth from you. But you didn't break. When they finally returned you, you were unconscious. And then… you went into a coma. Seven long years passed before you woke up."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Now… you're awake," he said quietly. "After seven years, you're finally awake."
The boy sat frozen, gripping the glass tightly. Seven years. The time he had lost. The things he had missed. And the person he had become…
It all felt like stepping into a world that had moved on without him, a world he no longer fully belonged to.
He looked around the room, taking everything in slowly. The pictures on the walls, the books on the table, the people—his father and little sister—and even the servants who had been there all along.
It hit him like a blow. Seven years… seven years of his life lost.
His eyes returned to his father. Once, he had been a strong man, full of laughter and life. Now… he was older, quieter, weighed down by years he had lived without purpose. He looked smaller somehow, fragile, like a man who had survived storms but no longer wanted to face them.
Then he glanced at his sister. She had once been a little girl, a child who had run,played with him around the big tree in the yard. Now, she was growing into her early adolescence. Taller, more independent, but still holding pieces of the girl he had known.
Even the servants had changed. Faces he remembered from seven years ago were older, movements slower, voices different. Time had left its mark on everything—and everyone—he had once known.
For the first time, he realized the full weight of the years he had missed. The life he had lost could never be reclaimed, and the world around him had moved on without him.
It was as if he had stepped into a mirror of the past—but everything reflected back was unfamiliar, broken, and just out of reach.