The hours passed without him noticing.
Sunlight shifted across the floor, inch by inch. The pain in his chest dulled, not gone, just quieter, like a wound that had accepted it would not heal quickly.
Hunger arrived before memory.
His stomach tightened, sharp and unfamiliar. He pressed his hand against it and let out a small breath. Even this feeling felt strange, as if he was learning what it meant to be human all over again.
The door opened again.
This time, without the long creak.
Mai entered carrying a small wooden tray. A bowl of thin porridge rested on it, steam curling upward. She placed it beside him and sat on the low stool near the bed.
"Eat," she said. "Slowly."
He did.
Each spoonful warmed him from the inside. The taste was simple, almost empty, yet comforting. While he ate, Mai watched quietly, her eyes never leaving his face.
"You don't need to stare," he said softly, unsure why he felt the need to speak.
She smiled faintly. "Old habits."
He lowered the bowl. "How long was I asleep?"
"Two days," she replied.
His hand paused.
"Two days," he repeated.
"Yes. You did not wake, but you cried."
He looked up. "Cried?"
"In your sleep," she said. "Not loudly. Like someone apologizing."
The words settled between them.
"I'm sorry," he said without thinking.
Mai did not ask why.
"You may stay here," she said after a moment. "At least until your body recovers."
"And after that?" he asked.
She looked away. Through the window, the forest stood still.
"After that," she said slowly, "we will see."
Silence returned.
The boy finished eating and set the bowl aside. He leaned back against the wall, his gaze drifting.
"What if I never remember?" he asked.
Mai stood and took the tray. "Then you will live without memory," she said. "Many people do."
"But they had something before," he said.
She paused at the door.
"Yes," she admitted. "They did."
When she left, the room felt larger.
He stared at the ceiling again. The same beams. The same cracks. Yet something felt different.
He closed his eyes.
This time, the darkness did not rush at him.
Instead, he felt a presence. Not close. Not far. Just… there.
For him it was a nightmare.
His fingers curled slowly.
"I don't know who I am," he whispered. "But I'm still here."
The presence did not answer. There were no one that gave answers to him.
But the pain in his chest pulsed once, then settled.
Outside, the wind passed through the forest, brushing against leaves, carrying whispers that did not belong to any language.
Below, Mai continued her work.
She measured herbs. Weighed roots. Spoke to customers.
Yet her hands trembled.
Because for the first time in many years, she was afraid.
Afraid that this boy would stay.
And afraid that one day, he would leave.
That night, sleep came slowly.
The boy lay still, listening to the sounds beneath him. The shop closed as the sun sank. Footsteps faded. Jars stopped clinking. Silence returned, thicker than before.
He turned to his side.
The pain in his chest returned when he moved, reminding him that he was still here, still bound to a body that felt unfamiliar. He stared into the darkness, eyes open, waiting for sleep to claim him.
It did not.
Instead, memories tried to surface.
Not clear images. Just impressions.
Cold ground beneath his back.
A sky without stars.
Something vast collapsing inward.
He clenched his jaw and pushed the thoughts away.
"Not now," he whispered.
As if listening, the thoughts retreated.
Outside, the forest stirred. Leaves rustled though there was no wind.
The boy did not hear it.
But his heart did.
It beat once, heavier than before.
He pressed his palm against his chest again and waited until the rhythm steadied.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
★★★
Morning arrived quickly.
Light slipped through the window, pale and thin. The boy opened his eyes and lay still, surprised to find that he was still breathing. Still present.
He sat up.
The pain was gone.
Downstairs, Mai was already awake. He could hear her moving, the familiar pattern of her steps. That sound, simple and steady, anchored him.
He stood slowly.
His legs trembled, but they held. He took a few careful steps, testing the floor beneath his feet. Each movement was slow.
At the top of the stairs, he paused.
The shop below was small but warm.
Bundles of herbs hung from wooden beams. The air was thick with earthy scents. Mai stood behind the counter, counting dried leaves, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She noticed him immediately.
"You should not be standing," she said.
"I wanted to see," he replied.
She sighed, then waved him closer. "Sit, then. Do not wander."
He sat on a low stool near the counter.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Customers came and went. Coins exchanged hands. Life passed in small, ordinary motions.
The boy watched.
It felt strange, witnessing something so normal. As if he had been away from such scenes for a long time.
"Mai," he said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"You said I cried while sleeping."
She nodded.
"What did I say?"
She hesitated.
"Nothing clear," she replied. "Just a name. Repeated many times."
His breath caught. "A name?"
"Yes. Not yours, I think. Someone else's."
"Do you remember it?"
She shook her head. "It faded quickly."
He looked down at his hands.
Someone else's name.
Someone he had lost.
The thought made his chest ache again.
"You will need a name," Mai said gently. "Even if it is not your real one."
He thought for a long moment.
"I don't want to choose," he said. "What if it's wrong?"
Mai considered him, then spoke softly. "Then let me choose. Just for now."
He nodded.
She looked at him, truly looked, as if seeing beyond his face.
"Lin," she said. "It means forest echo."
"Lin," he repeated.
The word settled easily.
It did not hurt.
For the first time since waking, he felt something close to relief.
"Alright," he said. "Then I am Lin."
Mai smiled, small and fragile, but real.
Outside, the forest shifted again.
And somewhere far beyond sight, something unseen took note.
A name had been spoken.
And something forgotten had been called back, just a little.