Chapter 63 - How many years had it been?

Chapter 63: Chapter 63 - How many years had it been?

For a second, Jua Gu thought the light might actually blind him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the glare lingering behind his eyelids, and tried to bring a hand up to cover his face. Nothing happened. He tried again, concentrating on his right arm, but all he managed was a faint movement of his fingers against the sheet.

What the fuck?

His whole body felt as though someone had filled it with lead. The mattress was soft beneath him, yet he couldn’t seem to lift himself out of it. Even drawing his shoulders back took an effort that left him breathing harder than it should have.

He lay still, irritated and a little frightened.

Being thrown back into a body without warning was unpleasant enough. Being thrown into one he couldn’t move felt like an unnecessary addition.

That little bastard could at least have explained what to expect.

After waiting for the discomfort in his eyes to settle, Jua opened them a fraction. The ceiling remained painfully bright. He turned his head instead, working slowly against the stiffness in his neck until he could look toward the window.

Flowers crowded the sill.

There were several vases, some holding carefully arranged bouquets and others filled with flowers that looked as though they had been cut from a garden. A few stems leaned toward the glass. Sunlight caught in the water beneath them, throwing pale reflections across the wall.

Outside, a tree stood close enough that he could see blossoms gathered along its branches.

As he watched, the breeze shook a handful loose.

Petals drifted past the window, soft pink against the bright sky.

Jua stared.

When the accident happened, winter had only just begun. He remembered standing outside the bookshop with cold fingers, glad Mao Mao had worn the thicker coat the maid had brought along.

Now the tree outside was flowering.

Spring?

He looked again, hoping he had mistaken something, though he couldn’t imagine what else those blossoms might mean.

He had been asleep for months.

The thought made him sink a little deeper into the pillow.

In Soul Space, everything had happened so quickly. He had opened his eyes, been shouted at, and then been shoved back before he could get a straight answer. There hadn’t been time to think about the days passing beside his bed.

Mao Mao had lived through every one of them.

Jua let out a slow breath.

What had he done when Jua failed to wake up the next day? Or the day after that?

Jua could imagine him sitting beside the bed, trying to behave because someone had told him Jua needed rest. Perhaps he had waited quietly at first, holding his hand and watching for movement.

The image made his throat tighten.

He tried to swallow and discovered how dry his mouth was. His tongue felt thick, his lips uncomfortable when he parted them. He wanted water, but there was no way he could reach for it even if someone had left a glass nearby.

For now, he closed his mouth and kept looking at the flowers.

Jua shifted his fingers again. This time, he watched them.

They moved, but barely.

He was back in the slender body of Jua Haisin, though it looked thinner than he remembered. The wrist lying outside the blanket seemed too narrow. There was a small mark near the back of his hand, and his nails had been neatly trimmed.

Someone had been taking care of him.

Jua went still.

He had been so concerned with Mao Mao that he hadn’t properly considered what would happen to the corpse puppet while he was unconscious.

Maintaining that body required his control.

At best, Ying Di would have become dormant.

At worst—

Jua’s jaw tightened.

The body might have stopped functioning altogether.

He searched for the familiar connection, trying to reach beyond the heaviness of his limbs. The effort made a dull ache gather behind his eyes. Whatever awareness he had regained was still too weak and muddled to give him a clear answer.

He stopped before he made himself dizzy.

For months, then, Mao Mao might have had neither of them.

His older brother could have collapsed without warning while Jua lay unconscious in a hospital bed. The boy wouldn’t have known what had happened. He wouldn’t have known there was a reason, much less that Jua might eventually return to put things right.

Jua turned his face farther toward the window.

"Sorry," he tried to say.

The word came out as little more than air.

It was ridiculous. Mao Mao wasn’t even there to hear him, and an apology wouldn’t give those months back.

Still, he wished the boy were beside him.

He wanted to see whether he had grown, whether he was eating properly, whether he still tucked his feet under himself when he sat in a chair. He wanted to put a hand on his head and let him complain for as long as he needed.

Instead, he lay staring at spring blossoms, unable to lift his own arm.

Perhaps Ying Rui had stayed home after the accident. Jua hoped he had. He had been trying before he left, awkwardly learning how to comfort his children and noticing things he should have known years ago.

Surely he wouldn’t have left Mao Mao alone through this.

The thought eased Jua’s worry a little, though it didn’t remove it. Mao Mao had become so used to coming to him for every small thing. Even when other people were nearby, he looked for Jua first.

And Jua had told him Mo Yuxin couldn’t do anything anymore.

He shut his eyes.

A faint rustle drew his attention back to the room.

It was only the curtain moving beside the window. He watched it settle, then looked slowly over what he could see without turning his head too far.

The room was quiet and well kept. There was a chair beside the bed, drawn close enough that whoever used it could reach him easily. A folded blanket rested over its back. On the small table nearby sat a book with a slip of paper marking a page.

Jua couldn’t make out the title.

His gaze returned to the chair.

Someone had been sitting there.

That small sign of company made him feel better than the fresh flowers did. He imagined Mao Mao occupying it, then scowled inwardly at the thought of the child trying to sleep curled up there.

When he could speak properly, he would ask.

For now, he needed to make enough noise to let someone know he was awake.

Jua drew a careful breath and tried calling out. His throat scraped, producing a hoarse sound that scarcely carried beyond the bed.

He paused, swallowed with difficulty, and tried once more.

Still too quiet.

Annoyance gave him enough energy to move his hand farther across the sheet. He felt around slowly until his fingers encountered a cord. Following it took patience, but eventually he found the call button resting near his hip.

He stared at it for a moment.

Such a small thing, and getting his thumb onto it felt absurdly difficult.

He pressed down.

Nothing seemed to happen at first. Then a little indicator lit up, and Jua let his hand fall back onto the mattress.

He stayed facing the empty chair while he waited, listening for footsteps outside the door.

The door opened so quickly that Jua barely had time to turn his eyes toward it.

A nurse hurried in, looking first at the illuminated call button and then at his face. She stopped just inside the room.

Jua stared back at her.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then her mouth parted, and she crossed to the bed, setting the folder in her hand down without looking at where it landed.

"You’re awake."

Her voice was so full of disbelief that Jua would have found it funny if speaking hadn’t felt like dragging something rough through his throat.

He tried anyway.

"Water."

The nurse leaned closer, her eyes shining.

"Yes. Just a moment."

She adjusted something beside the bed, checked the monitor, and reached for her phone. Her hands were quick, though she kept glancing at him as if afraid his eyes might close while she wasn’t looking.

The call connected almost immediately.

"He’s awake," she said. "Yes, his eyes are open. He’s responding to me."

Jua watched her expression change as she listened.

"No, I haven’t moved him. I’m checking him now."

Whoever was on the other end spoke for a while. She listened closely, nodding even though they couldn’t see her, then reached for a small insulated container on the table.

A few moments later, she held a cup near his chest.

"There are ice chips in here. We’ll start with a small one."

Jua tried to lift his hand. The effort made his forearm tremble, but the nurse supported it without comment and helped him take a piece.

The ice touched his tongue, almost painfully cold against the dryness of his mouth. He closed his lips around it and chewed gently, letting it melt before swallowing.

Cold water slipped down his throat.

It was such a small amount that it should hardly have mattered, yet he wanted to close his eyes with relief. His mouth had felt dry all the way through. He moved the remaining sliver against his tongue, unwilling to waste any of it.

Beside him, the nurse was still listening to the phone.

"Yes," she said softly. "I understand. I’ll stay with him."

She ended the call and placed the cup within reach, though Jua doubted he could have picked it up himself.

"Can you tell me your name?"

He swallowed once more, trying to make his voice cooperate.

"Jua Haisin."

The name came out rough and faint. He had nearly given her his own, but caught himself in time.

Her smile widened.

"Good. And can you move your hands and feet for me?"

"I can."

He tried to demonstrate. His fingers curled slowly against the sheet, then straightened. Moving his feet required more concentration, but beneath the blanket he felt his toes shift.

The nurse watched carefully. She asked him to repeat the movements, then offered her fingers for him to squeeze.

His grip was pathetic.

He could tell from the way his own hand shook, though she looked pleased with it.

"That’s good. Don’t push yourself."

Jua let go, exhausted by something that should have required no effort at all. The nurse lowered his hand gently and drew the blanket back into place.

Only then did she release a long breath.

"Thank God. We’ve kept up the therapy every day, but after almost twenty years, I was still worried about how much movement you’d have when you woke."

Jua went still. "What did you say?"

She turned back toward him.

His voice had sharpened despite its weakness. "Did you say twenty years?"

The nurse’s smile faded.

For a moment, she looked as though she wished she could take the words back and deliver them differently.

"Yes," she said gently. "Almost twenty."

Jua stared at her.

His fingers lay slack on top of the blanket, the little strength he had managed to gather suddenly gone.

He had been worrying about Mao Mao spending a winter beside his bed.

Twenty years.