I press my hands into my lap. Bandages wrap tight around my skin, pressing against bruises I don’t remember getting. Wires snake from my body, locking me in place. My head hangs low. My thoughts are clearer now—but I wish they weren’t.

  Because the moment I try to think about what happened, the pain hits. A migraine so sharp it nearly blinds me.

  And then there’s her.

  The one person I never wanted to see me like this.

  My mother.

  She sits beside me, silent. Long black hair, just like mine. The same sun-kissed skin. Even the mole near her cheek—unmistakable. But none of that matters. Not right now.

  Because she’s here. And that means she saw.

  I can’t bring myself to look at her. I stare at her legs instead, feeling like a shamed puppy, ears pinned back, waiting for the scolding. But she hasn’t said a word. And somehow, that’s worse.

  And by blood, I mean the one rushing through me.

  I don’t say anything either.

  No sighs. No weeping. Nothing.

  The silence between us is thick—the kind that crushes you under its weight. The kind that doesn’t need words to spell out disappointment. She doesn’t need to say it. I already know.

  Not that she ever really did.

  I could count on one hand how many times she’s scolded me as a kid. Even less as a teenager. She’s never really had it in her.

  So I know. I know how much this has destroyed her.

  And still—she says nothing.

  I…I think I know why. But no. There’s no thinking about it. I know.

  It’s not just about me. It’s about the person she loved most—before everything happened.

  Then, three knocks on the door.

  I straighten up as much as I can. Lift my head. My eyes land on a man in a lab coat—no, a doctor’s coat. His brown hair streaked with gray, glasses perched low, a stubby beard.

  He waves politely. I return the gesture, though it’s weak. I don’t know if my mother does.

  "It’s not every day I’m in the same room as young prodigy Lucien. So I’ll cherish this."

  Flattery. He even chuckles at himself.

  I let out a small laugh—not out of amusement, but because I barely have the strength to do more.

  He closes the door behind him. I glance at my mother. For the first time, I actually look at her face.

  She looks…frightened. Worry eats at her expression.

  "My daughter would want an autograph. And a photo too. But before I can fulfill her request, there’s something I need to discuss with you first."

  His gaze flickers to my mother. She nods softly.

  The worry in the air thickens. I can feel it. If emotions had weight, hers would be crushing.

  I gulp. It hurts my throat.

  The doctor pulls out a chair, sits across from me. The silence between us is cold. Distant.

  Then, his voice cuts through it like a blade.

  "Tell me, Lucien. What’s the last thing you remember out there?"

  It’s sudden. Too sudden. I barely get time to process the question.

  I figured he’d build up to it first. Ask me something simple. But no—straight to the point.

  Should I lie?

  No point. I don’t know what they did to me. And he’s a doctor. There’s nothing he doesn’t know.

  "I… I was fading in and out." My voice isn’t steady. "My body felt… rubbish. I wanted to keep going, but I couldn’t—" I exhale.

  "—I couldn’t even get the words out."

  The doctor nods. Jots something down. His eyes scan me one last time before flicking back to his clipboard.

  I glance at my mother. Nothing.

  She hasn’t moved. She still won’t look at me.

  "And before the qualifiers? How were you feeling?"

  I hesitate.

  I already know the answer. And yet, for some reason…I consider lying.

  "I… I think I had some form of flu. But I thought it passed."

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  More writing. More note-taking.

  I don’t realize how much time has passed until I hear the click of his pen.

  He sighs. Looks at me.

  "Lucien, would you like the good news first, or the bad news?"

  Ah.

  One of those.

  Usually, my heart would drop. But his tone…it doesn’t sound like the end of the world.

  I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay.

  Everything will be okay.

  I’ll move on. I’ll fence again.

  I open my mouth.

  "Good news."

  The doctor’s smile returns, subtle but reassuring. He lifts his clipboard, tapping it lightly as he speaks.

  “Regarding whatever the media is saying about you—don’t worry. You’ll fence again.”

  For a second, it’s like my heart jump-starts back to life.

  I nearly launch myself off the hospital bed. “A-Are you serious?! L-Like… actually?”

  He nods. “I’m serious. With proper rehab, you’ll be back. If everything goes the way it should, you’ll even be on track for the Olympics.”

  I can’t believe it. It’s like I want to rip these wires out of me, throw this hospital gown off, and get back to training immediately.

  But then—

  “Only if you do your part.”

  That pulls me back down.

  If I do my part? Rehab, recovery, therapy—easy.

  But then my smile fades. I glance at my mother, and—

  Her face hasn’t changed.

  Still worried. Still tense. Still not looking at me.

  Something’s off.

  If the good news is this good… then the bad news has to be just as bad. Equal exchange.

  “The bad news?” I ask.

  The doctor glances at my mother. I follow his gaze, but—there’s no answer there.

  Just silence.

  I brace myself.

  He exhales deeply.

  “Look, kid. I don’t usually do this. I don’t even know how to break it down to you but…”

  A pause.

  A hesitation.

  Then—

  “Had things gone any differently… you could’ve died.”

  What?

  The doctor adjusts his glasses.

  “Look.” He exhales, voice heavy. “I’ve had multiple—and I mean multiple—discussions with my peers on this. And quite frankly, we all came to the same conclusion.”

  He pauses. Like he doesn’t even know how to say it.

  “It’s a miracle you survived.”

  A miracle…?

  “It doesn’t match what’s on paper. We’ve done tests, recorded statistics, compared your vitals against other trends.” He shakes his head.

  “Everything pointed to one outcome.”

  Death.

  “And yet, here you are. Still breathing. It’s a miracle.”

  I press my fingers together. Just to feel something.

  The sensation. The proof that I’m still here.

  I was this close. A fraction away from dying.

  It could have been worse. So much worse.

  It’s not just that I almost died.

  It’s that my mother would’ve had to live with it.

  It’s that the world would’ve never forgiven me for it.

  And yet—here I am.

  Did I defy the odds?

  Or did I just get lucky?

  If…

  If I died…

  Would I be any different than—

  Don’t think about him.

  Don’t think about him.

  Don’t think about him.

  I exhale sharply.

  That’s… something. The bad news could have been worse, I guess.

  But if it was this bad—

  Then what does that mean for my future?

  For the Olympics?

  The doctor’s words replay in my head: “If you do your part, you’ll be on track.”

  But can I?

  Can I even recover fast enough? Can I even get back to where I was?

  I think I’m still too disconnected from reality. Either I’m deluded—or the weight of the situation hasn’t hit me yet.

  Probably both.

  “We’re still reviewing everything,” the doctor continues. “We’ll keep monitoring your condition. We’re also speculating a few… mental factors that could have led to this, but it’s all preliminary.”

  Mental issues? They think I was depressed?

  Like I could’ve pushed myself this hard, trained this much, climbed this far if I was mentally weak?

  I don’t say anything.

  Neither does the doctor.

  Instead, he turns to my mother. They talk for a bit. I stop listening.

  Then he leaves.

  And just like that, my head falls back against the pillow.

  I exhale again. Long. Deep. Empty.

  My mother still hasn’t said a word.

  Not to me. Not once.

  This entire time.

  I want to tell her I’m sorry.

  I want to beg for forgiveness.

  But I can’t.

  I’m too scared. Too ashamed.

  If I open my mouth, I’ll make it worse.

  But I already made it worse.

  And now, she has to sit here, knowing she could’ve lost her son today.

  Her only child.

  I can feel my hand shaking. Fear settling into my bones.

  Even the thought of it—just thinking about it—scares me.

  I…I don’t know what anyone else thinks. Or if they even care.

  But I just—

  Nevermind.

  I’ve failed. There’s no reason to believe I haven’t.

  There’s nothing to be proud of.

  My hand keeps trembling. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. The unpredictability of it all—

  Something this big. Something so unprecedented that I can’t analyze, calculate, or comprehend my way out of.

  And then—

  Warmth.

  A second hand. Resting over mine.

  I freeze. Slowly, I look over.

  My mother.

  Her hand—outstretched. Holding mine.

  She’s still looking away. Still worried. That expression hasn’t changed.

  But then—her eyes lock with mine.

  And in them, I see it.

  That maternal presence.

  Undeniable. Unshakable.

  ”…Your hand always started shaking when you got scared.”

  Her voice is soft. So soft.

  My eyes widen.

  She spoke.

  She actually spoke.

  What…what is she doing?

  Now is the perfect time to scold me. To yell. To be angry.

  I need her to be mad at me. Not this. Not comfort.

  ”…Ever since you were a baby. It was always your thing.”

  No.

  Mom, stop. Please.

  Enough of this. Enough.

  I need to be scolded. I need to be put in my place.

  Not this.

  Not this gentleness.

  “When you grew up, it was hard to see it. My little boy—always so adventurous. So bold. But still so fragile. Scared. Yet…still moving forward.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Watching you. Through all of this…I’ve felt so many things I never thought I could.”

  Her fingers curl gently around my hand. Holding tighter.

  “But through it all… I never saw your hand shake again. Not once.”

  “The little boy I knew—had grown up.”

  “Had learned not to fear everything.”

  I…I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless.

  My vision blurs, and something runs down my cheek. I don’t know what it is. Am I…

  She softly laughs, and wipes my cheek.

  “I saw your hand shake, in that match. I know how much it meant to you.”

  No, Mom. You don’t understand. I could live perfectly fine without fencing. If I made it to the Olympics or not doesn’t change a thing. I…I just can’t imagine how—

  “You’ve done more than enough…” She says. And I know that tone. That familiar tone. She’s about to say it, isn’t she?

  “My little Lucy.”

  Ah.

  There it is.

  The nickname of my younger self.

  Feels like it stabbed my heart.

  She continues to hold my hand. And softly smile at me. I want to say a whole lot, like how I love her. That I’m thankful for her. Through everything.

  But my strength is being sapped away. I can barely blink. I can barely keep my eyelids open.

  My vision dulls and fades. Am I going back to sleep? I just woke up. She still has more to say I know it. I still have more I need to say.

  I don’t need—

  Hm.

  How many times am I going to say that, huh?

  First it was I don’t need a break. Then it became I don’t need to listen to my body.

  Maybe, just this once. I’ll listen. Do the world a favor. If I do my part, then everything else will follow.

  A faint smile tugs at my lips. I think I hold her hand tighter.

  My eyes close, and I rest.

  It’s dark. Real dark.

  And then, I hear something.

  Something out of the blue.

  The sound of a bird chirping.

  My eyes shoot open.

  And there I am.

  On a grassy floor.

  Looking at the blue sky on a clear day.