Chapter Text
Earth / 35 years later
White.
Everything around me dissolved into an eternal white of brightness, like being suspended inside the inside of a snow globe I remembered from childhood. One of those delicate glass ornaments my foster mother once bought at a holiday market, with tiny flecks flying everywhere when you shake it. They looked almost alive, like microscopic dancers caught in a spotlight, performing just for me even though I knew that made no sense. But It was strangely beautiful, and all it could produce was that memory.
I watched the pale world inside as if it were a problem I’d been handed without instructions. I knew the word snow, but the idea behind her question felt like something I was supposed to know. I turned my attention back to my foster mother instead of the snow globe. She wasn’t looking at it like I was, there was gentleness in her expression, and I realized the question wasn’t really about snow at all.
I had no idea how much time had passed. My consciousness kept blinking in and out like a faulty light switch. Every time I surfaced, the world appeared in pieces that never stayed long enough to form a complete picture. But I caught glimpses of people moving around me. Military personnel. I could tell from their uniforms, though their faces remained frustratingly blurred. I heard voices exchanging urgent words. I wanted to understand what they were saying, wanted to ask questions, but the sounds reached me as little more than muffled echoes. It was as if I were submerged under the surface of a deep lake while everyone else stood on shore.
Then there was the sound.
A long, haunting cry, and I knew that sound. Or at least, I knew something very much like it. During field trips years ago, I had listened to recordings of whales communicating across oceans, their calls moving through the water for astonishing distances. Those songs had been an almost otherworldly quality, beautiful and unsettling at the same time. What I heard now reminded me of them so strongly that for a moment I could almost picture the blue sea.
The comparison made no sense whatsoever. Whales weren't exactly known for wandering around military facilities. But the last thing I heard before darkness swallowed me again was that distant song, following me into unconsciousness, which arrived in different excruciating stages, not all at once.
This one, I felt first the deep and painful pressure sitting behind my eyes, that came with a ridiculous amount of white light flooding my vision. My brain was still slogging through thick molasses, trying to climb out of whatever chemical swamp it had been abandoned in.
"Gra….aacee?"
Wha?
The voice floated through my ears, distant at first. I saw a blurry shape standing nearby. It was human-shaped, at least. It could've been a person. But it could've also been a very concerned coat rack. My vision struggled to cooperate. I narrowed my eyes, trying to force this human figure into focus, but everything only smeared together even more.
The shape moved, and I heard an, "Hnhn." Then the figure hurried away, leaving me staring at the ceiling while my mind fumbled around in the dark for answers.
I had no idea what was happening anymore. Another person stepped into view after a few seconds. At least, I assumed it was a person. Their outline wavered as though I were looking at them through rippling water, making it impossible to distinguish any features beyond a vague human shape.
I instinctively flinched when a sudden beam of light pierced my eyes.
"Ow—"
Or at least, I thought I said that. The bright glare went across my vision, forcing me to squint. Every muscle in my face tightened as I fought the urge to turn away. My head already felt like someone had filled it with wet cement, and the flashlight wasn't helping. I was convinced I was going to pass out again, black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
"Good," the voice said. I wanted to ask what was good. I wanted to ask where I was, more importantly, I wanted to know why my entire body felt as though it belonged to someone else. Then there was this sound somewhere beside me. I dragged my eyes toward it and found a collection of tubes, with blinking lights standing guard next to me.
A ventilator…? And the soft mattress under me dipped around my frame just enough to make it obvious: hospital bed. I was in a hospital bed, not exactly the sort of realization that inspires confidence.
The figure left me again, and sometime after that I must have turned back into unconsciousness. At least, I assumed I had. There was no clear transition, no sensation of falling asleep or waking up, just a gap in existence that abruptly ended when wakefulness returned. I opened my eyes again for the second time, the same woman was standing beside me. My vision was still frustratingly blurry around the edges, but I could make out the object she held in front of my face, a pen. She moved it slowly from side to side, and after a moment I realized he wanted me to follow it. My eyes obeyed, sluggishly tracking its movement as it moved left and right.
"Hm," she said, sounding almost relieved.
The pen disappeared from my field of vision, and the woman pulled a stool closer before sitting beside the bed, eventually my gaze landed on the white coat she was wearing.
Oh.
Doctor.
Wait, that was definitely a doctor. The realization should have been comforting. Instead, it raised several new questions. Why did I need a doctor? What had happened to me? How long have I been here? More importantly, why did answering any of those questions feel impossible? The doctor then watched me for several seconds, studying my face with the patient expression, apparently satisfied that I could finally understand more than a moving pen.
"Do you remember what happened to you?" She asked.
"Urggh..." was the only sound that escaped me. I had meant to tell him that I didn't remember what had happened, or how I had ended up in a hospital bed under his care. Wait, had I been in an accident? Was I sick? Had something fallen on me? Oh fudgeeee. What about school? Did the administration know I was gone? Had someone informed them I was on medical leave? Were my students wondering where I was?
The doctor glanced down and made a note on the object in her hands. I squinted at it. It wasn't a clipboard. Her fingers were sliding across the surface, tapping and dragging.
Huh…when did doctors start carrying tablets around?
"Do you know what day it is today?"
I shook my head, and the motion filled me with frustration. I wasn't refusing to answer. I honestly didn't know. Fortunately, the doctor didn't press the issue. She allowed me to rest, and over the following days, or maybe weeks, I had no reliable sense of time, she continued returning to ask more basic questions. Little by little, things became easier. Eventually, I could answer at least a few of her questions without feeling like my head was about to explode.
The doctor glanced at her tablet again before looking up.
"I'm Ryland Grace," I replied.
Out of all the missing pieces rattling around inside my skull, that one remained firmly in place. Of course I knew my own name.
...Right?
The confidence lasted only a second before an uncomfortable thought went into my mind. If I was so certain about that, then why couldn't I remember anything else?
"Correct," the doctor said, sounding pleased with the result, and that simple confirmation brought an unexpected wave of relief to me. At least one thing was still intact, my understanding of my current situation practically nonexistent, but I knew my name. Apparently that counted as progress.
The doctor recorded another note on her tablet before moving on to the next part of his examination.
Over the next several hours, she and that one nurse kept a close watch on me. They checked my pulse, blood pressure, temperature, and a dozen other measurements I couldn't identify. Sadly, when it came time to eat, they didn't give me anything particularly exciting. I was always presented with a small tray containing what could only be described as aggressively light nutritional meals and medicines, apparently. The kind of thing doctors give you when they're worried your body might revolt if exposed to seasoning.
But I ate the food anyway. Actually, I devoured it. The moment the first bite touched my tongue, I realized how hungry I was. My stomach reacted as though it hadn't received a formal meal in ages, which was a deeply concerning possibility that I chose not to think about. As I ate, the doctor explained bits and pieces of my condition, though not enough to answer the questions that mattered most. She seemed more interested in monitoring my recovery than overwhelming me with information. Every few minutes she would ask how I felt, whether I was dizzy, if I could focus, whether I was experiencing pain.
People didn't really usually wake up in hospitals unable to remember large portions of their lives while simultaneously feeling as though they could get up and walk around. The doctor eventually finished reviewing my vitals and whatever she was looking for, she seemed to be finding it. Unfortunately, I still had no idea what that was.
That night, I went back to sleep early. At least, I think it was night. Hospitals have an impressive ability to erase any meaningful distinction between day and evening. The lighting never seemed to change and the hallways remained active at all hours, also I still had no reliable sense of time.
Nevertheless, I still fell asleep in exhaustion. And I knew I wasn't alone whenever I was asleep. Under normal circumstances, discovering an unidentified presence beside your bed while you slept would rank fairly high on the list of concerning experiences.
But I felt no fear whatsoever, quite the opposite actually.
The presence brought a strange comfort and safety. It was difficult to explain. I never saw anyone when I opened my eyes. There was no evidence that another person had entered the room. And yet, somewhere in the hazy space between sleeping and waking, I always sensed that someone was there with me.
Watching over me.
The feeling was so consistent that I eventually mentioned it to the doctor during one of her visits.
"I think someone's watching me when I'm asleep," I said. I mean it could be some nurses checking my condition, right?
The doctor paused for a moment before lowering her tablet.
"What makes you think that?" She asked.
I struggled to find the right words. "I don't know. I just...I can feel it."
Her expression became carefully neutral, the sort of look doctors wear when they don't want to influence a patient's response. "Can you describe what you feel?"
"I...I don't know…"
The doctor remained silent for a few seconds before making another note.
"So who is it?" I asked.
"I’m not sure if I could answer that, Dr. Grace," Something about her response suggested that either he genuinely had no answer or he wasn't willing to provide one. Given my current situation, both possibilities were equally frustrating. I wanted to press further, but exhaustion had already begun tugging at my thoughts. The conversation ended there. But that night, the familiar feeling returned.
Whoever, or whatever, it was, I wasn't afraid. All I knew was that I was safe. And for a man who couldn't even remember how he'd arrived here in the hospital, that small certainty felt more valuable than anything else.
The next time I woke, a stranger was standing beside my bed. And I know it was another medical professional. Hospitals seemed to manufacture them endlessly. "It was nice to finally meeting you, Dr. Grace."
The man extended a hand, his smile bright enough to compete with the fluorescent lighting. I shook it carefully. I learned that he wasn't a surgeon nor a specialist. He was my physical therapist. Apparently, because I could now hold a conversation without leaning into unconsciousness every thirty seconds and was managing small amounts of food and medicines, everyone had finally decided it was time for me to start moving again.
I groaned and his smile widened. "That's usually the reaction."
"Oh, nothing personal," I scratched the back of my neck. "It's just that I heard physical therapists tend to be enthusiastic about activities that sound suspiciously like exercise."
"They are exercise."
"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about."
His laugh was genuine at that. "I specialize in neurological recovery and long-term physical rehabilitation," he explained. "Normally I work privately with patients who need intensive treatment plans."
That got my attention. "Privately?"
He nodded. "Your case required a more specialized approach, Dr. Grace.”
“Ooookay…” I frowned. "Wait, hold on, can you tell who hired you?"
"That's a question for whoever is handling your care, Dr. Grace."
Which was a very professional way of saying he wasn't going to tell me. I studied him for a moment. The chart clipped to the foot of my bed listed his full name and age which is somewhere in his forties, but honestly, I wouldn't have guessed it. He had that kind of whole vibes that made people look ten years younger than they actually were. Meanwhile, I felt approximately one hundred and eighty-seven years old.
"Well, thanks for everything," I said. "Seriously. I know I probably shouldn't have agreed to a physical therapist." The admission earned me a curious look. I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "It's just...well, it’s just my budget isn't exactly thriving right now. Teacher salary, remember? I haven't even paid this month's rent yet. Gosh, what would the landlord think?”
“Oh,” Owen Ross said, as though he'd only just realized what I was worried about. “Of course. But you don't need to concern yourself with that, Dr. Grace. I believe your bills have already been taken care of.”
I frowned. The answer only raised more questions than it solved.
"Uhm, what?"
Ross opened his mouth, clearly debating how much he was allowed to say, but he never got the chance. The door opened and my doctor stepped into the room.
"Mr. Ross," she greeted as she entered.
Ross glanced toward her and smiled, a bit distracted. "Dr. Lauren."
Oh, so that what she was called.
My therapist then gestured toward me. “We were just about to plan tomorrow's session. Nothing too intense. Just some sitting up, lying down, some arm stretches, maybe assessing his range of motion.”
Annnd…my entire body disliked the sound of that sentence.
My doctor walked over to the bed and stopped beside Ross. "I only came by to deliver Dr. Grace's medical assessments." She handed her the tablet before turning her attention toward me. "Everything looks good so far."
"That's doctor language for you're not dying today, right?" I asked.
The corner of her mouth twitched upward. "More or less, Dr. Grace."
Yikes.
"I'll leave the rehabilitation side to your therapist." The way Lauren said it sounded suspiciously like the doctor was nonchalantly handing me over to a predator, and that statement immediately concerned me.
Ross excitedly accepted the tablet and quickly skimmed through whatever information was displayed on the screen, she looked entirely too pleased with what she saw.
"Should I be worried?" I asked.
The question was meant as a joke, but Lauren exchanged a glance with Ross before looking back at me with a hum. “Perhaps.”
"Welp, that's reassuring," I said. “Nothing boosts a patient's confidence quite like hearing 'perhaps' from his doctor.”
"You'll be fine," Ross grinned. "We're starting small."
I let my head fall back against the pillow. Watching the two of them, I got the distinct impression that they had already discussed my rehabilitation plan in detail. The medical side of my recovery seemed to be ending, and now came the part where I actually had to use my body again. Considering how exhausted I felt after simply existing, that prospect was considerably more frightening than I wanted to admit.
The therapy turned out to be far more effective than I expected.
Not that I had particularly high expectations. Ross ("Please call me Owen, Dr. Grace. We're all acquaintance here now.") first announced his grand rehabilitation plan, I was fairly certain it consisted of finding increasingly creative ways to make me miserable. On the first day, simply sitting upright for more than a few minutes felt like a very brutal Olympic event. All my muscles were aching and standing was less an act of mobility and more a negotiation between gravity and stubbornness.
The sessions always start with deceptively simple exercises. Owen would have me shift my weight, rotate my shoulders, lift my arms, or move my legs through carefully controlled motions. It always surprised me how quickly the human body could forget things it had spent decades doing automatically. And as a scientist, I understood the biology behind it, but experiencing it firsthand was another matter entirely.
Each morning, my therapist would push me a little further than the day before. Not enough to overwhelm me, but enough that I noticed the difference. The process was slow, like watching a plant grow in real time. But eventually, standing stopped feeling like a life-threatening activity.
That was when Owen introduced walking, the first attempts involved parallel bars. My hands gripped the rails so tightly my knuckles turned white while I shuffled forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe discovering legs for the first time. Lauren remained close enough to catch me if I fell, which was reassuring because falling felt like a very realistic possibility.
"One step," he'd say.
I would take one step.
"Good. Another."
Then another, the distances were embarrassingly short at first. A few feet could leave me breathing hard enough to qualify as cardio exercise, but the numbers kept changing and a few feet became several yards, and several yards became a trip down the hallway, and the hallway eventually became an entire lap around the rehabilitation wing.
By then I'd graduated from the rails to a cane, though "graduated" might be giving me too much credit. The cane felt less like a mobility aid and more like a trusted co-worker carrying eighty percent of the workload.
Even so, I was moving.
Actually moving.
Every successful step felt like evidence in an experiment. I couldn't deny it. My strength was returning. For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I could see measurable progress. And as much as I hated admitting Lauren was right about practically everything, the results were becoming increasingly difficult to argue with.
"We should have a drink after this."
I looked up from the monumental task of not tripping over my own feet. Lauren has her arms folded across her chest as she watched me make another slow circuit around the room. She'd apparently arrived sometime during my session without me noticing. In my defense, walking currently requires enough concentration to qualify as a graduate-level course.
Owen stayed close beside me, though he had finally stopped hovering like I was made of glass. A good sign.
"Drink?" I repeated with a chuckle, pausing near the end of my lap. "Was that supposed to be professional, Doctor?"
Lauren hummed. "Well, I never claimed to be professional."
"I think doctors are generally expected to pretend." I laughed awkwardly.
"That's true." She shook her head, still smiling. "Either way, I'm impressed with your progress."
Holy shit, the compliment caught me off guard. I wasn't used to hearing praise directed at me these days. Most of my recent accomplishments involved things toddlers mastered before learning multiplication.
Congratulations, Ryland Grace. You stood up.
Lauren pushed herself away from the wall. "When you're discharged, drinks are on me. I'll always want to have a drink with the one and only Dr. Grace.”
Oh.
"Uh..." I said eloquently, heat crept into my face before I could stop it, and I became acutely aware of the fact that both Lauren and Owen were looking at me worriedly.
"Dr. Grace, are you okay? Was that too forward? I’m sorry.”
"No, no, it’s fine. I'm fine. I just…" but that earned a worried look from him and I focused on the much safer problem of walking. But I couldn't stay in that room much longer.
I excused myself and announced that I needed to use the bathroom. The restroom wasn't attached to the room itself, which meant venturing into the hallway, but I assured Owen several times that I could manage the trip on my own. Though he looked skeptical at first which is natural. At this point I was beginning to suspect that physical therapists received formal training in skepticism. After a moment's hesitation, he relented and let me go, though not before reminding me to take my cane.
The hallway outside the rehabilitation room felt strangely different now that I was walking through it instead of being wheeled around. Obviously, the movement still required concentration, but each step came easier than before. As I made my way toward the nearest bathroom, I found myself paying more attention to my surroundings. I only see three doctors and most of them were military, moving briskly from one room to another. What there wasn't, oddly enough, were civilians. There were no families waiting outside every patient rooms, nor ordinary patients wandering the halls. As far as I could tell, I was the only person in the building who didn't appear to work here or belong to some branch militaries.
That was weird.
Two militaries glanced in my direction as I passed. A few openly stared. I responded with polite smiles, because that's generally what you do when strangers look at you for uncomfortable lengths of time. Most quickly looked away afterward, which somehow made the entire thing feel even stranger. It was as though they recognized me, yet I had absolutely no idea who any of them were. Well…I had a more immediate problem demanding my attention. My curiosity would have to wait until after I found a bathroom.
I was almost there when something caught my eye. A coffee vending machine stood recessed into a small intersection in the hallway. Normally I wouldn't have paid it any attention. Hospitals and coffee go together like astronomers and sleep deprivation. But what drew my attention wasn't the vending machine itself but the man standing in front of it. And the strange man wasn't getting coffee, nor was he pressing any buttons, he was just standing there, staring at the thing with remarkable intensity.
I slowed my pace, then stopped altogether. "Huh," I muttered as I got closer. "Do you need any help with that?" I mean this man could be in deep thought or whatever that made him stop at the coffee vending machine for an unusually long time, staring at it with enough concentration to suggest either a technical malfunction or a personal grudge, but the question still slipped out before I could stop myself.
The man turned toward me, he was wearing a heavyweight parka over a green jumpsuit uniform, and for some reason, I couldn't stop staring at his eyes behind those thick glasses. It was also green. But not the pale kind or the dull kind. It was bright green. The sort of eyes that immediately grabbed your attention and refused to let go.
Then I noticed the expression attached to those eyes.
Oh. That was definitely not gratitude I am seeing over there, buddy. The intensity of the look caught me completely off guard. "Uhm," I said, suddenly less confident than I had been three seconds earlier. "You—"
I never finished the sentence, the glare somehow deepened. I mean, that shouldn't have been possible. A glare should have a maximum setting. This man's expression apparently came with additional levels.
I tried to determine what I'd done wrong. Before I could reach any conclusions, the man turned sharply away from me and strode down the hallway. I stood there watching him leave, and several seconds passed before my brain caught up with what had just happened.
Wow. Okay. That was really rude. And here I was thinking we were about to have a civilized conversation while drinking coffee from a rundown vending machine.
People generally didn't react to offers of help as though they had been challenged to a duel. At least, not in my experience. Honestly, that was annoying. Eventually, I shook my head and resumed my journey toward the bathroom. Whatever had happened clearly involved information I didn't possess. And if there was one thing science had taught me, it was that drawing conclusions without enough data usually led to terrible results.
But seriously, that coffee vending machine guy had really looked pissed off at me, and I had no idea why.