Tristan woke up as Whifler opened his room's door; his dark surrounding brightened by the light from the outside then, everything turned black again after he closed the door.
"How are you?" Whifler asked as he turned on the light and put down the tray of food beside his bed.
"As usual, I'm fine. I was thinking about why I still need to rest," Tristan responded.
"Your body is fine but, your mind is not." Whifler removed the cover of the food. "Here, eat some."
Tristan slowly got up and blankly stared at the food—there was a bowl of porridge, 2 slices of watermelon, cubes of papaya, and a glass of water with a piece of lemon inside.
"Am I a patient?"
Whifler paused. "Are you going to complain?"
"I don't feel like eating porridge."
"There is nothing else to eat," Whifler stirred the porridge. "Don't be picky."
Tristan just sighed and started to eat the porridge. He felt a bit excited after he tasted it—it was too delicious. "Who cooked this?"
"Me."
