Markel's body felt heavy.
It was as if the years he had spent in bed had taken his strength and turned it to ash. His limbs trembled with even the smallest movement, his muscles screaming in protest.
His hands clenched into the thin, ragged blanket draped over his body, his breathing shallow and uneven. Slowly, he flexed his fingers and felt the bony ridges of his knuckles pressing against the fabric. His hands… they didn't look like his hands.
They were too thin, too pale. Skin stretched tightly over bones, devoid of any strength or vitality.
He reflexively brought one hand to his chest, clutching at his ribcage. For a brief, terrifying moment, he felt a ghostly pang—an echo of the sickness he had lived with in his dream. The sensation was so real that his breath hitched, and his chest tightened. But as quickly as it came, it was gone.
There was no sickness. No pain. Only his heart beating steadily beneath his fingers.
"…It was just a dream," he whispered, his voice hoarse and dry.
But it didn't feel like just a dream.
Markel sat up, the effort leaving him breathless. His body protested the movement, his vision swam, and for a moment he thought he might collapse. He steadied himself, gripping the edge of his bed until the dizziness passed.
The dream lingered in his mind, vivid and unshakable. Days felt like years, years like days. He could still see it—every moment of that other life, every friend he made, every laugh he shared, and every tear he shed. The pain of pushing those he loved away. The loneliness of the sterile white room.
The memory of the dream pressed heavily on him, and he found himself smiling bitterly. How long had he spent hiding under these blankets, wishing for an end to it all? A year? Two? More?
He pushed the thoughts aside and turned his attention to the room around him. The air was stale, the curtains drawn tight, keeping the sunlight at bay. For the first time in years, he felt the urge to see the world beyond his small, suffocating prison.
Markel slid his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold, wooden floor. The sensation sent a shiver up his spine, but it was also grounding, real. Slowly, he pressed his weight onto his legs, trying to stand.
His knees buckled immediately, and he caught himself on the bedpost, panting from the effort. He gritted his teeth and tried again. One foot in front of the other.
The steps were small and shaky, his hands trailing along the furniture for support. His destination was clear: the door. The one boundary he hadn't crossed in years.
It took what felt like an eternity, but Markel reached it. He gripped the cold brass handle, his hand trembling. With a deep breath, he turned it, and the door creaked open.
…..
Light flooded the room, and Markel winced at the sudden brightness. Standing in the hallway was one of the estate's butlers, an older man with a stern yet weary face. The man froze, his eyes widening in shock.
"Y-Young Master…?" the butler stammered.
Markel didn't respond, too focused on steadying himself against the doorframe. The butler blinked, then his shock gave way to frantic motion.
"You're awake! You're out of your room!" he exclaimed, his voice rising. "I must inform the staff—no, the Master and Mistresses must be told immediately!"
The man hurried off down the hall, his shouts echoing through the estate.
Markel watched him go, a strange mix of emotions stirring in his chest. How long had it been since anyone in this house had seen him? How long had it been since he'd seen them?
Turning his head, his eyes caught the large window at the end of the hall. The sunlight poured through, warm and golden, bathing the polished floors in a soft glow. Slowly, Markel shuffled toward it, leaning heavily against the wall for support.
When he reached the window, he placed a hand on the cool glass and looked outside.
The estate grounds stretched far and wide, lush gardens and sprawling courtyards. Beyond them, the sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in hues of orange and gold. It was beautiful.
And yet, Markel felt a pang of loss.
He glanced at his reflection in the glass and froze. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw him—the man from his dream. The thin, haggard face, the tired eyes, the frail frame strapped to a hospital bed.
But when he blinked, it was his own face staring back at him.
Or what was left of it.
His once vibrant brown hair had lost its luster, now an ashen grayish brown. His eyes, once bright and golden, were now a dull amber, lacking the life they once held. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, stretched tightly over his gaunt face.
He looked like a dead man walking.
Markel chuckled bitterly, the sound dry and humorless. "A dead man… walking," he murmured, the words tasting strange on his tongue. The phrase brought an image of the man in his dream lying on a hospital bed, and the smile faded from his lips.
Shaking his head, he pushed the thought away and turned from the window.
Leaning against the wall, he took another shaky step, then another. Each movement was a struggle, but he forced himself forward.
Step by step, Markel moved through the halls of the estate. For the first time in years, he was no longer confined to his room.
And for the first time in years, he was determined to keep moving forward.