The faint sound of birds chirping reaches my ears, piercing through the usual quiet. I freeze, my mind sluggishly processing the unfamiliar noise. Birds? Have I heard that before? I struggle to recall the last time I registered something so simple, so alive.
Slowly, I force my eyes open, the effort exhausting. It's been a week since I first managed to wake up, and every day since then, I've clawed my way back to consciousness, fighting the suffocating weight of weakness. I can keep my eyes open for longer now, and I can even manage a few small movements, but my voice is still a pitiful croak, barely more than a whisper. Every breath is an exercise in patience, every shift of my body a reminder of how far I've fallen.
But today, something feels different. My gaze drifts to the window, and I'm met with a sight I never thought I'd see again: a vibrant garden in full bloom. For the first time since waking, I'm outside. The sunlight hits me like a physical force, so intense that I have to squint against it. It's almost too much, the brightness burning my eyes after so long in the dark. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until now—something as simple as sunlight, a luxury I never valued when I was still healthy.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth seep into my skin, soaking it in like a starving man offered a feast. It's a small pleasure, but it feels monumental, a reminder of the life I once took for granted.
When I open my eyes again, I'm drawn to the sight of Noelle in the garden, battling with what appears to be a bird. My mind struggles to reconcile the image—this beautiful, stubborn omega locked in a ridiculous standoff with a creature a fraction of his size. The bird flits around him, almost taunting, and I can't help but think it's mocking him. It's such a silly scene, so absurdly normal, that for a moment, I forget my own misery.
Noelle is wearing those faded grey pants and an equally worn white shirt that somehow doesn't diminish his beauty. If anything, it enhances it, framing his lithe figure in a way that makes my chest tighten. He's a stark contrast to the bleakness that has become my existence, a burst of color in a world that has been nothing but gray for so long.
"I swear, if I catch you, you're going to be dinner!" Noelle mutters darkly, shaking a fist at the bird. It's endearing in a way that makes my heart ache, a warmth spreading through me that I haven't felt in ages.
Then he notices me. "Oh, Thorne? You're awake." His voice brightens, and he flashes me a smile so radiant it rivals the sunlight. He walks over, brushing a few strands of hair from my face with a tenderness I don't deserve. How can he look at me like that, like I'm still someone worth caring for? I've seen my reflection—caught a glimpse in the mirror by accident—and I nearly had a panic attack at the sight. I'm a ghost of who I once was, a gaunt, broken shell. Yet here he is, acting as if none of that matters.
Noelle leaves for the kitchen, and when he returns, he's holding a cup of that vile herb concoction he's been forcing down my throat every day. I eye it with distaste, my stomach churning at the mere thought of it.
He notices my hesitation and grins, bringing the cup closer. "I know, I know, but you have to," he says, his tone a mix of teasing and gentle insistence. There's no escaping it—I've learned that much.
With a resigned sigh, I close my eyes and gulp it down, the bitterness clinging to my tongue long after I've swallowed. When I open my eyes, Noelle is watching me, amusement dancing in his gaze. He takes the cup away, and I'm left with the lingering taste of death in my mouth.
A bowl of fruit is placed beside me, the vibrant colors almost too cheerful against the backdrop of my worn-down surroundings. I glance at the contents—strawberries, blueberries, grapes, and watermelon, all cut into neat little cubes. A part of me wants to ignore it, but the other part, the part that's been starved for anything remotely enjoyable, reaches out to take a few pieces.
As I pop a piece of watermelon into my mouth, I'm struck by how good it tastes. It's sweet and refreshing, better than anything I remember from the royal palace. Maybe it's the freshness, or maybe it's just that my senses have dulled to the point where even the simplest pleasures feel extraordinary. Either way, it's a small comfort.
My gaze drifts to the garden, the little piece of heaven Noelle has somehow managed to create. It's lush and vibrant, filled with an array of plants that shouldn't all be thriving at the same time. As far as I know, these things have different growing seasons, but here they are, flourishing together as if defying nature itself. I wonder how he managed it, though I quickly dismiss the thought. Farming is something I never bothered to learn about, and right now, my curiosity doesn't extend that far.
Soon, Noelle joins me on the floor, settling in beside me with practiced ease. He rolls up the leg of my pants, revealing the twisted mess of my left leg. The sight of it still makes me sick, a constant reminder of how far I've fallen. The doctors were clear—this leg is all but useless, a dead weight that I'll carry for the rest of my life.
Noelle doesn't flinch, though. He never does. Instead, he grabs a small bottle of oil, warming it between his hands before spreading it across my scarred skin. His fingers are gentle but firm as he begins to massage the muscles, working out the knots and tension that have built up from disuse. I can barely feel anything below my knee, the sensation dull and distant, but his touch is steady, soothing.
I watch him, my chest tightening with a mixture of emotions I can't fully untangle. His face is a mask of concentration, his brow furrowed slightly as he works. There's no sign of disgust, no hint of the pity or revulsion I've come to expect from others. He's just… focused, intent on doing what needs to be done, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
I keep waiting for him to get fed up, to decide that this is too much, that I'm too much. Any moment now, he'll see me for what I really am—a broken man, more burden than husband—and he'll leave. Or maybe he'll just give me that look, the one filled with pity and disgust, the one that says I'm less than I used to be.
But it never comes. Instead, he just continues his work, his hands moving with that same steady care. It's baffling, almost infuriating, that he doesn't waver. That he doesn't see me as the ruin I've become.
I want to ask him why. Why he stays. Why he cares. But the words catch in my throat, trapped by the weight of my pride and my fear.