Dean's feet barely touched the floor as he raced through the hospital corridors, the fluorescent lights overhead blurring into a continuous stream. His chest heaved with panic, the nurse's instructions echoing faintly in his ears—ICU, third floor. He rounded a corner and saw Sara's mother sitting on a bench, her face pale, her hands trembling.
"Mrs. Davis," Dean called, his voice breaking as he approached.
She looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. "Dean..."
"What happened? Is Sara okay? Where is she?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her voice cracked. "She was crossing the road when it happened. The car... it came out of nowhere."
Dean's mind reeled, the image of Sara lying on the ground flashing unbidden in his thoughts.
"She's alive," Mrs. Davis continued, gripping his arm. "But..." She choked on the words. "She's in a coma. The doctors say it could be two years—maybe more—before she wakes up. If she wakes up."
Dean stumbled back, the weight of her words hitting him like a physical blow. "Two years? No... no, this can't be happening."
Just then, a doctor emerged from the ICU. He approached them, his expression somber.
"Mr. Davis," he began, addressing Sara's mother before turning to Dean. "You must be her... friend?"
Dean nodded mutely.
The doctor sighed. "Sara's injuries were extensive. She's stable for now, but the trauma to her brain has placed her in a deep coma. It's impossible to predict when—or if—she'll wake up. I'm sorry."
Dean felt his knees go weak. Mrs. Davis sobbed quietly beside him, but he couldn't cry. He couldn't feel anything beyond the numbness creeping through his body.
"I want to see her," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
The doctor hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. But please, be prepared. She doesn't look like the Sara you remember."
When Dean entered Sara's room, his breath caught in his throat. She lay on the bed, motionless, her face pale and bruised. Machines beeped softly around her, and an oxygen tube rested beneath her nose. She looked so fragile, so different from the vibrant woman he had kissed just hours ago.
He approached the bed slowly, his hands shaking. "Sara," he murmured, sitting down beside her. "It's me. Dean."
There was no response, only the steady rhythm of her breathing.
"I'm here," he continued, his voice cracking. "I'm not going anywhere."
Weeks passed, and Dean made it a habit to visit Sara every day after work. He would sit by her bedside, holding her hand, talking to her as if she could hear him. He told her about his day, about the little things that reminded him of her.
One evening, as he sat beside her, he thought he saw her lips move. His heart leaped in his chest.
"Sara?" he whispered, leaning closer.
Her lips parted slightly, and a faint sound escaped—a whisper, soft and indecipherable.
"Sara, it's me," he said urgently, tears streaming down his face. "I'm here. Please, try to say something."
Her eyes fluttered for a moment, and he held his breath. But then, just as quickly, her face went still again, and her breathing steadied into its usual rhythm.
Dean sank back into his chair, his heart heavy. "You're trying," he whispered. "I know you're trying."
As Dean sat by Sara's bedside, her father entered the room. Mr. Davis was a quiet man, usually reserved, but today, his eyes were filled with grief.
"Dean," he said, pulling up a chair beside him.
"Mr. Davis," Dean replied, his voice strained.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the steady beeping of the monitors.
"I never told her I was proud of her," Mr. Davis said suddenly, his voice trembling. "Not once. She always worked so hard, always did her best, and I... I never said the words she needed to hear."
Dean looked at him, his own eyes filling with tears. "She knows, sir. She knows how much you love her."
Mr. Davis shook his head. "Does she? I spent so much time focusing on work, on providing for the family, that I forgot to show her. And now..." He broke off, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Dean reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get her back," he said firmly, though his own voice wavered. "We have to believe that."
Mr. Davis nodded, wiping his eyes. "Thank you, Dean. For being here. For loving her."
Six months into Sara's coma, Dean sat in the doctor's office, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.
The doctor sighed, looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. "Dean, I know how hard this is for you. But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that she may never wake up."
Dean's jaw tightened. "You don't know that. She's strong. She'll come back."
The doctor leaned forward, his tone gentle. "I've seen cases like this before. Sometimes, patients remain in a coma for years without any improvement. And even if she does wake up, there's no guarantee she'll be the same Sara you remember."
Dean felt like the ground was crumbling beneath him. He stood abruptly, his voice trembling with anger and despair. "I'm not giving up on her. I don't care how long it takes."
The doctor nodded, his expression understanding. "I hope you're right. But you need to take care of yourself too, Dean. Don't lose yourself in this."
Dean sat in his room, the weight of the past six months pressing down on him. His hands trembled as he packed the few belongings he had brought to his aunt's house. He tried to convince himself that stepping away was the right decision, that Sara would understand—if she could.
The next moment, Dean was standing on an empty street, the wind cold against his face. He didn't remember how he had gotten there, only that the street felt eerily familiar.
He turned and saw a figure in the distance, barely illuminated by a flickering streetlight. The figure wore a mask, its features shifting like smoke.
"You," Dean said, his voice a whisper. "Who are you?"
The figure stepped closer, its presence heavy. "You left her."
"No, I didn't!" Dean shouted. "I didn't leave her! I—"
The words caught in his throat as the scene around him changed abruptly. He was no longer on the street but back in the hospital, standing outside Sara's room. The door was slightly ajar, and he could see her lying on the bed.
He reached out to push the door open, but the figure's voice stopped him. "Do you want to save her?"
Dean turned, his heart pounding. "What are you talking about? How?"
"Through your mind. Through time." The figure's voice was cold, detached. "Would you go back? Would you change everything?"
Dean clenched his fists, his chest tightening.
"Yes. Anything. I'd do anything to save her."
The figure tilted its head, the edges of its form blurring. "Anything comes at a cost."
The scene shifted again, and Dean was back at Sara's bedside. He reached for her hand, but as he touched it, her eyes fluttered open. She whispered something—too soft to hear—and then the machines began to beep loudly.
"Sara!" Dean shouted, panic gripping him.
The sound of his own voice woke him. He bolted upright, gasping for air. The room was dark, his surroundings unfamiliar. Had he left the hospital? Or had he never left?
The faint sound of a clock ticking filled the silence. A voice, barely audible, broke through.
"Would you do it all again?"
The words echoed in his mind, their origin unclear. He turned, but there was no one there.
"Who said that?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
But the silence that followed was deafening.
Dean's room was cold, though the sun streamed in through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. His eyes blinked open, and for a moment, the weight of the past six months crashed over him like a wave.
But something was wrong.
He sat up, scanning the room. It was… different. Familiar yet unsettling. His sketchbook lay on the desk, untouched. The pile of laundry he swore he'd done last week was still in the corner, exactly as it had been before.
Dean's heart raced as he stumbled to his feet. His phone was on the nightstand, but the date on the screen made him freeze:
August 23rd, 2023.
"No…"
He rushed to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him, the same as it had been before he ever met Sara. Before the hospital, before the train rides, before—
The train.
The memory hit him like a flash of lightning. Sara's laugh, her smile, her voice saying, I love you. He clutched the edge of the dresser, the room spinning around him.
"This isn't real," he whispered. "This can't be real."
His phone buzzed, jolting him from his spiraling thoughts. It was a notification: Meeting Sara at the station – 4 PM.
Dean stared at the screen, his mind reeling. That was the day they had met again. The day everything began. But how could it be happening now? How could it all…
He sank to the floor, the weight of it pressing down on him. His mind raced through every moment they had shared, every laugh, every tear.
Had it all been a dream?
A knock at the door pulled him back to reality—or whatever this was. The sound was sharp, almost too real, and it echoed in his chest. He stood slowly, his legs unsteady, and opened the door.
A figure stood there, shadowed against the light. The mask from his dream—or memory—was gone, but the presence was unmistakable.
"Dean," the figure said softly, their voice like the whisper of wind through trees. "Are you ready to do it all again?"
Dean's breath caught. "What… what do you mean?"
The figure stepped closer, their face coming into focus. Their lips curled into a faint, knowing smile as they said:
"Don't lose her this time."
End of Volume 1