Pain. That was the first thing Rei felt. A dull, aching weight pressing against his ribs, his breathing shallow, ragged. The darkness around him was thick, suffocating, like the room itself had swallowed him whole. His body refused to move, his limbs heavy, drained.
And yet… somewhere beyond the pain, beyond the suffocating blackness, a memory flickered.
He could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the golden glow spilling through the paper windows of their small home. He was five, maybe six, running barefoot across the wooden floor, his mother's laughter ringing behind him.
"Rei, slow down! You'll trip!" she called, but her voice was filled with amusement, not scolding.
He turned, grinning, his small hands reaching for his father, who sat on the porch, carving a small wooden figure with steady hands. His father looked up, his usual serious face softening. "Come here, Rei," he said, patting the spot beside him.
Rei climbed into his lap, watching in fascination as the knife moved, turning the plain block of wood into something new, something alive.
"What is it?" Rei asked, his small fingers brushing away the curls of wood.
His father smiled, brushing a rough thumb over his son's messy hair. "A bird," he said simply. "So it can fly, even when we cannot."
Rei had laughed then, the sound bright, weightless.
Now, lying in the darkness, he could almost hear that laughter, distant but real, echoing through the emptiness.