Aramith's eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of light. The ceiling above him was familiar, yet distant—like something glimpsed through thick fog. His limbs felt heavy, his breaths slow, the warmth of the blankets wrapped around him more of a restraint than comfort.
The scent of herbs lingered in the air. Medicine. Someone had been tending to him. A tray sat on the bedside table, a bowl of food long gone cold beside a half-empty cup of water. Had he eaten? He couldn't remember.
Muffled voices drifted through the room, words blurring together.
"Has he moved?" someone asked.
"Not much."
"He needs to eat more. His body won't hold up like this."
A sigh. A chair creaked as someone sat nearby. He should care. He should say something, do something. But the weight pressing down on him was too much. Even blinking felt like an effort.
The voices faded. Footsteps moved away. The door shut softly.
Alone again.
