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Healing doesn't mean the damage never existed. It means damage no longer controls your life.
In the sterile room bathed in the morning sunlight, Sun-hee sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, her gaze fixed on the world beyond the hospital window. The view offered little solace—a meticulously trimmed garden bordered by a wrought iron fence, beyond which the bustling street hinted at life outside her confines.
Her fingers absentmindedly traced the patterns on the quilt covering her legs, the rough texture a stark contrast to the softness of her hospital gown. A half-eaten breakfast tray sat on the rolling table beside her bed, its contents untouched and growing cold. Sun-hee's thoughts, however, were far from food.
School. The word echoed in her mind like a distant dream. She missed the chatter of classmates, the scent of freshly sharpened pencils, and the daily rhythm of lessons. Each morning, she would wake with the anticipation of learning something new, of being among friends, of feeling the thrill of discovery.
But for now, those days were suspended in time, replaced by the hushed whispers of nurses passing in the hallway and the occasional beep of medical equipment monitoring her condition. Sun-hee's illness had stolen her strength, confining her to this bed, this room, this routine that felt more like a sentence than a treatment.
She sighed, her breath fogging the window pane, and she reached out to trace the shape her breath had left—a small heart that soon dissipated under the warmth of her palm. How she longed to be out there, walking down the school corridors with a backpack slung over her shoulder, the weight of books reminding her of a life that was still within reach, yet frustratingly out of grasp.
A tear welled in Sun-hee's eye, reflecting the morning light streaming through the window. She blinked it away, unwilling to surrender to self-pity. Instead, she focused on the distant sounds of students her age laughing outside, imagining herself among them, her footsteps light and purposeful as she made her way to the classroom.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the quilt, a silent vow forming in her heart. She would get better. She would reclaim her place among her peers. And when that day came, she promised herself she would never take school for granted again.
With renewed determination, Sun-hee turned her attention back to the window. The garden beyond beckoned, its flowers swaying gently in the breeze as if nodding in agreement with her unspoken resolve. She smiled faintly, a flicker of hope igniting within her, as she whispered to herself, "Soon, I'll be there. Soon, I'll be back."
Sun-hee sat quietly on her hospital bed, a a longing smile on her face as she is trying to distract herself from the sterile surroundings. The monotony of hospital life had become all too familiar—nurses checking vitals, doctors discussing treatment plans in hushed tones, and the ever-present hum of medical equipment. But today felt different; a flutter of hope tingled in her chest, sparked by the anticipation of her parents' visit.
