ɴɪɢʜᴛꜱʜᴀᴅᴇ | 𝖂𝖔𝖔𝖘𝖆𝖓

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 24: "𝖂𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌"

𓊈𒆜𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖎 𝕾𝖆𝖓𒆜𓊉

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Days rolled by, and the weight of silent vigil settled heavily upon the room. Wooyoung lay motionless, his expression serene yet hauntingly still, as if suspended in a realm between worlds. There was no sign of life, no faint beating of his heart, just an eerie stillness that seemed to permeate the air. The fox, ever loyal and steadfast, remained by his side, her face nestled in the crook of his neck, her paws gently resting on his chest as if trying to will him back to life with her warmth and presence.

Yeosang and Jongho stood at the end of the bed, their faces etched with sadness and concern. The atmosphere was thick with a mix of hope and grief, the room a silent testament to the struggle between holding on and letting go.

I watched from a chair I had dragged close to the bed, my eyes rarely leaving Wooyoung's face. Each passing day without change chipped away at the hope I clung to, yet I couldn't bring myself to move from his side. The fox's constant vigil seemed to echo my own determination not to give up, her quiet whimpers and the way she snuggled closer to Wooyoung breaking the silence now and then.

"San," Yeosang's voice finally broke through the quiet, his tone soft yet carrying a weight of unspoken words. "We've done everything we can. It might be time to—"

I raised my hand, cutting him off mid-sentence, unable to bear the thought of voicing the possibility of giving up. "Not yet," I said firmly, my voice low but resolute. "We're not at that point yet, Yeosang."

Yeosang sighed, his expression torn between respect for my decision and his own realistic assessment of the situation. Jongho placed a hand on Yeosang's shoulder, a silent show of support. They exchanged a glance, a conversation held in the silence between them, filled with mutual worry and understanding.

The room fell quiet again, the only sound the soft, rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance, marking the passage of time that seemed both endless and too swift. Every tick was a reminder of the stillness that refused to yield to life.

Hours turned into days, and the light shifted across the room as time passed, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor and climbed up the walls. I watched them move, tracing the slow progress of time in the changing light, each position of the shadows a marker of another hour spent waiting, hoping, fearing.

At night, the fox would become more restless, pacing occasionally before returning to Wooyoung's side. Her golden eyes would catch the moonlight, reflecting a deep, unspoken sadness. Occasionally, she would look up at me, her gaze seeming to ask the questions she couldn't voice: Why isn't he waking? What more can we do?

I had no answers for her, only the same questions echoing in my own heart. But every time I looked back at Wooyoung, every time I saw his peaceful face, something inside me refused to let go. It wasn't just the bond that tied us, or the love I felt for him—it was a deeper conviction, a certainty that there was still a chance, however slim, that he would come back to us.

So I waited, held by the threads of hope that refused to snap, the room a silent witness to our vigil. Yeosang and Jongho maintained their quiet support, their presence a comfort even in the heavy cloak of uncertainty that hung over us all.

I reached out to gently touch Wooyoung's hand, cold and still in mine. The fox stirred, lifting her head to look at me with those piercing golden eyes. In that moment, a silent promise passed between us: we would not give up. Not while there was still a sunrise to greet, not while there was still a chance, however faint, that Wooyoung might open his eyes and return to a world that wasn't ready to let him go.