Almost blind | Haobin

53| Snowglobe |53

Zhang Hao stepped into the hospital with heavy feet, the sterile air hitting him like a wall of memories. Behind him, Hanbin was still waiting in the car, probably watching the entrance with that worried look he always had when it came to Hao.

His mind was a wreck — a storm of noise and old echoes — but the kiss Hanbin gave him before he left the car still lingered on his lips like a faint warmth in a cold room. It didn’t fix anything, not really. But it steadied him just enough to keep walking.

He needed to see Taerae. To talk. Taerae had always been that person — the one who listened without judgment, who didn’t flinch when Hao said the worst of things. If anyone could help Hao untangle this new chaos, it was him.

And Hao missed him.
The last time he saw Taerae — pale, quiet, thinner than ever — he hadn’t looked good. Hao had told himself it was temporary. That he’d get better. But there had been something in Taerae’s eyes that stayed with him.

He passed the white halls that looked exactly the same — like nothing had changed, even though everything inside him had. Eventually, he found himself at the reception. The same middle-aged woman sat there, her glasses halfway down her nose as she typed something into her computer. Her perfume was the same — sharp and floral, like wilted lilies.

He cleared his throat.

She didn’t look up right away. Her fingers lingered on the keyboard a moment too long, as if she hadn’t heard him — or was pretending not to.

When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes flickered with recognition… and something sharper. A brief, unmistakable flash of tension passed through her face — the kind that tightens the jaw and darkens the corners of the eyes before it’s quickly buried beneath routine professionalism.

“What are you doing here again?” she mumbled, her tone flat, but not unkind. Just tired. Hao leaned against the reception desk casually, tilting his head like a cat trying to read a sound. His lips curled into a soft, practiced smile.

“Visiting,” he said simply. “Kim Taerae.”

The woman’s fingers froze mid-keystroke.

Silence.

Just the soft hum of overhead lights and the distant shuffle of hospital shoes down a hallway. She blinked. Her mouth parted slightly, as if to say something — and then she looked back at the screen. Her eyes darted from one line to the next, and her hand gripped the mouse a little tighter than necessary. “He's not here,” she finally said, not meeting his gaze.

“What do you mean?” Hao asked, his voice still light, but something under it was sharpening — a tension in his jaw, a flicker in his eyes.“He’s not here. He's not patient anymore for few days already,” she added.

Another pause. Longer this time. Hao stared at her, blinking slowly. His chest tightened — like the room had dropped a few degrees in an instant.

He was confused. What was going on? What did she mean by “he’s not here”? Hao knew that Taerae’s family — what little of it remained — didn’t care about him at all. So where else would he go?

“Did he get transferred?”
“Or discharged?” He asked immediately. But if Taerae was no longer in the hospital, wouldn’t he have at least tried to contact him?

Something felt terribly wrong. Deep in his gut, Hao could sense it — like a cold hand tightening around his spine.

She didn’t answer immediately. She just licked her lips, fingers still on the mouse, eyes still not meeting his.

“Look, maybe you should talk to—”

“What happened,” Hao said, voice lower now. Firmer. “Where is he?”