Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden across Macon's face. His eyelids twitched before opening, meeting the stillness of his room.
The faint hum of the ceiling fan. The birds outside. The clink of a spoon from the kitchen.
Normal sounds.
Normal life.
He let out a shaky breath.
He was still here.
Vivian's voice carried faintly down the hallway. "You're awake, right?"
Her tone wasn't casual—it was careful, like she was afraid to break something fragile.
She appeared at the door, hesitating before speaking. Her eyes flicked not to his face, but to his chest. The place where, last night, she had seen blood.
She remembered kneeling beside him, pressing her hand against a wound that shouldn't have existed. The blood had been warm. Real. But when the doctor came—nothing. Not a drop. Not even a scar.
"You should eat something," she said finally, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Doctor said rest, not starve."
Macon sat up slowly, rubbing his head. "Yeah… I'll be down soon."
Vivian lingered, her gaze tracing him as though memorizing the sight. Then she nodded and left.
When she was gone, he pressed a hand to his chest. The place that had burned, glowed, hurt.
Nothing now.
He should have been relieved. Instead, unease coiled inside him.
Peace was supposed to feel safe. So why did it feel borrowed?
---
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toasted bread. Vivian sat across from him, scrolling on her phone, pretending not to stare.
"You have classes today?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Think you can handle it?"
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
Her eyes flicked up. "You've said that three times already."
Silence stretched.
"You scared me, you know," she whispered at last. "I thought you were—" She cut herself off, lips pressed thin. "I don't understand what happened."
"Neither do I," he said, avoiding her eyes.
Her expression sharpened. "You're lying."
His fork froze midair.
"You keep calling it stress," she went on, voice trembling. "But I saw it, Macon. You were bleeding. There was blood on the floor—on your shirt—and then it was gone. You expect me to believe that's stress?"
He forced calm into his tone. "Maybe you imagined it. You were panicking—"
Her hand slammed the table. "Don't. Don't make me sound crazy."
He stared, speechless.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Whatever's going on, I'll find out. You can keep lying, but I'm not stupid."
Then she stood and walked away, leaving her coffee untouched.
Macon leaned back, staring at the faint reflection in the table's surface. For a heartbeat, he saw himself—not in pajamas, but in armor. Then he blinked, and it was gone.
---
Campus passed like a blur. Greetings, lectures, laughter. All painfully normal.
And yet…
He still felt it. A name being called.
"Macon?"
He turned.
A girl stood by the doorway, sketchbook clutched to her chest. Chestnut hair in a messy bun, glasses slipping down her nose, smile shy but warm.
"Hey," she said. "You're in Professor Dauda's class, right? You kind of disappeared last week."
"Yeah," he said. "I wasn't feeling well."
"Oh. I see." She adjusted her sketchbook. "I'm Rina."
"Rina," he repeated.
"You seem… different today. Quiet. You okay?"
"Yeah." He lied again. She noticed, but didn't press.
"Well," she said, smiling, "if you ever want someone to talk to who doesn't treat you like some big boss—like a general or something—I'm around."
The word slammed into him.
General.
His pulse quickened.
"How did you—?" he began, but she blinked, puzzled.
"What?"
"You said—General—"
"Oh!" She laughed, waving her hands. "No, I meant, like, 'sir.' Not… general-general. Sorry, that sounded weird."
He forced a chuckle. "Right. My bad."
But his heart wouldn't slow down. Coincidence… or something bleeding through?
---
By evening, the house was quiet. Vivian sat on the couch with her laptop, her eyes distant even as the screen glowed.
"You should go to bed early," she murmured.
"You're still mad," he said.
"I'm not mad." Her tone was clipped. "Just trying to understand why my brother feels like a stranger."
That stung.
"I don't want you to worry," he whispered.
"Then give me a reason not to."
Her voice cracked at the edges. She stood abruptly, laptop closing with a snap, and walked away.
He sat in silence, feeling like every word only pushed her further from him.
---
Night fell.
The fan hummed. The clock ticked. His heartbeat steady.
For the first time in days—no whispers, no glow.
Maybe it was over.
He sat up slowly, breathing out. Maybe he could go back to normal. Classes. Rina. Vivian smiling at him again.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes. Messy hair. Just a boy.
"Normal," he whispered. "I just want normal."
The silence seemed to agree.
Almost.
Because as his eyes began to close, a faint echo brushed his mind—so soft it could've been a dream.
"…General… the horn calls…"
His body tensed. But it faded, leaving only the sound of rain beginning against his window.
He forced himself to breathe slowly. "It's over."
But across the hall, Vivian sat in her room, her laptop glowing. Her fingers trembled as she typed into a medical forum:
Can a person's wound heal overnight without leaving a scar?
The cursor blinked, waiting.
Her gaze flicked to the faint stains she'd scrubbed from the floor.
"I don't know what's happening to you, Macon," she whispered, "but I'll find out."
Upstairs, Macon stirred in his sleep.
The rain fell harder.
And far away—through smoke and thunder—a war horn sounded.