The part of his job he always enjoyed was passing by the road that marked the boundary between the plain field and the forest. The wind there always felt refreshing against his skin as he breathed, as though it carried with it a quiet purpose, washing away the lingering pollution from the market and easing the suffocating weight that often followed him from the orphanage. It was not a special place by appearance, yet the sensation it gave him was enough to make him look forward to passing through it every single day.
However, despite everything, no matter how familiar a sensation becomes or how many times one has experienced its quiet comfort, there will always come a time when it is suddenly taken away. It is not always replaced by something equally meaningful, but instead by something that makes a person realize how fragile that comfort truly was.
Familiarity does not guarantee permanence, and even the simplest relief can disappear without warning, leaving behind only the awareness of its absence.
Hanabi knew his body was weak. The nuns had told him that he had fallen ill many times when he was still an infant, often reaching a state where survival itself had been uncertain. Although those were not memories he could recall, the knowledge remained with him as an undeniable truth. Even so, he had grown used to his condition over time, learning to move forward despite it, treating weakness not as an obstacle but as something that simply existed alongside him.
Yet misfortune did not wait for preparation.
What had seemed like a normal night of sleep left him in a state that felt closer to lifelessness than rest. His body was heavy, unresponsive, as if every part of him had been drained of its function. Heat clung to his skin, persistent and suffocating, while even the smallest movement required more effort than it should have. The change had happened too quickly, almost unnaturally so, as though a single night had been enough to undo everything his body had managed to maintain.
The door opened, and someone entered the room. Despite his weakened state, Hanabi could still perceive his surroundings clearly. The footsteps were faster than those of a normal child, yet controlled and gentle, so quiet that he only noticed them because of the stillness that filled the room. He concluded that it must be time for his check-up. He did not know which nun had come, and he had no intention of opening his eyes to confirm it. At that moment, the identity of the person did not matter. Being cared for was enough.
"How's your condition?" a voice asked, gentle yet firm.
Hanabi's breath caught slightly as he recognized it. Of all the people he expected, she was the last. It was Mother Lilith. Without hesitation, she placed her hand against his forehead, checking his temperature with a calm and practiced motion. Baffled by her presence, he forced himself to respond despite the dryness in his throat.
"I think… it's not that worse than yesterday," he said, though the words felt hollow even to him. He was not certain if it was true, nor did he particularly care. The sensation of his condition remained the same regardless of how he described it.
"I see," she murmured softly as she reached into her pouch and retrieved a small vial.
"Get up for a second."
There was no hesitation in his response. Even in his weakened state, obedience came naturally, not out of fear but out of quiet acceptance. He pushed himself upward slowly, his body resisting the motion as though it no longer belonged to him. Each movement carried a dull strain, yet he ignored it, focusing only on completing the action she had asked of him.
After taking the medicine, he lay back down without a word. Not long after, she left the room, closing the door behind her, and the silence returned once again.
Hanabi rarely stayed in his bedroom during the day, and without the presence of others, the space felt unusually empty. The absence of noise made the room feel larger than it actually was, stretching the silence into something that was almost tangible. It was not uncomfortable, but it was unfamiliar, and that unfamiliarity gave him too much room to think.
The day before he fell ill, he had begun learning to perceive energy, both his own and that of others. The book had instructed him that as long as he maintained that awareness, it would naturally improve over time. Now, the next step had been presented to him is energy control. The concept itself sounded simple. He was meant to manipulate the flow of energy within his body, to guide it, to restructure it according to his will. Yet the simplicity of the explanation did not reflect the complexity of the process.
Training was tedious, and the repetition threatened to dull his focus, yet he relied on what he had already experienced. He remained still, allowing his attention to turn inward, recalling the sensations from before. The numbness, the sharp pressure, the feeling of his nerves being pierced in a controlled and deliberate manner. Those memories were unpleasant, yet they served as a reference, something he could use to navigate the unfamiliar.
He was not certain if he was doing it correctly. There was no clear indication of progress, no immediate confirmation that his efforts were producing results. And yet, from time to time, he noticed something small, a flicker, a brief shift in sensation that did not belong to his normal state. It was subtle, almost insignificant, but it was enough to prevent doubt from completely taking over.
Beyond the orphanage stretched a vast plain field, wide enough that even distant structures from the market could be seen from its edge. The wind moved freely across the open space, carrying with it a sense of openness that contrasted sharply with the confined atmosphere of the orphanage. Even under the intensity of the midday sun, children played without restraint, embracing the moment without concern for anything beyond it.
After days of being confined to his bed, the stillness had become unbearable. Despite his weakened condition, Hanabi forced himself to stand, careful not to lose his balance. Each breath felt heavy, and any sudden movement threatened to overwhelm him, yet he continued forward, driven by something that felt closer to necessity than choice.
His steps were slow and deliberate, each one requiring focus. The wind brushed lightly against him as he walked along the edge of the field, its presence offering a faint sense of relief. However, the contrast between the lively atmosphere around him and the state of his own body only made his condition more apparent. The warmth of the season, the brightness of the day, none of it aligned with how he felt, and that dissonance left him with a quiet sense of detachment.
The children were free today. Within ten days, six were dedicated to work, two to study, and the remaining two were given for rest. It was during these rare moments that they allowed themselves to forget everything else, immersing themselves in whatever small joys they could create.
Hanabi watched them from a distance.
There was no envy in his gaze, nor was there any particular longing. Instead, there was something quieter, something more distant, as though he was observing a reality that did not entirely belong to him.
o0o
Once, there had been a child who looked at someone greater and declared, without hesitation, "I want to become like him." It was a simple wish, one that carried with it the innocence of belief. From that moment, effort followed. Training, guidance, support. A father who nurtured, a mother who encouraged, both contributing to a future that slowly began to take shape. That future had meaning
Until it didn't. All it took was a single moment. An accident, a diagnosis, a statement that stripped everything away. What had once been possible became unreachable, not because of lack of effort, but because of something beyond control. The dream remained, not as something to pursue, but as something to remember.
And that was what made it unbearable.
Hanabi felt it, not as his own memory, but as something disturbingly close to it. The weight of effort, the collapse of purpose, the quiet realization that everything can be lost without reason. It was not loud, nor was it overwhelming, but it lingered in a way that was difficult to ignore.
Tears formed without him realizing. They were not accompanied by sobs or any outward display of emotion. They simply existed, silent and unacknowledged, as though they did not belong to him. He did not try to stop them.
Because in that moment, he understood something that offered no comfort at all.
Sometimes, effort is not enough.