The silence sat in the room for a long moment after that. What he'd said hung in the air — not answered, not dismissed. Just there, suspended in a place that made it impossible to ignore.
By now the light outside had shifted to gold, later than I'd realised — the afternoon slowly replacing itself with evening. I leaned back against the pillow, not speaking, my mind still circling the thing he'd said. If there were a chance — to feel what's already gone, one more time.
I never asked him what he meant by that chance. He didn't explain it on his own. The question stayed there in the air, like a thread hanging with nothing to tie it to.
"If you want to," he said, "you can go back." His voice was steady and unhurried — the kind of voice that comes after something has already been thought through carefully. "Not imagined. The kind you actually lived."
I looked at him, slightly startled. "Go back?"
"Yes."
"You mean — that feeling just now. I could have it again?"
"You could." No hesitation. "You could go back to that time. Not just catch a fragment of it — actually be there. See what she's doing. Hear her speak. Be beside her the way you used to."
The way he said it was plain. He didn't emphasise anything. Didn't wrap it in anything. Just placed it down. That was exactly what made it hard to treat as something casual.
I looked down. Said nothing.
Images began surfacing in my mind — blurred, but recognisable. That silhouette in the kitchen. The angle of her shoulders. The way the ends of her hair fell. The melody seeping in beneath the sound of running water. And that feeling — reaching, almost there, always just slightly out of reach. I pressed it back down quickly and breathed in.
"It's not only that," he added. "If there's somewhere you always wanted to go but never did, or something you always wanted to do but couldn't — those are possible too. Almost anything you can think of."
A breeze moved the curtain from outside. The light on the wall shifted once, then stilled.
"I'll be going there this weekend," he said, naturally, as if confirming something already settled. "If you'd like to try, you can come."
"Where?"
Rather than answering, he reached for a piece of paper on the side table and picked up a pen. He wrote a few lines, his movements clean and without hesitation. When he was done, he folded the paper once and held it out toward me.
"A place where you can try."
I didn't reach for it immediately. I just looked at it — small, white, folded, resting in his hand.
"You don't have to decide now," he said. "If you don't come, we can pretend none of this was said. If you do come, I'll be there waiting."
No pressure. No persuasion. His voice was as neutral as someone describing something that had nothing personal at stake.
I looked at the paper and didn't move.
There were two things running in my mind at the same time, slowly, but both clear.
One was wanting.
If it were real — if I could actually go back, actually be there, whole and complete — hearing her voice, watching her move, feeling the warmth of her, the smell of her, the angle of her shoulders as she stood at the kitchen counter with her back to me. Not a dream, not the kind where you wake up holding nothing. Actually there. The way things used to be.
As the thought opened up, something pressed against the back of my throat — not sadness exactly, more like a longing so deep it felt physical. The kind you tell yourself you've made peace with, that time has lightened, but it never really left — it only found somewhere to sit quietly, waiting for someone to brush against it, and then everything comes out at once.
The other was fear.
Not fear of the place. Not fear of him. Fear of something harder to name.
What if it really worked. What if I was really there — in that kitchen, in that melody, in that warmth. What if I didn't want to leave.
When that thought formed, something in my chest dropped slightly. Quiet, but unmistakable. I knew it wasn't a good sign. Knew that someone who needs to worry, in advance, about whether they'll be able to make themselves leave — probably shouldn't go in at all.
But the paper was still right there.
I looked at it for a long time.
In the end, I reached out and took it.
Not because I'd thought it through. Not because one side had won. Only because if I didn't take it, the wanting would sit there indefinitely, pressing on me until I eventually went looking for him anyway. Better to take it now. At least know where the place is. At least leave myself the option. At least I haven't walked in yet — I'm still outside, still standing here, still able to decide not to go.
He didn't say anything else. He stood, quietly pushed the chair back into place, and walked out of the infirmary. The door clicked shut — barely a sound — but the room settled after it, as if something had quietly landed in the air and made it heavier.
I sat there without moving, the paper in my hand. Still warm — the residual warmth of ink recently dried, faint, already fading. I glanced down at it but didn't unfold it. Just held it. My mind wouldn't stop moving. Not in clear, ordered thoughts — just a restless, unstoppable feeling, like water in a pot just before it boils. Not boiling yet, but already in motion.
I lay back gently, closed my eyes, tried to think of nothing.
The melody floated up anyway. From nowhere. Soft and slow.
Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
I opened my eyes.
After a while, I sat up, folded the paper carefully and slipped it into my pocket, then walked out of the infirmary alone. The corridor was nearly empty by then — a few lights on, casting warm squares on the floor, though the warmth felt slightly unreal. Outside, the sky was close to dark. Dusk had been pressing in through the windows, taking the last of the day's colour.
I didn't linger. I walked straight toward the school gate.
The whole way home, I didn't think about anything.
But the paper stayed in my hand.