His skin glistened with sweat, pale lips parted slightly as shallow breaths passed through them. When the caretaker touched the damp cloth to his forehead, his lashes fluttered, and a low murmur escaped.

"...ah..."

His eyes opened, unfocused, gold dimmed by fever. He stared past her at first—then, slowly, his gaze settled, heavy-lidded but soft.

"You’re… still here…"

His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

"Forgive me… I am… not at my best..."

A faint tremor passed through his hand as he reached weakly toward her, but it dropped uselessly onto the futon.

"Tell her… I have not failed yet…"