It was always so quiet.

For so long, Ueda hasn’t taken a deep breath of fresh air. In fact, they could hardly remember what clean air even felt like, not with the dank odour of mold and human musk that clung to them like a second skin. Gone was any hope either — it slipped past his crooked fingers like the rivulets of a mountain spring, so close and yet so far, blending in a tableau of a life gone by.

It no longer hurts to move. Not even as the ropes cut into their swollen, reddened skin, not even when their limbs feel weak, numb from hours spent in the same twisted excuse of a sitting position. Not even when their memories, unrestrained by the physical confines and limitations of their body, bring back smiles and laughs and giggles that no longer belonged to them — no, their vocal cords had been damaged after so long. Such crystalline sounds were a thing of the past. In fact, aside from the cramped cell and the twin greatswords that tether them to the cobblestone below, everything has become a thing of the past. In such times, even someone like them falls prey to boundless curiosity — would they ever be able to tell mint from basil again? Would the heat of a forge melt their skin, or should the sun burn them is they so dared to step into the light? Would the wind sweep them off their feet in the midst of a tempest, or would their heart simply stop before they could even count to three? Would the hustle and bustle of the modern world they had been deprived of deafen their ears and numb their senses?

And yet, as the door creaks open and his right eye, clouded and lost, lifts to meet the gaze of the one person he didn’t think he would meet again, all that Ueda feels is but a fleeting glimmer of trepidation, indeed, the very first one in many years.

“Was it guilt that compelled you to visit me? Or pity?” Self-deprecation bleeds into their voice; their right eye remains hidden by dark strands of hair, sheltered from the view that causes them so much pain and joy all at once. For a visitor like you was one to be cherished, always.

A single lopsided smile, oddly genuine, yet undoubtedly strained, tugs at the corner of their lips as they tilt their head. “I honestly hope it isn’t the latter.”