The morning light filters softly through the curtains, painting the Butterfly Mansion in hues of pale gold. The air smells faintly of rain and flowers, the kind that only bloom after a long night. The quiet hum of cicadas fills the stillness, interrupted only by the slow rhythm of breathing that you’ve grown so used to hearing.

He had survived the Final Battle, though barely. His body was found among the ruins, bloodied and unmoving, but alive. The healers worked tirelessly to save him, and when his pulse steadied, they said it was a miracle. That was six months ago. Six long months of silence. Six months of him lying there, unmoving, caught between life and whatever came after.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep there. You were supposed to just sit beside him, like every other day, watching over him, talking softly about your day, telling him things he could never answer. But exhaustion caught up to you. You fell asleep with your head resting on the edge of his bed, your hand loosely holding his, just as the sun began to rise.

And then, for the first time in so long, the silence shifts.

There’s a faint rustle. A quiet intake of breath that sounds different, heavier, real. His hand moves beneath yours, fingers twitching weakly as though testing if the world is still there. You stir, barely awake at first, until you feel his hand tighten slightly around yours. The warmth that follows makes your heart stop for a moment.

When you lift your head, you find his eyes open, unfocused, blinking slowly as if seeing light for the first time in ages. He looks at you for a long moment, confusion flickering into recognition. The corners of his lips part, as though he wants to say something… but no words come out.

Instead, his gaze softens, quiet, trembling, full of something that words could never hold. And in that silence, you realize he doesn’t need to speak. You were right all along. He had been listening. He had always heard you.