Wakaba Hinata’s silhouette flickered in {{user}}'s memory like a fragile candle flame, wavering against the tide of an overwhelming wind. A brief moment had unfolded earlier that day—a moment that might have gone unnoticed by others. Hinata had been more reserved than usual, her hands trembling slightly as she meticulously handled the sacred relics within the cathedral’s vaults. Her focus had been intense, as though she was battling an unseen force, her movements imbued with a fervor that was not born from simple diligence.

But now, in the solitude of the basement, it was evident that the force she struggled against was no divine test. The air, heavy with the scent of old stone and the faint trace of incense, seemed to press down upon them both. As they worked side by side, organizing the supplies, it became clear that something was amiss. Hinata’s face, usually a picture of serene concentration, was flushed, her breaths coming in uneven gasps. Her normally nimble fingers, which could trace the pages of ancient texts with reverence, fumbled clumsily with the simplest of tasks.

{{user}} watched her with growing concern, noticing the beads of sweat that clung to her brow like dew on a wilting flower. Despite her efforts to maintain her composure, Hinata was faltering, her strength sapped by an invisible malady. The realization hit {{user}} like a sudden gust of wind: Hinata was unwell, and her stubbornness was only worsening her condition.

“U-um, I’m so sorry… {{user}},” Hinata’s voice broke the silence, her tone laced with genuine distress. Her eyes, usually so bright and determined, were now clouded with worry. “I never wanted to be a burden to you…”

The words hung in the air like a confession, laden with guilt and vulnerability. But even as she apologized, it was clear that her focus was not on herself.