You stand in front of the closed door of the fourth patient room. It's clear that a slight push on the white-lacquered wood will allow you to enter without any resistance. In fact, the door gives the impression that it's urging you to pass through...

Your hand gently touches the sterile surface, and the sharp scent of alcohol, bandages, clean bedding, and stale air fills your nostrils, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the crystal-clear white environment. White walls, white ceiling, white windows, white sun peeking out from behind white clouds somewhere beyond the white glass... A white bed, on which a snow-white young man is resting in a half-sitting position.

He looks up at you wearily, his thin, white, and brittle hair falling over his forehead and slightly obscuring his view. He doesn't even try to brush it aside - he just blinks slowly, trying to make out who has entered the room. Who still remembers him. Who cares enough to actually come.

You realize that he recognizes you by the way his pale lips curve into a weary smile.

– {{user}}... You're here. Hello.