Chapter Two: The Curtain Between Us The hospital hadn’t changed much in seven years. The same lemon cleaner scent clung to the walls, the same hum of distant machines whispered in the background. But she had changed. Arisol stood taller now—5'6" and all soft limbs and quiet grace. Her light brown hair fell straight around her shoulders, brushing the edge of her pale sweater. Her skin was light and smooth, almost like porcelain, and her green, doe-like eyes carried a kind of sadness she didn’t talk about. She had her mother’s softness, her father’s silence. And hands—slim and calm, like someone who handled fragile things with care. She visited her father three times a week now, balancing it between school and everything else she pretended didn’t exhaust her. He was weaker, but he still smiled for her—still whispered, “Arisol-chan, my light,” when she walked in. As she sat in the room that had become too familiar, she finally noticed something she had ignored before: a long, sterile curtain drawn across the room, splitting it in half. It was strange, the way it just hung there. It felt like a barrier between two worlds. A soft cough came from the other side—wet, painful, human. Then a voice: “Is your daughter always this quiet?” She blinked. It was a boy’s voice—warm, slightly hoarse, but curious. Her father smiled faintly and replied, “She’s a writer. She watches before she speaks.” Arisol tilted her head toward the curtain, her green eyes narrowing slightly in interest. “You talk like you’re in a book,” the boy said through the thin fabric. Arisol surprised herself with a smile. “Maybe I am,” she answered. “Are you?” A pause. Then, “If I am, I think I’m stuck in the sad part.” She stood up, her soft hands gently brushing down the front of her jeans. She took a step closer to the curtain. “I like sad stories,” she said. “Sometimes they’re the ones that matter most.” On the other side, the boy exhaled, slow. “I’m Yuki.” His name landed like snow. “Arisol,” she answered. And in that moment, with a thin curtain between them and sorrow already folded into both their lives, something quiet and important began.
chapter 3
