Chapter Three: A Name for the Sky The next few visits to the hospital changed something inside Arisol—quietly, like a tide pulling at her ankles. Her father rested more, spoke less, but smiled every time she walked in. And each time, as she sat in the familiar green chair, she heard the same cough on the other side of the curtain, followed by the now-familiar voice: “You again.” She would smile softly to herself before answering, “Me again.” Their conversations stayed simple at first—books, music, the way hospital food always tasted like cardboard. But one afternoon, Yuki admitted something different. “I miss the sky,” he said. “I haven’t seen it in over three weeks. It’s like… I’m forgetting its color.” That night, Arisol pulled out her red notebook. The page she chose was clean, the paper soft beneath her fingers. Her pen moved slowly, her words chosen like steps over a frozen river. She titled the poem “A Name for the Sky.” It wasn’t long—just a few lines about how sometimes the sky isn’t blue, but a memory, or a whisper, or the color behind someone’s eyes. The next day, she folded the page and placed it gently on the edge of the curtain when no one was looking. Yuki didn’t say anything right away. But when she returned two days later, the paper was gone—and in its place was the same page, turned over. On the back, in messy handwriting, it said: “If the sky could talk, it would sound like you. Thank you for reminding me it’s still up there.” From then on, it became their silent routine. A poem. A reply. A few stolen words through the fabric between them. They still hadn’t seen each other fully—not past a faint shadow or a glimpse of fingers through the curtain—but it didn’t seem to matter. Somehow, the space between them made everything feel softer. Her father noticed, of course. One day he chuckled and said, “You glow a little when you walk in now.” Arisol blushed, pretending not to hear him. But that night, her notebook stayed open longer than usual, and her poem ended with this line: “Some skies live behind curtains, waiting to be named.”
