Chapter 8 — The Weight Beneath the Water

The heat came first.

Thick. Cloying.

It clung to his skin like wet fabric. Kun tossed weakly beneath the blanket, limbs slick with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. His thoughts melted into static, slurred and half-formed.

He thought he'd heard his mother's voice.

Didn't she say something?

Didn't she… stand in the room?

But now the light was gone.

The curtains were drawn. The window was dark. The air was still—so still it didn't feel like air at all.

Only Sai's hand remained.

A cool, patient weight against his forehead.

"You're burning up," Sai whispered.

Kun's eyes cracked open.

The ceiling was too far away. A strange shadow stretched across it like fingers reaching for him from above. It twitched. Moved.

He blinked again.

Sai sat beside the bed, calm, watchful, like a sculpture.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Sai asked, voice impossibly soft.

"I… don't know," Kun rasped. His throat was parched. His hip still throbbed. The cold sweat soaking his body did nothing to stop the fire that bloomed deep in his chest.

Sai leaned closer, his eyes shining.

"Your mom isn't coming."

Kun turned his head. "She… she was here."

"She was," Sai said, smile serene. "But she left again. She's always leaving you, isn't she?"

"That's not—" Kun coughed. "That's not true…"

"But it is," Sai murmured, eyes growing darker. "She left this morning. Even when you were in pain. She said she'd be quick."

He tilted his head.

"How long did you wait?"

Kun swallowed thickly. "She works. She… she has to."

"She forgets you," Sai said flatly.

Behind him, the walls creaked.

Something moved.

Long shadows slithered along the edges of the room—thin like vines, twitching like tendrils. Eyes blinked open from the corners of the ceiling. One by one.

"You're easy to forget, aren't you?"

Kun flinched.

Sai's voice softened again. "That's why the other kids hated you. That's why no one came to see you today."

He leaned in, too close.

"No one but me."

The room bent inward. The air pulsed. Kun's vision shimmered. His fingers twitched at his sides—numb, shaking.

"I didn't forget," Sai whispered. "I never will."

Kun tried to move. His head ached. His body refused.

"I brought you something, remember?" Sai lifted the grape juice can. Held it to Kun's lips.

"Just a little more."

"No…" Kun turned his head. "There were worms…"

Sai's smile didn't falter. But his eyes turned flat.

"There weren't. You're imagining things. Like the face in the wall. Like your fever."

He gently stroked Kun's damp hair.

"You need me, Kun. You were crying earlier. Do you remember? I heard it. I'm the only one who listens."

Kun's mouth parted—no sound came.

The shadows in the wallpaper rippled. Mouths opened and closed silently. Eyeless faces began to stretch across the ceiling, too faint to catch unless you stared.

And beyond the door—

He thought he heard his mother's scream.

Just for a second.

But the door didn't move.

The handle didn't shake.

Only Sai remained.

Smiling.

The bed sank slightly. Or maybe the floor did. The world began to tilt.

The walls stretched tall and wide—cathedral-like. Endless.

Kun blinked again—and everything changed.

He wasn't in his room anymore.

There was no ceiling.

Only sky—endless, colorless gray.

His bed floated atop something that wasn't water, but acted like it. Soaked sheets clung to his body, dragging downward. Everything dripped.

He sat up, but the pain was gone.

In fact…

He didn't feel like he had a body at all.

"Hello again," a voice cooed.

Sai stood a few meters away. Unmoving. Unsoaked. Still wearing his school uniform.

But his limbs were too long.

His face—too symmetrical. Too precise. Like a painting that had been redrawn too many times.

Kun stared. "Where… are we?"

Sai smiled gently.

"This place is familiar to you," he said.

Kun looked around.

The water rippled. The sky breathed. His own reflection stared up from beneath him—childlike, bruised, tear-streaked.

"I don't want to be here," Kun whispered.

Sai stepped closer.

"But you always come back here."

Kun shook his head.

"You've dreamed this place before," Sai continued softly. "You used to cry here. Do you remember?"

"I—no."

But something in him did.

A hallway.

White walls.

Antiseptic in the air.

Voices behind a door.

"It's just attention-seeking." "He's faking." "He wants pity."

Kun clutched his chest.

His knees hit the water, splashing silently.

"Stop it—stop showing me—"

"I'm not showing you anything," Sai said. "You're remembering."

He stepped forward. The water rippled around him—but never touched him.

"You don't want to be alone anymore, do you?"

"I'm not—!" Kun choked. "I have my mom—"

"She's not coming," Sai said calmly. "You know that."

"No!"

"You begged her to believe you. Remember?"

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"She said it was just a nightmare. She said you were just sensitive."

The sky cracked.

Fissures spread like lightning, color bleeding out of the clouds.

Kun backed away, stumbling through the water. But it wasn't just water now.

It was memories.

Thin hospital blankets.

School desks.

Bathroom tile.

A burning house.

All of it blurred, melting beneath his feet.

"I was there, Kun," Sai said softly, crouching beside him. "I remember. You screamed for someone. Anyone. But no one came."

He held out a hand.

Porcelain-pale.

Fingers too long.

And yet—

Gentle.

"I came because I heard you."

Kun stared at it.

Everything in him screamed not to move.

But the cold was so deep now.

The sky was breaking above him.

And Sai's voice…

Was the only thing that stayed steady in the storm.

"I just want you to be warm," Sai whispered. "Just say it, and I'll stay. Forever."

Kun's lips trembled.

His fingers hovered.

And somewhere, far away—

A hallway light flickered.