The sun had already dipped past its peak, casting long, slanting shadows across the living room. It was well past lunch, yet the small house felt unnervingly still. The usual hum of the television had faded into silence, replaced only by the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Ethea sat in her usual spot, but her attention was nowhere near the screen. Her gaze remained fixed on the front door. Every few minutes, her eyes would drift toward the handle, lingering there with a quiet, burning intensity before she caught herself and looked away. This cycle repeated in the heavy quiet, a silent vigil that she seemed unable to break.

Lady Clara watched her from the kitchen doorway, her hands resting idly on a drying cloth. A complex wave of emotion pulled at her heart. As a woman, she understood the ache of a waiting heart. She knew the specific, hollow weight that settled in the chest when the person who had become your entire world was out in the path of danger.

She felt a flicker of joy seeing Ethea like this. It was proof that their marriage was no longer just a cold arrangement or a forced obligation. Ethea was no longer indifferent; she was just like a young wife waiting for her husband to return from work. There was a beauty in that connection that Clara had hoped for since the beginning.

Yet, that joy was mirrored by a sharp, lingering sadness. Clara knew the price of such devotion. To care this much was to be vulnerable. To love a man like Soren, a man who walked into the jaws of the world to bring back a future, meant living in this constant, suffocating silence until the door finally clicked open.

Clara sighed softly, the sound lost in the stagnant air of the room. She wanted to offer words of comfort, but she knew that for Ethea, no words would suffice. Only the sound of boots on the porch could break this spell.

"..."

Ethea’s fingers tightened slightly on the fabric of her dress.

She just kept watching the door, waiting for the one person who made the house feel like a home.

However, a strange pressure had begun to settle in the center of her chest. It was a dull, persistent ache she had been trying to ignore since morning, a sensation that felt nothing like the usual stiffness of her body. It was a weird sensation, one that seemed to sink deeper with every minute Soren remained absent.

Along with the ache, a nagging worry had also taken root in her mind, a persistent whisper that something was wrong, that something had happened to Soren. She fought the urge to let those thoughts take over, instead picturing him entering with his usual smile, looking just as he did every other evening.

But...

It had been more than eight hours since he left.

He should have returned by now, or at least called to warn them.

So why hadn’t he?

Perhaps he was simply busy, or was still inside a Gate.

’Yes... That must be it...’

Ethea tried to anchor her mind to that single, hopeful thought, but the hollow silence of the hallway offered no comfort.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Every beat of the clock felt like a physical hammer blow against her resolve, bruising the fragile optimism she tried to maintain. The longer the entryway remained empty, the more her internal excuses began to crumble like dry sand. The "busy" scenarios she built in her head were being systematically dismantled by the sheer weight of the passing minutes.

Vrrr. Vrrr. Vrrr.

A smartphone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the vibration rattling against the wood. Ethea’s head snapped toward Clara, who moved quickly to pick it up.

’Could it be him?’

She watched Clara’s face intently.

The older woman’s initial curiosity quickly vanished, replaced by a slight confusion. Then, the color drained from her cheeks. Her expression went solemn before freezing into a look of pure shock.

The nagging feeling in Ethea’s chest flared.

Clara lowered the phone, her hand trembling. She turned toward the wheelchair, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to speak. Her eyes were glassy and wide.

Finally, she forced the words out.

"Mr... Mr. Soren... He..."

"He... He is in the hospital."

Ethea’s eyes widened, her pupils shrinking into pinpricks. For a heartbeat, her mind went completely blank, the sounds suddenly muffled as if she were underwater. Her heart seemed to freeze mid-beat, and the world around her dimmed, the edges of her vision turning dark.

She gripped the armrests of her wheelchair, her knuckles turning white. She forced herself to breathe, fighting the cold void in her chest until she regained a sliver of composure.

"What... happened?" she asked, her voice trembling so much the words were barely audible.

Clara just shook her head, her hand over her mouth. "They... they didn’t say much over the phone. Just that there was an incident at the site and he was brought in by the bureau staff."

"W-where is he?" Ethea asked again, her fingers digging deeper into the armrests, seeking any sense of grounding as the room continued to feel like it was spinning.

Clara glanced down at her phone screen, her eyes scanning the text that had followed the call. "The Central Medical Center. It is the one near the Bureau headquarters."

"I..."

Ethea paused, looking down at her lap, at the legs that remained motionless despite the frantic urge in her chest to move, to run, to reach him.

Clara leaned forward, reading the desperate conflict written across Ethea’s face. "Do you want to go?"

Ethea opened her mouth to say yes, to scream it, but the words got stuck in her throat. She looked at the wheelchair, then back at Clara, the reality of her condition crashing down on her. The logistics of the trip, the crowded hospital, the sheer helplessness of her state... It all felt like an immovable wall.

Clara saw the worry clouding her eyes and reached out, placing a steady hand on Ethea’s shoulder. "Don’t worry. I will call my husband over now. He will take us there."

Ethea looked at Clara, gratitude flickering through the overwhelming haze of her panic.

"T-thank you..."