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Phainon didn't know when it started, but ever since his fifth and final year of college, he started having these vivid dreams: Of himself, standing on a gentle slope of a lonesome hill. Behind him was a forest, leaves swaying with the soft pushes of a warm eastward wind. In front of him was a dirt path leading to a dilapidated church, a sad undertone accompanying the quiet chimes of the bell in its sole bell tower.
Every night, he dreamed of himself taking a few steps towards this church. Every night, he found the church more and more beautiful under the moonlight which kissed its unkempt roof. Phainon should have been creeped out by these dreams. Perhaps he should be looking for psychiatrists to diagnose him with some sort of weird sleep-related illness.
But the soothing rings of the bell and the caress of zephyrs passing by only evoked something melancholic in him. As though… the dreams were trying to coax long-forgotten memories from the very depths of his soul.
And he let the dreams play out as they should: Him taking a few steps every night, night after night, until he arrived at the door. He was barely able to place a shaking palm to the wooden frame when the sudden tolling of the church bell had him gasp awake.
Was he… not supposed to enter the building?
The very next night, Phainon got his answer: The wind now stood still, the forest in the background a mere amorphous blob of black. The distinct lack of the bell’s ringing--he looked up to see the bell tower collapsed, and the bell itself missing.
Phainon gulped.
This dream felt more vivid, so much more real. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest, his palm growing sticky by the second, and the sweat which lazily dripped down his brow. But still, he was not afraid. Was he perhaps nervous? With a quick inhale and a breath held, he pressed his hand to the ornately carved door, and pushed it open. The sight that awaited him had him completely lost. He stood still, breath lodged in his chest, as though time stood still.
Inside the church where rays of light seeped through the cracks in the broken stained glass, stood a lonesome figure at the altar. A ghostly figure in a modest suit of white, with a delicate veil hiding their visage--undoubtedly lovely--trailing to the mid-thighs.
Oh so carefully, Phainon entered and approached the ephemeral figure, afraid that any sudden movement would have them scared. With every step, he could see this person better. See them with head tilted slightly upward to look at the moon peaking through the Cathedral glass, two small hands resting upon the altar.
It wasn’t until he was at the front row of the pews that the figure turned, the veil gently following his movements and swaying behind him. For a moment, Phainon’s breath was caught in his throat.
“Khaslana?” A sweet voice echoed through the nave, singsong that almost brought a tear to his eyes.
“I’m--,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “My name is Phainon. Have we… met before?”
Something was tugging at his soul, at his very being. It was strange. This was their first meeting, and already Phainon felt like this was a presence he could not live without.
“No.” Every so slightly, the ghostly figure exhaled a shaky breath.
Phainon watched as the figure stepped down from the altar and approached him. Through the gossamer touch of the veil, Phainon could see a slender body, so frail he feared the presence could be blown away with a single gust of wind. He gulped.
“It is our first meeting.” Lithe fingers rose to brush against the fragile fabric. With utmost care Phainon had never seen before, the figure slowly lifted the veil over his face, past his forehead, and let it settle behind him in a cascade of grace.
Beautiful dual-toned, shining eyes look into Phainon’s own baby blue. Strands of seafoam green locks framed a lovely face. The ghostly person smiled at him, looking oh so beautiful. For a moment, Phainon forgot to blink--to take his eyes off of this angelic presence.
“Phainon.”
He woke with a start. He quickly sat up, rubbing his eyes trying to comprehend his dream--oh, but what was that? A stream of tears flowed freely from the corners of his eyes. Why did he feel so, so lost?
-----------------x-----------------
“We meet again, Phainon.”
“Yes.” Phainon once again found himself in the church. “We meet again.”
This time, he had to wait a full week before he found himself standing in the ever so familiar church. The few days following that night , he spent his waking hours in a stupified daze wondering if he may have gone crazy. Was it all a hallucination? Sleep paralysis demons? Weird voodoo? The dreams and the church were gone, along with the beautiful presence who seemed to be waiting for someone. Khaslana , he remembered.
But he was here now.
The two were sitting at the front row of the pews, the ghostly figure’s gaze lingering on the moonlight, while Phainon could not rip his eyes from this beautiful prince next to him.
“May I know your name?” Phainon asked.
The veil trailed behind him as the person turned towards him, a smile ever so serene. “You may call me Anaxagoras.”
A name of the ole, but it rolled off of his tongue regardless. Finally, he could put a name to this person who had been haunting his dreams for months.
“Are you…” How should Phainon put it? “Are you familiar with the concept of Nous ?”
Anaxagoras’ brows lifted slightly, before his lips stretched into a smile. A small titillating laugh escaped from him, a hand raised to press against his own chest. “This is the first question you ask? Not if I’m a ghost or if I’m real?”
“I figured…” What exactly did Phainon figure? He wiped his open palms to his shorts, taking a deep breath. “I know you’re real. There is no way I’m crazy enough to dream up something like this.” He gestured to his surroundings.
“I see.”
“And, I did consider if you were a ghost. It seems plausible.” Phainon did not believe Anaxagoras was of this era, but his presence transcended the ages.
“Thank you, Phainon, for indulging my questions.” Anaxagoras’ smile was breathtaking. “As for your question, no, I am not familiar with the concept of Nous . However, it might be related to the school of Nousporism , with which I am familiar. Tell me, boy, what is this ‘Nous’ ?”
“In my studies, ‘Nous’ is a concept of the mind,” he started. “In pre-Socratic philosophy, the philosopher Anaxagoras proposed that the Mind is matter, like everything else in the cosmos, but which can only be found in living beings with souls. In cosmology, Nous is what caused the cosmos to start revolving, but which itself is not needed for the continued mechanical motion.”
“Is that a textbook answer?” Anxagoras teased.
Phainon blushed. “Yes.”
“There is nothing wrong with providing a textbook answer to a textbook question,” Anaxagoras remained pensive for a little bit. “Hmm--the concept is certainly similar to Nousporism . But I won’t delve further into this topic. Philosophy doesn’t appear to be your expertise.” He eyed Phainon, a piercing gaze of understanding.
“My apologies,” Phainon inwardly cringed and sheepishly laughed. “I only studied enough to pass my class. My major is quite different.”
“Oh?” Anaxagoras seemed intrigued. “What are you studying?”
“It’s… a bit complicated.”
“We have all the time in the world.”
Indeed they did, in this dream that seemed neverending.
Phainon talked about his winding road to the journey’s end. How he entered college without knowing what he wanted to study and spent the greater part of his first year aimlessly wandering from subject to subject. He fell in love with English literary prose, but he was neither a writer nor an editor. He dabbled in history, but it only discouraged him when he noticed the endless cycle of human suffering--of the generations who did not heed the lessons of the past. It was during this time that he stumbled, lost, into a philosophy class and learned the concept of Nous . It brought a sense of existential crisis, pondering the greater cosmos, of which humans were a miniscule portion. So wholly insignificant, but yet which carried meaning still.
Next came archeology, and then it was architecture. He decided, at the eve prior to his third year, he wanted to delve deeper into the art of construction. A perfect discipline based in history, ever evolving, but remaining a testament to human permanence.
But it was too late.
Declaring his major this late into his undergraduate career meant he was subject to seat availability, and there was none. Phainon, if he remained foolhardy on this road he meandered onto, then he needed to wait another year and apply for a transfer at that time. One wasted year coupled with four more years of education--it felt like a waste.
It was fine. Phainon didn’t have the fire stoked in his chest, the passion for architecture a mere passing fling.
So he pivoted to education. With his English and history credits, he could easily slot into the third year curriculum and graduate with only a single year delay. And, he wasn’t that bad of a teacher. Now, he had his Masters in Education to look forward to.
“If given the chance, would you have studied architecture from the beginning?” Anaxagoras asked.
Phainon simply shook his head. “I lack talent.”
Someone determined could toil away in the fields for eons--to manually pluck the weeds and sow the seeds. Someone determined could refine and hone their skill until they’re sharp as a blade. But lacking talent, they would remain forgotten--just a number among the masses of those who “didn’t make it”. Such was the cruelty of art and competition: Lacking that “spark” which could draw crowds to their work.
His friends disagreed.
Mydei, his hotheaded friend from childhood, entered culinary school. He was always steadfast, knowing exactly what he could and could not achieve. He boisterously laughed as he ran faster than Phainon, lifted more weights than Phainon, and who always had something to say about the food placed in front of him. With a keen nose, he could identify the myriad of spices mixed into the dish, and replicated them with ease. Phainon knew, though, behind that confident smile were hours Mydei spent experimenting and occasionally blowing up a pot or two.
Castorice, a shy and quiet girl who sat to the back and to the side during his years in secondary school. Her nose was always deep in a large dusty tome, a little journal always by her side. She was a fan of purple prose, her lyrical writing evoking deep emotions and imagery with just a couple of words. Libraries were her sanctuaries. Phainon was not surprised when she studied library and information science, to live her dream of a quiet life filled with books. He knew, somehow, she was a little bit insecure in her ability to make it as an author--but he had read her first manuscript, and it was extraordinary. Phainon told her he would be the first in line for her autograph.
Hyacine was a hardworking classmate of his when he was taking his required STEM classes. In lab, she ceaselessly bounced from station to station, helping her classmates when their results came out a little bit off from the expected. She smiled brightly, always with her little pegasus keychain tied to her backpack. She told him she was going to become a pediatrician, and she had the smarts to back her ultimate goal. Dedicated, motivated, and hard-working--all with a heart of gold. Phainon saw the countless times she studied until the hours of the early mornings, but still she met the morrow with a blinding optimism.
There were so many others, who seemed to know exactly what they wanted and worked towards their dreams with a single-minded focus that had Phainon jealous.
Perhaps what he lacked wasn’t talent, but passion. To succeed, to stand back up when he failed, to keep going and push through stagnation--he didn’t have that.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Anaxagoras commented.
“I have come to terms with it.”
“I think…” Anaxagoras placed gentle fingertips to the back of Phainon’s hands. The touch was cold, subdued, but it seemed to touch his soul. “You are a young man who is simply lost. You speak so highly of your friends, but you don’t seem to care for yourself. You are a charming fellow who loves with a bleeding heart, perhaps to your own detriment. Why do you not take your own share of love?”
“I…” don’t know.
Phainon didn’t know. He simply didn’t belong in his group of dazzling friends.
“Oh, it looks like it’s time.”
“Uh?”
“See you next time, Phainon.” The ghostly touch disappeared, and Phainon was already missing it. “May Cerces safeguard your thoughts.”
-----------------x-----------------
Another month had passed. It was a month of Phainon replaying their conversation over and over in his head, the voice echoing ever further with each passing day. His dreams returned to being nonsense--mere eclectic firing of tired neurons as he slept. It was a month of tossing and turning in his bed, never truly finding that cozy spot to doze into comfortable blackness.
Sometimes, Phainon would think he was never going to be able to see that church again, to talk to Anaxagoras. But the man had said “see you next time”, and Phainon latched onto that simple phrase. Why was he so desperate to talk to him? Why did, after a single conversation, Phainon felt like they had become much more than simple acquaintances?
He wanted to know more about Anaxagoras.
And he got his chance, one month later.
He opened his eyes, his body a bit stiff, but still sitting at the front row of the pews. He quickly turned, head snapping with an audible crack of his neck.
“Ow, ow--!”
“Careful.”
Phainon rolled his shoulders, rubbing at his nape until the pain ebbed. Finally, he turned to the soft voice. Aah--Anaxagoras was beautiful.
“Hello, I’m here,” he greeted. He stared into blue-pink eyes, moonlight kissing his cheeks. His presence seemed to glow, almost ethereal.
“You are, indeed.” His smile was beautiful. “Welcome back.”
Everything about Anaxagoras was beautiful, from the way his head tilted, to the way he spoke--all of his little gestures and breaths. He smelled distinctively of mint, oh so calming.
“I want to--” Phainon’s words were caught in his throat. But Anaxagoras remained patient, until Phainon inhaled deeply. “I’d like to know about you.”
“Hmm,” Anaxagoras hummed. “You need not concern yourself with me.”
“Why not?”
The ghostly beauty hummed and turned away from him, his gaze now forlorn, glancing towards the moon hung high in the nightskies.
“Why don’t I tell you a story?”
Phainon leaned forward, eagerly nodding.
Anaxagoras told of a story of a little boy, who bid goodbye to his quaint little village to become the hero he was destined to be. But what was “destiny” to a mere child, who lifted a wooden sword and who swung at the vines? Who proudly claimed he would protect those he loved from the creatures of whispered nightmares?
Because as time flowed, disaster came for his little village. His home was no more, a carcass of black left asunder. The seeds of fury and hopelessness were planted that day, when the lines between vengeance and protection blurred.
The little boy pushed forward, keeping to the wisdom of greatswords. He would become the great hero who would welcome a new dawn in this desolate land, of a world on a timer. Was this his wish, or was it the insurmountable expectations placed upon him by the strong and the weak? Deep down, he doubted himself--but time did not let him stop and ponder these tumultuous feelings.
Throughout his journeys, the little boy met a wide cast of characters, all who would touch his heart in one way or another. A group of little girls who always met the morrow with a wide smile. A seamstress who fiercely protected those who she held dear, and who led the lost onto a path forward. A quiet girl with the touch of death, who yearned only for the warm touch of another. A trickster, ever so elusive. A crown prince of an era no more, who fought with strength unforetold. A healer who touched the skies, who smiled down upon the lands with a sweet tilt of her head.
And a teacher, who saw him mature into a fine young man, and bid him goodbye for their path diverged. An eventuality. But to this teacher, the young man would remain a man, in his entirety, forever.
For this boy grew into the hero who would bring a new world without calamity. In which only the mundane would exist, giving way to the extraordinary to flourish. Let people’s dreams come true, let those with passion sprint forward and let those who bask in simplicity trek forward.
“ Era Nova ,” Anaxagoras called it. “A new dawn.”
“It sounds like paradise.”
“It is.” Anaxagoras closed his eyes. The story continued.
At the precipice of disaster, when the world all but collapsed, when Era Nova was within reach with the journey’s end--the truth was revealed to the young man. A lie. A cruel lie, meant to drive humans to desperation, to strive for survival, only to die and feed into a cycle of neverending suffering. Otherworldly beings, Aeons who commanded the very concepts of cosmos, simply watched on. A mere puppet, the young man was, who was meant to bear the world in the sadistic gazes of the Gods.
The end of the world, the end of its existence--it would eventually reset, as though nothing had happened. A new timeline, where creatures of calamity still loomed--and the young man, now broken, would force this very timeline to restart over and over and over and over. Until the day his body would turn to dust and a real paradise could be created. He would await the day Era Nova would turn from a mirage into reality.
Such was the tragic story of a boy forced to play a hero’s role that was not his to play.
“... I’m confused.”
“Hmm?”
“If Era Nova was a lie, why would he keep going?”
“He believed salvation was a ‘when’, not an ‘if’,” Anaxagoras answered. “If his world was doomed by the very Gods who created it, then all he needed to do was wait for someone outside of his world to arrive and grant them salvation.”
“Like an isekai?”
“...”
“Sorry, please ignore me.” Phainon coughed into his hands. Anaxagoras probably didn’t know what Phainon was talking about.
Anaxagoras hummed.
“I wonder…” Phainon began. “Is the little boy ‘Khaslana’?”
“Perceptive,” Anaxagoras chortled. “May I know your reasoning?”
“You seemed to know this little boy personally, from the way you told the story,” Phainon explained. Anaxagoras’ tone of voice as he spoke was mixed with melancholy and nostalgia, as though reminiscing of a bygone era. And “Khaslana”, the only name he uttered at the first person who approached him in this very church. “You were… also likely his teacher. Of his companions, he was the only character whose feelings towards the boy were described.”
“Very perceptive.”
“I want to ask though.”
“Yes?”
“Where is he now?” Phainon wondered. “I mean, you’re here. So, I thought maybe…”
Anaxagoras touched a lithe finger to his lips. “That’s a secret.”
“Not even a little hint?”
Anaxagoras’ laugh was a joyous melody that was soothing to his ears.
“Until next time, Phainon.”
Phainon blinked and he found himself staring at the monotonous white ceiling of his apartment.
-----------------x-----------------
Phainon finally figured out the pattern to his dreams: They would only be allowed to meet during the full moon. And so, he circled the next full moon on his calendar, and waited with bated breaths for their next encounter.
For days, he thought about the story Anaxagoras had told. Khaslana’s story. He researched the terms he used and asked around internet forums if anyone heard of this fantastical story of a resetting world and of Gods. But all he got was a load of nothing and a couple comments asking what type of looney fanfiction he was writing.
Anaxagoras must’ve existed. Somewhere, sometime. Perhaps his story was an exaggeration of sorts. Maybe it was a simple story of a country bumpkin who moved to the cities to make a name for himself, but instead found himself stuck in a neverending loop of corporate servitude. He would be let go of his job, and he would toil for another--a cycle of dread and desperation all to put food on the table and keep a roof over his head.
A part of him wanted to believe Anaxagoras came from another world, as a fleeting ghost who haunted his dreams and his dreams alone. Like a fairytale.
Maybe Phainon was going crazy. Was he?
This was the very question he asked Anaxagoras the next time they met. Only, Anaxagoras laughed--not of mockery, but maybe a little bit of astonishment.
“You’re real, right?” Phainon’s voice was almost pitiful.
Anaxagoras smiled. “Give me your hand.”
Like a puppy, Phainon obeyed. Gossamer-light touch tickled his fingers, until a small hand was placed in his. Their palms touched, fingers lightly brushing against one another. The small hand in his hold was cold, but his skin was soft and his digits lovely. A delicate presence, like porcelain.
“Am I real?” Anaxagoras asked.
“Yes.” I am touching you.
I want more.
“Tell me, Phainon,” the gentle weight disappeared from his hands and Phainon almost chased after it. “Is your world peaceful?”
“No,” came the swift answer.
The world was plagued with corruption, where for greed, fellow humans would trample one another. Where the rich bemoaned their lost luxuries, but would not bat an eye at the starving poor. Stupidity reigned supreme, everyone in their mindless ignorance. War, the decline of the environment, addiction, human suffering --the world was the antithesis of peace.
“I see.” Anaxagoras was pensive for a brief moment. “However, I think it is quite a lovely world.”
“How so?”
“Humans can never escape conflict,” Anaxagoras commented. “But amidst corruption, there are those who fight back, who go against the status quo and do what is right. For every visible greed, there are countless invisible acts of kindness and generosity. Ignorance is not a sin, but an opportunity to teach. May they find a teacher who will willingly walk the trenches with them and may they expand each other’s horizons in the pursuit of a truth .”
Anaxagoras gave Phainon a knowing look--as a future educator himself, who would guide generations of students to come.
“It is a flawed world, but that’s what makes it real.” As Anaxagoras spoke, Phainon could only watch the sway of his body and the movement of his lips. “The world is impermanent and incomplete, but there is beauty in the jagged edges of this weathered earth. Compared to my world, yours seems like a dream.”
“A dream?”
“Yes. A dream.” Anaxagoras, once more, looked to the moon. His low, side ponytail slipped from his shoulder. “When I look at the sky here, I see twinkling stars that accompany the moon. Even if it is a permanent evernight, they’re real.”
Once more, Anaxagoras closed his eyes, lashes twinkling under the veil of the ethereal moonlight. “And when I close my eyes, I can see a sea of golden wheat swaying in the wind. It is warm, and the sky is painted the colors of a sunrise. Or is it a sunset? I can’t tell.”
A smile, oh so forlorn. “And in the far distance, I can see him .” A shaky breath slipped through his lips. “I am walking towards him , and I ask, ‘what is your dream’? I can’t hear his answer.”
For a moment, Phainon remained silent, an untold emotion brewing in his chest. “This ‘him’ you speak of--is it Khaslana?”
“...” Anaxagoras reopened his eyes, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.
“Phainon,” a head of seafoam green turned towards him. “What is your dream?”
A breath was caught in Phainon’s throat. “My dream,” he croaked out. He didn’t have one. All he could do was wish for everybody else’s dreams to come true. And maybe, one day, amidst the ocean of sparkling dreams, he could find his own and tirelessly chase after it.
They locked eyes, baby blue staring into dual-hued blue-pink. His dream was here.
There was a sparkle in Anaxagoras’ eyes, as though he saw something Phainon didn’t understand.
“Would you like to meet me?” Anaxagoras asked.
“Yes,” came the immediate answer.
“Why?”
“I feel like… if I don’t, I will regret it for the rest of my life.” It was the truth, pure and unfiltered.
“No matter what form you find me in?”
“No matter the form.”
“I see.” Anaxagoras lifted a single finger, and touched Phainon’s forehead, right in between his eyes. A flood of images inundated his mind. “Then, you can find me here.”
The edges of Phainon’s vision blurred, the signs that the dream was able to end.
“I’ll be waiting.” Anaxagoras’ twinkling eyes was the last thing Phainon saw, before blackness enveloped him.
“May Cerces safeguard your thoughts.”
And Phainon was awake.
-----------------x-----------------
For someone who dabbled in a varied amount of subjects, geography wasn’t one of them. Or, at least, not in the way it mattered.
It took a number of days for Phainon to piece together where Anaxagoras was located. In one of the images Anaxagoras showed, there was a blinding white room, tidy and symmetrical. Almost like a hotel room, but it was too simple, too sterilized to be one. It took a stroke of a pencil to paper for Phainon to notice this image was in the first person perspective, taken from a bed. A hospital bed, the safety bars peaking through the corners.
He sketched each and every last image. A grand building, seen from the inside, overlooking a parking lot. The entire front of the hospital was made of glass, three panes high. But there was a blurry figure of a human sitting, leaning against the glass--Phainon estimated around 15m worth of glass. A five story building.
A fishbowl-like hallway of glass--no--, it was an overpass, wide enough to fit four wheelchairs side by side. Phainon figured these images were sequential, where Anaxagoras was moved via wheelchair from one facility to another. The winding halls were particularly unhelpful, but it allowed him to estimate roughly the size of the buildings. This was a major hospital, somewhere in this world Anaxagoras thought a dream.
And a final image--a window view, east facing, overseeing a parking lot. In the distance, a church with a single bell tower peaked through the foliage of a grassy park. And in the corner, barely visible next to the wide expanse of glass, was a little calendar. Phainon couldn’t read anything on the calendar itself, but the arrangement of the days on the sheet of paper was an important clue: He reached for his own calendar, flipping through the pages to match the pattern of boxes to his sketch.
Five months ago.
Roughly the time when his dreams started.
This helped narrow down the hemisphere of where Anaxagoras was, at least.
Phainon asked around, providing the sketches to his friends to analyze. Mydei thought he had gone insane, but he helpfully pointed out that the grand building looked like a vomit of consumerism. For a hospital entrance, were the sculptures and artful walls truly necessary, for a facility meant to serve the sickly? Castorice gave Phainon’s plight a little bit more thought, pointing out the cars in the parking lot had front license plates in a consistent pattern. Her observation did make Phainon revisit the cars--and in the images, the patterns on these license plates helped narrow down to the very continent these vehicles could be from. Hyacine pointed out the exact brand of machinery Phainon had drawn… Though, this information was a bit less helpful when it came to finding Anaxagoras.
And the rest was up to Phainon.
With a list of every single hospital across several possible countries, Phainon woke up early and stayed up late to find a match.
On the eve of the tenth day, he finally found what he was looking for: Two hour drive northeast, a facility tucked in the suburbs of a bustling city.
The very next day, he threw on a jacket and sprinted out the door. He was skipping classes today, but that was okay: Professor Tribios would surely chastise him, but in the same breadth help him catch up. His manager at his part-time work, Aglaea, would surely forgive him for his short notice of an unplanned absence.
When Phainon arrived at the hospital, walking through the wide glass doors of the grand hospital building, completely disheveled and a heart threatening to rip out of his chest.
Anaxagoras was here.
Anaxagoras was close.
“What is the purpose of your visit?” The receptionist inquired.
Phainon only blinked, his mind caught wandering.
“Sir?”
“Oh, uh…” he stammered. “I’m here to visit Anaxagoras.”
“Can you spell that name for me please, dear?”
… Phainon didn’t know the true spelling of this name. What if there was an extra "N" or an extra "R"?
“A-N-A-X-A-G-O-R-A-S,” he answered, hoping this late philosopher would be the answer to his unexpected plight.
His weight shifted from foot to foot, listening to the receptionist’s click-clacks of the keyboard.
“Oh, the miracle boy,” the receptionist seemed surprised, but delighted, at the same time. “You’re all set honey, please take a seat. An aide will come get you shortly.”
What did that mean? A “miracle boy”?
From the quiet whispers and off-handed commentary as he was led through the wide overpass and into the secondary building, Phainon could put a rough story outline together: A desperate man, clinging to life, who showed up at the hospital’s doorsteps. Who entered a long coma, all alone, without a kin who came to look for him. That was, until months prior, when he awoke--and today, when Phainon showed up to ask for this lonesome “miracle boy”.
Phainon was led to a room in the rehabilitation unit. With a quick knock of the door, it swung wide open to a view of a wide open window, a breeze coursing through a sterilized environment, the outside foliage flickering their soft red, orange, and yellow hues.
Phainon stood, eyes locked on a figure laying in the sole bed in this room. He didn’t hear the rustling of the window curtains flowing in the wind. Didn’t hear the inconspicuous click of the door as it closed.
All around him, time seemed to stand still, to slow while his focus was on the sole individual laying in the bed.
“You came,” Anaxagoras croaked.
Underneath that rasp of a parched throat, unused for a long time, was a sweet harmony Phainon could no longer live without. It called to him like a siren, coaxing him closer and closer until there was no turning back.
Like a moth to a brilliant flame, Phainon took a step forward. Another, another, another--until he stood next to the bed. He grabbed the chair next to the bed, and sank into its soft cushion. His gaze never left Anaxagoras’ emaciated form, mostly pale skin and fragile bones. But despite his skeletal form, a soft blush still creeped onto his gentle cheeks.
Phainon reached for a hand--Anaxagoras’ hand, and held it with fear that a simple wrong move would have the delicate appendage fall apart in his grasp. He lifted it, with reverence, two palms touching and with fingers brushing past one another--until they were palm to palm, fingers to fingers, feeling each other’s warm and steady pulse through skin and silence.
At last, he intertwined their fingers together, his hand fully engulfing the smaller man’s.
They stared, mesmerized by each other--and Phainon, he was giddy with excitement. The little puppy in him yipped and hopped with a jubilance he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“Yes, I came.”
He was here now, with his dream. His very reason for being.
In a previous life where they were doomed to only hold each other for a few mere days, in this life they would be blessed to kiss and embrace until death would do them apart. A cycle of life and death had started anew--of chance and fated meetings, all under the glowing moon, the shining sun, and the twinkling stars.