Chapter Text
There is a room that exists in the space between sleep and waking—a room that is not quite a place, not quite a time. It is simply there, suspended in the silence of a forgotten world.
This room has no name, for names are unnecessary in a place like this. There are no windows to let in the light, no doors to escape through. The walls are a grey that can't be remembered. The floor is a hard, unyielding surface that never changes beneath your feet. The air is thick with a quiet that presses down on you, weighs on your chest. It smells faintly of dust, of forgotten things, of time that has stopped moving altogether.
Inside the room, there is a boy.
He is nameless, or at least, he cannot remember his name. He has never known it. There is nothing about him that stands out—no distinguishing features, no memories of past lives or future ones. He is a blank slate. He is simply there, as much a part of the room as the walls, the floor, the air itself.
He has never known the touch of another hand, the sound of another voice. He has never known color. He has never known warmth beyond the faint hum of the room's ever-present coldness. He has never known what it means to breathe freely, to laugh, to feel.
The boy spends his days in silence, walking in circles, staring at the walls, trying to remember what it felt like to be more than just a shadow in this place. Sometimes, when the hours stretch on, he wonders if anyone will ever come for him. If anyone will ever open the door that leads outside this room, beyond the emptiness.
But the door never opens.
And so the boy waits. And waits. And waits.
The walls are grey. The floor is grey. The ceiling, the air, the light—they are all the same shade of unyielding, unwavering grey. He has no need for a name. There is no one to call it out to. There is no one to hear it. Names are just sounds, aren't they? Just words people speak to remind themselves they exist. But in a room like this, where no one ever speaks unless they have to, the question lingers: are names real at all? Or are they just the echoes of the things people cling to in order not to disappear completely?
He doesn't know when he started to think like this. Time is something he cannot touch here. It passes like a shadow against the grey walls, faint and intangible, as though it, too, has forgotten its purpose. There are no clocks, no windows. The only rhythm he knows is the steady rise and fall of his own breath, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the whispers of things that are meant to be forgotten.
The only things that break the silence are the people who visit him. They come in white clothes, with faces hidden behind smooth, impassive masks. Their voices are low, careful, like they are afraid to disturb the stillness. They take notes. They write down things that Will can't understand. He doesn't know what they are saying, but he watches them—sometimes from the corner of his eye, sometimes straight on. He knows they are important, these visitors, but in the same way that the walls are important. They are just there, existing in a way he cannot reach, in a place where his mind is forbidden to go.
They have names, he thinks. Their names are real. But his name is not. Not yet.
He doesn't know how long he's been here. A month? A year? Longer? There's no way to measure it. Days are just stretches of grey, folded over themselves like pages in a book that has no beginning or end. He feels the weight of his own thoughts as they grow heavier and heavier with each passing moment. A name would make things real, wouldn't it? It would make him someone. But he has no name. He is just a collection of empty thoughts, a shadow against the grey.
The room smells sterile, but that isn't something he can put into words. It's just...there. Like everything else. He doesn't know how to describe the scent. He's never had to. Words are unnecessary here. It's easier not to think about what things are, because if you start, they begin to slip through your fingers like sand. There are no names. No faces. Just the sound of his breathing, the murmur of the air conditioning, and the constant presence of grey.
The door opens. It always opens. They always come.
He doesn't look up immediately. There's no reason to. The visitors don't change. They come and go, with their white clothes and their quiet, impersonal smiles, their hands moving as if everything they do is measured, controlled, practiced. They talk to him sometimes. Ask him questions, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't know how. He doesn't even know why they ask. He knows only that when they leave, they always take something with them, something invisible and intangible, something that slips away before he can even understand what it was.
But today, something is different.
Today, he feels it before he hears the door open. There's a shift in the air, like a sudden breeze, though there are no windows. He turns, but only slightly. His movements are slow, deliberate, as though he is afraid that if he moves too quickly, the moment will disappear. The door opens wider, and a figure steps inside.
He doesn't know who they are. They are wearing the same white clothes as the others, but there's something in the way they hold themselves that makes the boy pause. Their presence feels different. It feels real, in a way that the others never have. Their silhouette stands against the dull light, sharp and distinct. The silence between them stretches out, thick and heavy, as if the air itself is waiting for something.
He watches them for a long moment, and then they speak.
"Hi."
The word hangs in the air like a delicate thread, fragile and unfamiliar. He blinks, his eyes widening, not sure what to do with it. There is something about the sound, something that feels...warm. Something that feels like it belongs. For the first time, the world seems to shift.
"Hi," he repeats, his voice cracking, the word strange on his tongue.
It feels right.
The visitor smiles, though it's small, uncertain. They step closer, lowering their hand towards him. "What's your name?"
He frowns, staring at their hand. The word "name" feels heavy, like it's something he should know. He looks at the figure, trying to grasp it, but the word slides away before he can hold it.
"I... don't have one," he says, his voice low, almost inaudible.
The figure doesn't pull back. Instead, they kneel in front of him, their eyes soft, their gaze kind. They don't say anything at first, just looking at him as if they're waiting for something. He could feel the weight of their gaze like a presence in the room, like they are seeing something in him that he hasn't seen in himself yet.
"Will," the visitor says, almost to themselves, and he looks up sharply, startled by the sound of it.
"What?" he asks, blinking in confusion.
The figure's smile widens, the kindness in their expression deepening. "I think your name is Will."
Will doesn't understand why, but the word settles in his mind. Will. It's strange, and yet it feels like the first thing that has ever made sense. It feels like a door opening, a shift in the air, a name that holds weight, even though he's never known it before.
"Will," the visitor repeats, their voice soft, almost reverent. "And, I'm Nico"
He repeats it too, his lips trembling as he says it again, the sound filling the space around him. It's the first time he's heard it, the first time it's been spoken, and it's more than just a word. It's a beginning. It's a question. It's the start of something he doesn't yet understand but feels in the very depths of his being.
"Will," he whispers to himself again. It feels like the beginning of something bigger than him. Something he's never known.
And, in that moment, the grey walls of his room—this room without color—seem to blur at the edges, as Nico pulls him out of his room.
The world shifts. the world explodes in color.
Will's gaze shifts as his attention is pulled to the world around him, his eyes drinking in the hues he had never known before. The grass beneath his feet is a vibrant green, the sky stretches out in a pure, endless blue, and the trees—those tall, ancient figures—hold leaves of gold and brown and every shade in between. Every color seems so real, so alive, so—
So much.
It's overwhelming. It's beautiful.
And Will can't help but gasp, stepping back slightly. His eyes dart from one new thing to the next, as if trying to take it all in at once, knowing full well that there's no way he can. He feels as though his heart is too small to contain everything in front of him, as though the colors are too large for his body, spilling over the edges of the world and washing through him.
"Are you...okay?" Nico asks, his voice soft, knowing.
Will's mouth opens and closes as he tries to find the right words. He doesn't know how to explain it. He doesn't even know how to explain himself yet, but it doesn't matter. He just knows that this—this world—is what he's been waiting for. This is real. This is his.
For a moment, Will says nothing. He just stands there, surrounded by a riot of color, feeling like he might burst from the sheer intensity of it all. And then he finally says, breathless, "It's...It's everything."
Nico's smile widens slightly. "Yeah. It's something, isn't it?"
And for the first time in his life, Will understands what it means to be alive, to be part of this world, to feel the rush of colors and the whisper of wind against his skin. It is all so real—so much more than the pale shadows he had known for so long.
And maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something new.
The sunlight is overwhelming.
It bleeds across the horizon, spilling into every corner of the world, like it cannot help itself, like it has never known a moment of restraint. Will squints against its brightness, raising a hand to shield his eyes. The last time he saw the sun—really saw it, felt it on his skin—he was far too young to remember. His memories of that time are fragments, smudged and faded like ink left out in the rain.
But now, it is here, alive and pulsating, a thing that exists beyond the gray shadows of his past. It holds no fear. No cruelty. It is simply...light. And it feels like the kind of thing that could fill a person up, if only they knew how to embrace it.
Will blinks rapidly, adjusting to the world before him. The ground beneath his feet is so different from the cold, unforgiving floor of the room. There is texture to it—rough patches of earth, jagged stones, blades of grass that prickle his ankles. It feels...alive. Everything around him feels alive.
His breath comes in shallow bursts, his chest tightening as he takes in the sheer expanse of it all. The sky is a deep, almost-too-perfect shade of blue, with no edges, no boundary. The trees in the distance stretch their long arms up towards the sky, their leaves whispering with the wind. The air smells faintly of something fresh—earth, rain, and the wild fragrance of growing things. He doesn't know what any of it is, but it's different. It's all so different.
"Will."
The voice cuts through the haze of his thoughts, and he freezes. It is low, familiar, grounded, like the sound of someone who has always been there—even if they weren't. It belongs to the person who has guided him out of that room. The one who has taught him that the world might not be the monster it seems, that it might be worth knowing after all.
Nico stands a few feet away, his dark eyes soft with something Will can't quite decipher—something between curiosity and concern, maybe. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the lines of tension in his body have relaxed since the moment Will took that first step.
"You okay?" Nico asks again, his voice more of a command than a question, as though he's always been sure Will will be okay, but still wants to hear it.
Will hesitates, glancing down at his feet, unsure whether to move or stay still. His body trembles, not from fear, but from something deeper, something that burns within him, a yearning he can't name.
The word he needs to speak hovers in his throat, but it is elusive. He opens his mouth and closes it again, his lips dry. His eyes dart around, taking in the colors—the way they move with him, around him, through him. There is a quiet hum that pulses beneath the stillness, a rhythm to everything, as if the world itself has a heartbeat.
Nico doesn't seem to mind. He just watches Will with patient eyes, allowing the silence to settle between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Will takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He has learned that sometimes the world doesn't ask for explanations. Sometimes, the only thing needed is a willingness to face the unknown. A willingness to trust.
His throat tightens as he looks up at Nico, and then—finally—he speaks. It is not much, not more than a whisper, but it is enough.
"I don't know what this is."
The words sound strange in his mouth, like they belong to someone else. They are shaky and unsteady, but they are his. The silence presses in around him, but it doesn't feel suffocating anymore. It feels...manageable.
Nico doesn't answer immediately. He just steps forward, his eyes never leaving Will's face. Then, after a long beat, he says simply, "It's okay not to know."
Will nods, but something deep inside him stirs—a longing, an unease that he cannot quite place. It feels like a door in his chest, opening just a crack, and behind it, there is something that calls to him. The desire to know, to understand, to find the answers to the questions that have haunted him for as long as he can remember. But they are all so tangled, so impossible to reach. The more he tries to grasp at them, the further they slip from his fingers.
Instead, he looks back at the world around him, as if to force himself to focus. The wind moves through the trees, and he watches the leaves sway with a fluid grace he could never have imagined in that empty room. Everything is motion. Everything is alive. His fingers itch to reach out and touch it all—to feel the texture of the earth, the coolness of the air, the warmth of the sun.
But Will can't move. Not yet. The world feels too big, too vast, and he is just one tiny speck in it. His gaze drifts up again, finding Nico's face. There is something in the way Nico looks at him—something gentle, something encouraging, something that reminds him of the quiet hope he saw the first time Nico pulled him from that room.
"You're not alone," Nico says, his voice a quiet reassurance. "Not here. Not anymore."
Will's breath catches at the words. They are simple words, but they hold more weight than anything he's ever known. The gravity of them is overwhelming, almost dizzying. Alone? He hasn't known anything but solitude. He hasn't known what it means to not be alone.
But as the world spins around him, as the sky stretches out above him, Will realizes—he isn't alone. Not here. Not now.
He takes another step.
It's small, but it feels monumental. His feet move beneath him as though they've found their place. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he feels...he feels as if he could walk forever, into the sun, into the unknown.
"Let's go," Nico says, and there's a strange softness in his tone, like he's finally seen the first spark of something in Will.
Will doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. Instead, he steps forward again. One foot in front of the other. It feels like a beginning.
And for the first time, he feels like he might be ready to understand.