The ward was at the very end of the hallway on the top floor of the inpatient department, and access required double verification.
Rin Kurokawa swiped her intern badge twice on the sensor and entered the temporary access code her advisor had sent her this morning before the heavy glass door slid open silently.
The room was quiet, with the rhythmic low hum of the monitors serving as a background noise she had long since grown accustomed to.
The scent of disinfectant was mixed with a very faint floral fragrance.
There was a fresh bouquet on the windowsill, probably changed yesterday.
Lying on the hospital bed was a girl who looked a few years younger than Yuki. Her light flaxen hair spread across the pillow, and though her cheeks were pale, her features were soft.
If not for the slowly pulsing green line on the monitor, she would have looked more like she was simply asleep.
Rin Kurokawa sat down on the chair beside the bed, took a tablet out of her bag, and pulled up today's observation log.
Every two days, she would come here for a routine checkup to record data, adjust the treatment plan, and then return to the lab to write her report.
This case had been handed directly to her by her advisor. Only the patient number and admission date were written on the cover of the medical chart; the name field was blank.
Her advisor said this was to protect the patient's privacy, so she didn't pry.
But some questions didn't need to be asked aloud to swirl in one's mind.
Who was this girl? Why was she placed in a private intensive care unit?
She had flipped through the admission records.
The cause of admission was a deep coma caused by an impact.
Rin flipped to the last page of the observation log on her tablet, filled in today's data, and capped her stylus.
She had been participating in clinical internships under her advisor since her first year of medical school and had seen all kinds of cases.
Elderly people in comas after car accidents, children who didn't wake up after surgery, and ordinary citizens caught in the crossfire of Erosion Bodies.
For the last category of cases, the cover of the medical chart never read “Erosion Body”—it only ever said “accidental injury.”
There was a certain unspoken understanding between the Association and society, where all records related to Erosion Bodies were replaced with more neutral phrasing.
The official explanation was to avoid causing public panic.
She had no opinion on this.
She didn't have many thoughts about Magical Girls themselves, either.
To her, those figures flying across the city sky after transforming were not much different from shooting stars flashing across a news broadcast.
She knew they existed, but she didn't feel they had any intersection with her own life.
Occasionally, when she saw blurry footage of Magical Girls fighting on the news, she would think of Yuki.
Yuki had loved Magical Girl anime when she was very small.
But that was back in kindergarten; Yuki probably didn't pay attention to those things anymore.
Magical Girls existed on an entirely different life trajectory.
Rin packed up her tablet, stood up from the chair, and began checking the flow rate of the IV drip.
This was the last item of every routine checkup; once it was done, she could leave.
Just as she was about to push the chair back into place, the door to the ward was pushed open from the outside.
She turned her head, her hand still resting on the back of the chair.
Standing at the doorway was a young woman who looked to be around seventeen or eighteen, with flaxen hair.
Her hair color was almost identical to that of the girl on the bed.
Her facial features bore some resemblance to the girl on the bed, and there was a beauty mark just under the corner of her eye.
She looked slightly more mature.
She wore a plain knit cardigan and a dark maxi skirt. She had no makeup on, and her face looked a bit tired.
In her hand, she carried a convenience store plastic bag containing several sealed plastic bags, through which changes of clothes and daily necessities were faintly visible.
She hadn't expected anyone else to be in the ward at this hour, and the two of them stared at each other across the hospital bed.
Rin let her hand drop from the back of the chair.
“...Are you the new doctor?”
The other girl spoke first. Her voice was softer than Rin had expected, with a slight upward lilt at the end, as if she were trying to make the atmosphere less awkward.
“Yes. Are you a family member of the patient?”
“I'm her older sister.” The other girl placed the convenience store bag on the nightstand, her movements very gentle, as if afraid of waking the girl on the bed.
She then tucked her long hair, which was draped over her shoulder, behind her ear and bowed slightly. “Thank you for taking care of her. I'm Yuzuki Asakura.”
Rin searched her memory for the surname Asakura but couldn't find any matching information.
The patient's name field on the medical chart was blank, so she had never known what the girl's name was.
“Rin Kurokawa,” she replied, offering her own name.
“I'll be coming in for routine checkups every two days from now on. The patient—your sister's vital signs are very stable. Her brainwave activity this past week has been more active than before, which is a good sign.”
As she said this, she noticed Yuzuki Asakura's fingers tighten slightly upon hearing “good sign,” before relaxing again.
“Is that so? The previous nurses said the same thing.”
Yuzuki walked to the window and drew the curtains open a bit more, letting in more sunlight. “They say it's a good sign every time, but she just won't wake up.”
Rin looked at her back and didn't reply.
She had heard similar words many times in different hospital rooms.
She prepared to push the chair back to its original position, her gaze sweeping over the convenience store bag Yuzuki had placed on the nightstand.
The opening of the bag was agape, revealing a few neatly folded changes of clothes inside, with a hospital gown on top.
It wasn't the standard-issue gown provided by the hospital, but a privately purchased home-use version. Half of a name tag was visible on the inside of the collar.
The surname on the tag was not Asakura; it was mostly obscured by the fold, revealing only a corner of the first character.
In hospitals, it wasn't uncommon for patients to be admitted under aliases.
Some families did it to avoid media harassment, while others did it to prevent certain organizations from tracking the patient's social connections.
There were other reasons that even the attending physicians weren't privy to, only knowing that it was a special case flagged directly by the higher-ups.
This young woman named Yuzuki Asakura looked to be about her age, but her posture as she stood by the bed was like a string that had been pulled taut for far too long.
“...Visiting hours are until eight in the evening.”
Rin tucked the tablet under her arm and took a few steps toward the door. “The call button by the bed connects directly to the duty room. If you need any help, just press that. Doctors and nurses are on shifts, so someone is always available.”
Having said this, she paused for a moment by the door.
Normally, she would have left immediately after giving the standard instructions, without lingering to overthink during such a pause.
Just as Rin was about to push the door open, Yuzuki turned her head slightly. The beauty mark under her eye looked exceptionally quiet against her profile.
“Doctor Kurokawa. Do you think my sister can hear me?”
Rin turned her head back.
Yuzuki was still looking out the window, the sunlight dyeing her flaxen hair a pale gold.
Her fingers rested on the back of her sister's hand.
“There's no medical consensus on that,”
Rin replied. “But there are many clinical cases showing that the brains of comatose patients respond to auditory stimuli in specific frequency bands. A family member's voice is one such stimulus.”
“In other words, it's possible she can hear me.”
“...It's possible,” Rin said. “Do you usually talk to her?”
“Yes. I talk to her every time I visit. Just about really boring things. What I ate for breakfast, what I saw on the way here.”
“The convenience store recently released a new pudding flavor—it used to be her favorite. I told her we'd go eat it together once she wakes up, but the lines are always so long, and I'm too lazy to stand in them alone.”
Rin shifted her tablet to her other arm, unsure of what to say.
In hospital rooms, the things doctors said to family members followed a set template.
“We'll do our best,” “Her condition has improved compared to last week,” “We need to observe her for a while longer.”
“...When she wakes up, you two can go together.”
In the end, she said something that didn't sound like what a doctor should say.
It was so unprofessional.
Rate on N.U.
