The man entered the room slowly, still dreading the sight that would greet his eyes in the dim light of the dying fireplace.
He steeled himself for what he knew waited for him. The sight of the petite girl, bedridden and ashen faced, made him pause from pushing the door open to allow him entrance.
For the last three months he had walked into the room and seen the same thing. Every time he prayed to whoever might be listening to wake the girl from her slumber.
Every time, she still slept.
The steaming hot drink in his hands did little to warm him.
Pushing open the door, he was greeted with the painfully familiar sight. A girl who ought to be running through fields or chatting with friends lay motionless, save for the nearly imperceptible rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
He sat down in the chair next to her bed. The fabric had long molded itself to his frame. With one hand, he placed the tray he had carried into the room on the tiny table next to the bed.
With the other, he took another sip from his drink.
It was dark outside. The lonely window showed a beautiful starry night out.
He couldn't find it within himself to enjoy it.
His sole concern was for the health of the girl.
From his pocket, he produced a small spoon and began the slow process of feeding her broth. With great care, he lifted up her head just enough to allow her mouth to open. He took a spoonful of soup and nursed it into her mouth.
And then he held his breath.
The first time he had tried to give her something to eat, she had gagged it up and nearly choked. Since that time, he hadn't felt comfortable giving her anything other than broth.
She swallowed the spoonful reflexively, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
"There now," he says as she swallows. "That's what you need. Some food."
Talking to her helped him, but only a little. He's not sure whether or not she can hear him. Still. He remembers times when they talked before. It calms him a bit to speak to her like she was awake and could be listening.
"You were supposed to stay behind, you know," he said. A single tear came to his eye. He brushed it away, and went back to feeding her.
For the moment, he was silent.
He carefully fed her the rest of the soup, and then sat back in his chair to sip his drink.
The cup had cooled considerably.
So absorbed was he in his task, that he didn't realize he was no longer alone with her.
Behind him stood another man, one whom he respected greatly and was glad for his mentorship. He felt his strong hand on his shoulder.
“You gonna stay up all night again?” he asked in his gruff tone. “You've got to get some rest too or you'll wear yourself out.”
It was true. He was exhausted. The last two nights he had spent half resting, half watching over his sleeping ward.
He took another sip of his drink.
“I'll watch her tonight,” his friend said. “You rest.”
Reluctantly and wearily, he stood. With every movement, he felt the aches and pains in his body of little rest and less food in his belly.
He had to take care of himself if he was going to take care of someone else.
Slowly, he walked back to the door with his mug and his tray, the spoon and bowl resting on top.
At the door frame, he turned and watched his friend settle himself into the chair, a mug in his own hands. From the smell of it, he was drinking something much stronger than tea.
He glanced at the girl one last time. The slow and steady movement of her chest were the only indicators of the life inside her when she wasn't eating.
For months she hadn't spoken.
She hadn't moved.
She hadn't done anything.
Her eyes were shut tight.
He couldn't bare the sight any longer. He pulled the door closed and stepped into the lonely hallway.
“Wake up, Blume,” he said to himself as he walked to the kitchen to return his dishes, his eyes beginning to mist and obscure his vision.
