Iris (PondPhuwin OneShot)

And all I can taste is this moment

Pond did not know time in the way humans did. His world had no beginning and no end, only movement—gentle, patient, constant. He did not hunger. He did not fear. He did not touch. He watched.

He stood beside those who passed, whispering calm into their ears as they stepped into the unknown. That was his task. His purpose. There was no grief, no joy, no pain. Only peace. Only stillness. He did not long for more.

Until he saw him.

It was in an operating room past midnight, the sterile light above flickering slightly as if resisting exhaustion. A young boy lay on the table, skin pale and lips blue, as a team of doctors fought to pull him back from the brink. Pond stood in the corner, unseen, untouched, waiting—because it was nearly time.

But his eyes were not on the child. They were on him.

Phuwin.

There was no reason why. No grand sign from the heavens. Just a boy in scrubs with too much emotion in his hands and too little sleep in his eyes. The others moved like machines, but Phuwin—he felt.

“Again,” he barked, pressing down hard on the boy’s chest. “Charge to 200. Go.”

His voice cracked with strain, and Pond felt it. Felt it.

The flatline came soon after. The other doctors stepped back. They shook their heads.

Phuwin did not move.

His fingers lingered over the small chest. His breathing was uneven. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and mingled with a tear.

Pond took a step forward, compelled by something he couldn’t name. Grief should not matter to him. He had witnessed centuries of death.

But when Phuwin gently placed his hand over the boy’s heart and whispered, “I’m sorry,” Pond realized he wanted to reach out. Not to comfort the soul—but the one left behind.

He did not leave the room until Phuwin did.

---

He returned. Night after night.

Phuwin had a routine. Rooftop escapes during graveyard shifts. Vending machine coffee he never drank. The sound of sneakers echoing against white-tiled corridors when he couldn’t sleep.

Pond followed. He wasn’t supposed to, but he did.

One night, Phuwin spoke without turning around.

“I know you’re there.”

Pond froze. The wind was sharp on the rooftop, tugging at Phuwin’s thin hoodie.

“You never make a sound, but I always feel it. Like static in the air.”

Pond stepped closer, just enough to be seen in the corner of his eye.

“You’re not one of us, are you?”

Pond tilted his head. “What do you mean by ‘us’?”

Phuwin finally turned to face him. “Doctors. Nurses. Humans.”

Pond looked at him, really looked at him, and then said quietly, “No. I’m not.”

They stood in silence. The city buzzed beneath them, but the rooftop was still.

Phuwin exhaled. “You’re not afraid I’ll think you’re insane?”

“No,” Pond said. “You wouldn’t.”

A pause. Then a soft, bitter laugh.

“I’ve seen too much to believe in just what I can touch.”

---