Ethan sat in his hospital bed, staring at his hands. They were thin and unfamiliar, fingers trembling with weakness. The blue veins stood out prominently against pale skin that hadn't seen sunlight in years. He turned them over slowly, examining the calluses that had softened and nearly disappeared. He had once been strong, capable, his hands steady whether balancing spreadsheets or carrying boxes during their move to Croydon. Now, he felt like a shadow of his former self, his body betraying him with every small movement.
The physical therapist had left minutes ago after their first session. It had been humiliating—struggling to perform exercises that toddlers mastered without thought, his muscles screaming in protest at movements as simple as lifting his arm above his head.
Sarah sat beside him, watching carefully. She had barely left his side since he woke up, rearranging her work schedule, hiring a neighbor to help with Lily during visiting hours. Exhaustion weighed on her face, carving new lines around her eyes. The last two years had not been kind to her—working full-time while raising their daughter alone, spending evenings at his bedside, never knowing if he would ever wake up. Yet, even now, she smiled, reaching for his hand.
"It's okay," she said softly, her thumb tracing circles on his palm. "You're here now. That's what matters."
Ethan nodded, though the tightness in his chest remained. His mind still reeled from everything—two years lost, his daughter a stranger, and now, this system whispering knowledge into his mind. He couldn't explain it to Sarah, not yet. How could he tell her that music now filled his head like a living thing, intricate compositions forming at the edges of his thoughts? That algorithms of harmony and counterpoint ran through his consciousness even as they spoke?
[Music Composition skill passive improvement detected. Current level: 1.3]
He blinked, trying to focus on the present moment.
Lily sat on Sarah's lap, clutching a small stuffed rabbit with one ear more worn than the other. She hadn't said much since their reunion, only watching him with quiet curiosity. It hurt more than he expected. In his dreams during the coma—dreams he now recalled in fragments—he had imagined their first meeting differently. Laughter, tears of joy, instant connection. Instead, there was this careful distance, this evaluation. She was getting to know him, this stranger who was supposed to be her father.
"Lily," he said, his voice still rough from disuse. "Do you like music?"
Her eyes flickered to him, deep brown like his own. "Mummy sings sometimes. I like that."
Sarah smiled, a flush coloring her cheeks. "Just lullabies and nursery rhymes. Nothing special."
"She sings pretty," Lily added with the absolute conviction of a child.
Ethan smiled, pushing through the strange ache in his chest. "Would you like Daddy to play something for you?"
Lily tilted her head, considering. "Can you?" The question was innocent, but it struck at the heart of his uncertainty.
He hesitated. Could he? The system had flooded him with knowledge, theory and technique downloading directly into his brain, but his body was weak, his fingers barely able to grip the sheets. The thought of pressing down piano keys, of playing fluid melodies, felt like a distant dream.
[Physical limitation detected. System-assisted recovery suggested. Temporary muscle enhancement available at cost of 10 System Points.]
Ethan inhaled sharply as warmth spread through his fingertips. Strength trickled back into his muscles—not a miraculous instant fix, but enough. Enough to move, enough to try. He flexed his fingers experimentally, finding them more responsive, more controlled.
[System Points remaining: 0. Future points will be earned through music creation.]
Sarah noticed the shift in his expression. "Ethan?" Her brow furrowed with concern.
He looked at her, then at Lily. "I want to try." The words came out firmer than he expected.
Sarah hesitated before nodding. "There's a piano in the visitor's lounge. The nurses let me use it sometimes when..." She trailed off, but he understood. When she'd spent hours by his bedside, needing a moment of escape.
She turned to Lily. "Shall we go see Daddy play?"
Lily nodded shyly, and with the nurse's help, Ethan was placed in a wheelchair. The sensation was disorienting—being pushed, controlled, dependent. Every push forward felt surreal. Two years of stillness, and now, here he was, moving toward something new.
The hallway stretched before them, a gauntlet of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. Other patients glanced at him as they passed—some with curiosity, others with the vacant stare of those lost in their own suffering. Ethan tried not to think about how many times Sarah had walked this corridor alone, uncertain if he would ever join her.
The visitor's lounge was a modest attempt at comfort—worn sofas, a small television mounted in the corner, shelves lined with dog-eared magazines and donated books. By the window stood the piano, an old upright, its wooden frame slightly worn but well-maintained. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting golden bars across the polished surface.
The nurse positioned his wheelchair before it. "Take it easy, Mr. Thompson," she advised, eyeing him doubtfully. "Don't push yourself too hard on your first day."
Ethan nodded absently, his focus narrowing to the instrument before him. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the keys. A deep breath. A moment of doubt. And then—
He played.
The first note rang out, clear and resonant. Then another, and another, until a melody unfolded, as natural as breathing. His hands moved with newfound confidence, his fingers finding their places with effortless precision. The music was unfamiliar yet deeply his own, flowing from somewhere within—a gentle contemplative piece that started hesitantly, like a question, before building into something more assured.
[Original composition detected. System Points earned: 5]
Sarah covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. The nurse stopped in the doorway, turning back in surprise. Lily watched in silent awe, her stuffed rabbit clutched forgotten in her small hand.
"Ethan," Sarah whispered when he finally finished, the last notes lingering in the air. "That was beautiful. When did you..."
He shook his head slightly. "I don't know. It just... came to me." Not entirely a lie.
Lily slid from her mother's lap and approached the piano cautiously. "Can I?"
Ethan nodded, and she pressed a single key, the high, clear note hanging between them. She looked up at him, a small smile forming. "Again?"
"Here," he said, patting the space beside him on the bench. "Let me show you."
With Sarah's help, he moved from the wheelchair to the piano bench, and Lily climbed up beside him. He placed her small hand on the keys, his own hovering just above, guiding her through a simple sequence of notes.
"See? That's a C major scale," he explained, the term coming automatically to his lips. "It's like the alphabet of music."
Lily nodded seriously, concentrating on the keys. "C major," she repeated carefully.
For the first time since waking, Ethan felt whole—connected not just to music, but to his daughter, to this moment that should have happened years ago. The weight of lost time still pressed upon him, but now, there was something else too—possibility.
[Teaching skill unlocked. Music instruction now available.]
As they played together, simple notes becoming a clumsy duet, Ethan glanced at Sarah. She was watching them, tears shimmering in her eyes, a complex mixture of joy and bewilderment on her face. He knew she had questions—questions he wasn't ready to answer.
But for now, this was enough. And for the first time in two years, Ethan believed—truly believed—that he had a future worth reaching for.