The Hero's breath hitched, his hands trembling at the warmth of her touch. It was steady, filled with a love he had never known—a love so deep, so unconditional, that he didn't know how to respond.
"I... I don't know," he admitted, the words slipping out before he could think. It was the only truth he had. He truly didn't know how he felt.
Ellen's gaze remained soft, unwavering. "It's okay, son. Just take it slow. We're all here."
Her voice held no demands, no expectations—only warmth, only love. It was so full, so overwhelming, that he dared not meet her eyes. A gnawing fear crept into his chest.
What if she saw the truth? What if she realized that he wasn't her real son?
"Yeah, Jack, we're all here," his older brother said, his voice steady, reassuring.
James.
The Hero clung to the name, sifting through the scattered memories of the past few days. When he had first woken up—dazed, his mind foggy from sedation—they had been there. Strangers who called themselves family. Strangers who had looked at him with warmth, with relief, with something dangerously close to love.
His mother, Ellen, was a teacher. She had gentle eyes, the kind that carried patience honed over years of guiding students. His older brother, James, was three years older and worked in something called the tech industry. The Hero still wasn't sure what that meant, but he nodded along whenever it came up. He figured he'd understand in time.
Then there was Andrea, his younger sister. Thirteen this year—ten years younger than him. The baby of the family. She had been the most shaken. The way she clung to him, as if afraid he'd disappear again. The way she tried so hard to keep her chin up, to swallow back her sobs, only to fail moments later.
She had loved the original Jack deeply.
And now, here he was. A poor replacement in the shape of their son, their brother.
It had been hard on all of them.
"But at least you're still with us," Ellen had said, her voice filled with quiet conviction. "That's what matters."
"Especially after…" Ellen's voice trailed off, barely a whisper. She had stopped herself, as if realizing she had said too much.
Her grip on his hand tightened, fingers curling around his as if grounding herself. There was something heavy in her eyes, a sorrow that ran deep. The Hero tensed, uncertain.
He remembered the question he had asked just a few days ago.
"Do I not have a father?"
Ellen and James had both stiffened at that. A shadow had passed over their expressions, fleeting but unmistakable.
"Your father…" Ellen hesitated, carefully choosing her words. "He's no longer with us. He died many years ago."
Her voice trembled. Even now, the grief had not faded.
The Hero had wanted to ask more. What kind of man had his father been? How had he died? But the pain on Ellen's face, the way James looked away, jaw tight—it told him enough.
So he had let the question die in his throat.
They sat in silence for a moment, simply existing in the shared space. No words were needed. Just the quiet comfort of being together.
Then, a knock at the door broke the stillness.
The attending doctor strode in, his presence a stark contrast to the solemn atmosphere. It was as if a gust of fresh air had swept into the room.
"Oh, hello!" he greeted, his voice almost too chipper.
He glanced around at the gathered family and gave an approving nod. "I see everyone's here. That's great."
Then his attention shifted to Jack.
"Still remember me?"
The Hero scowled.
"Yes. You're Doctor Carter."
How could he forget? Healers, as they were called in his old world, were meant to mend, not imprison. But this doctor—this man—had kept him confined, subjecting him to endless tests, preventing him from so much as stepping outside the room.
Doctor Carter chuckled. "No can do," he had told him before. "Not after you ran off on us."
The Hero had tried to reason with him. "I won't do it again."
But the doctor had only laughed.
And then the prodding had begun. The nurses, poking and sticking needles into him, drawing blood as if he were some kind of livestock. The Hero had resisted at first—of course, he had—but resistance only led to escalation.
The guards would appear, armed with a sedative. Always ready. Always watching.
He had learned the hard way that he was not in his prime. Not anymore. Not in this frail body.
"If only I had my strength…" he had thought bitterly. "I could take down ten of them without breaking a sweat."
"Alright, no memory issues here. You're able to retain and form new memories," Dr. Carter noted, scribbling something onto his clipboard.
James frowned, his concern deepening. The doctor had specifically asked for the whole family to be present—surely, that meant something.
"Is there anything to be concerned about?" he asked, his voice edged with unease.
Dr. Carter hesitated for just a second too long. "Nothing that we know of..."
The room tensed. The family's expressions darkened.
Realizing his poor choice of words, the doctor quickly waved his hands. "I mean—he's in great health, considering the circumstances of his injuries from the accident."
A sigh of relief rippled through the room, though the tension remained.
"He's almost fully healed," Dr. Carter continued. "Smoke inhalation, bruised ribs, minor burns, and scrapes—all of it is healing well. The biggest concern was potential brain injuries, but even that doesn't seem to have caused any major disabilities. The worst case was memory loss, along with some initial confusion and disorientation."
"A coma for over a week," he added, shaking his head. "But other than that, he's made a remarkable recovery."
Ellen squeezed Jack's hand a little tighter.
"We kept him under observation for memory issues and some physical rehab," Dr. Carter went on. "But even that? He aced it. A week or two more, and physically, he'll be as good as new."
James, ever pragmatic, pressed on. "And mentally?"
Dr. Carter exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, that one's a little trickier. His mental alertness is nearly back to normal. There's still some slight confusion, but aside from that, he's doing well. You just need to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't overexert himself or get into trouble."
Andrea, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. "What about his memories?" Her voice was small, anxious. "Will he remember?"
Dr. Carter's expression softened. "It's hard to say… He might. He might not. If the part of his brain that stores long-term memory was damaged, even if it heals, there's no guarantee he'll regain access to those memories. It all depends on the patient."
Andrea's face fell.
Jack—the Hero—watched her closely. She wanted him to remember. She needed him to. And yet… the memories she longed for were never his to begin with.
"It's okay, Andrea," Ellen murmured, rubbing slow, comforting circles on her daughter's back. "We can always make new memories together."
Andrea nodded, though the tears still spilled down her cheeks. She wiped at them hastily, as if embarrassed to be seen crying.
Dr. Carter cleared his throat, drawing the room's attention back to him.
"With that said," he announced, "he's officially cleared to go home."
Andrea's head shot up. "Really? Jack can go home?"
Dr. Carter chuckled. "Yes, after we finish the discharge paperwork, he's all yours again. We lay no claim to our patients," he added with a playful wink.
It was a weak attempt to lighten the mood, but it worked.
"That's great!" Andrea practically bounced in place before launching herself at Jack. "Jack! You can go home!"
The hero barely had time to react before she wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. He stiffened. How was a thirteen-year-old this strong? It felt like she was squeezing the air out of his lungs.
He let out a strangled gasp.
"Hold it, young lady," James said, crossing his arms. His tone was mock-stern, but the grin tugging at his lips gave him away. "Be gentle with your brother."
Andrea giggled but loosened her grip—just a little.
Ellen laughed softly, her eyes shining with warmth.
Despite everything, despite the strange weight pressing on the hero's chest, he could feel it. The room was filled with relief, joy.
They were happy Jack was coming home.
Home.
The hero wasn't sure if he belonged there. But as Andrea squeezed his hand, as Ellen wiped her own unshed tears, as James ruffled his hair like an older brother should—he couldn't bring himself to pull away.