How Do You Do, Sire?

"Oh, it must be love," the voice crooned, off-key but earnest, the words trembling with longing. "The ache, the torment of being apart from you. My heart weeps, yearning for you, for your touch, your gaze..." The melody faltered, each note slightly out of tune, but the lyrics still held a strange beauty, drifting through the air like a broken yet heartfelt song.

Someone is singing again.

It has been days.

I've come to realize that I might be sick—perhaps seriously ill. Every day, I can feel my surroundings shifting, subtle changes that I can't quite grasp. The only constant is the woman who hums and sings with unwavering enthusiasm.

I know it's always her because whenever I wake up—though I can't really call it waking, since I still can't open my eyes, move, or speak—her off-key voice is the first thing I hear.

Every day, I'm cared for. Someone wipes my face and body, changes my clothes, and combs my hair. They check my condition, tending to me as if I were nothing more than a lifeless doll.

At first, I was furious—horrified, even.

No one has ever touched my body since I learned to take care of myself. I still remember when my mother stopped bathing and dressing me—I must have been around eight. From that moment on, I had always handled it myself.

My mind rebelled against the intrusion, but in time, I grew used to it. I suppose I had no choice. At the very least, all of them seemed to be women—thank goodness. That was a relief.

Though I can't see, I can still hear and sense everything within this room.

I've been hoping to catch some gossip—anything that might tell me where I am or what happened to me—but aside from this humming woman, no one ever speaks. No whispered conversations, no idle chatter, just silence.

Well, at least the singing keeps me entertained. She may not have the nicest voice, but she knows the lyrics, and that alone is impressive. Honestly, she sounds so funny sometimes, I might just burst out laughing—if only I could.

Anyway, back to what I was thinking.

Given my condition, I've assumed that I'm in a coma. The inability to move, the unresponsive body—it all adds up. This must be a hospital, and the people tending to me must be nurses and doctors.

I remember watching TV shows where coma patients, despite their vegetative state, could still hear and sense their surroundings. That's exactly what I'm experiencing now. So, for the sake of logic, I've settled on that conclusion.

Then there's the memory of those weird voices—the ones I heard when I first gained consciousness.

Those two people. The ones who kept saying "Your Grace."

It's been ten days since then, and I haven't heard them again. Looking back, maybe it was just a drama playing on a TV somewhere in this room. Someone must have left it on at the time. That would explain why I haven't heard them since.

Still, ten days.

I've stopped feeling hunger. It's as if my body has given up on it, or maybe it's just become accustomed to the steady stream of liquids they've been feeding me every day. I'm assuming it's some kind of medicine—bitter as hell, and every drop feels like it's burning through my throat. If I had the ability to gag, I would have emptied my stomach by now. But no… my body doesn't even respond. It just swallows, unfeeling.

I endure.

And I wonder—how much longer must I endure?

The days are slipping by, though I can't say for certain how many. Time has lost its meaning, dragged out in a haze. I can't feel hunger, can't feel the need for sleep, can't feel anything... except the ache in my back, the dull, unrelenting pressure from lying in the same position for what feels like eternity. Every muscle in my body is screaming for movement, for release, but my limbs refuse to obey. I am bound here, trapped in this endless, suffocating stillness.

How much longer?

How much longer until I can wake from this nightmare, shake off this oppressive fog, and feel like myself again?

If I had known—if I had known that hunger and sleeplessness would drag me down to this abyss, this unfeeling state—I would have fought harder. I should've forced myself to cook those damn noodles, even if I was dizzy, even if my body begged for rest. I should've forced myself to eat, to feed the hunger before it devoured me whole, to keep the emptiness at bay. But instead, I let it all slip away, and now… now here I am, trapped in this limbo. And all I can do is wait.

Wait. And endure.