"Do you think he'll be okay…?"

The lights like to flicker in Berwald's room. The nurses and staff can't seem to figure out why, but Berwald thinks they look almost like stars. Or at least he thinks. He can't remember much of what anything looks like, lately.

"Of course he will! He's Berwald…"

He can't put faces to the voices he hears. One is loud, a bit overwhelming. All he can put to it is yellow. He's not quite sure why. There's another, harsh and quiet, often accompanied by a squawking. He thinks of white when he hears it, and again, he doesn't understand the connection. There's a monotonous voice as well, a bit frightening. It's laced with concern, just like the others. This one is purple.

But there's one last one. It's sweet and light and something about it makes his chest ache, and there's not a color to it, no, it's just light. He calls this voice his light, because he thinks if he ever stopped hearing it, he may lose the will to keep from slipping back into the dark.

"Sweden is strong."

There's a flash of white.

"Not strong enough, it seems…"

Purple.

"Don't be such downers! He'll be okay. He's always okay…."

Yellow. He wonders why yellow has so much faith in him.

"Of course! Berwlad will come back, I am sure of it!"

The light is almost blinding, but he can't bring himself to care. It's warm.

He starts to wonder who he is. Maybe he's Sweden, which seems right, but his light always says 'Berwald'. The taste of the name doesn't feel right on his tongue. Maybe he isn't Berwald after all. Maybe he's not even Sweden. Maybe he's just there. Maybe he's just the dark.

"But what if he does not make it…?"

He thinks maybe his light is losing faith in him after a few days. Maybe it's weeks. Months? Years? He can't tell.

After time has passed, the colors fade away. The white and purple stop coming. There are only flashes of yellow. Even his light is dulling.

He thinks it may be his fault they're all so dim.

"I am going to miss you… Goodbye, Berwald…"

It's the last thing he hears the light say.

He thinks of a face. The man is grinning up at him, tugging his hand and pulling him along. His heart aches, he wonders why such a happy sight made him so sad.

Tino. His name is Tino.

The thought is fleeting, and then it's dark once more.

And then, there isn't even darkness.

There is nothing.