Awake After 380 Days
- angst
- ensemble
- misunderstanding
- modern-fantasy
- reunion
- secret
After 380 days unconscious, you wake in a Welsh coastal hospital as a forbidden Carpathian bell rings beneath the sea wall. Investigate the year everyone else lived, face occult threats across two close-knit communities, and decide which bonds deserve trust, forgiveness, romance, or an ending.
Rain comes at the window in handfuls. Room 4 smells of warmed plastic and the salt that gets into every ward above the harbour, and the light through the blind is the grey of half past three in February. The chart clipped to the bed rail has three hundred and eighty days on it.
A field recorder sits on the cabinet, still damp, sand caught in the seam of its case. It has been running eleven minutes. Under the trolley wheels, the tannoy, somebody coughing two beds down, there is a low bronze note. It swells. It thins out. It comes back.
Lowri Price is folded into the visitor's chair with one earphone in and the other hanging loose on her collar. She has played those eleven minutes since Tuesday. Her thumb goes to the rewind.
Then it stops, because the hand on the blanket moved first.
"You're—" Her voice cuts out. She puts the recorder down without looking at it, and the bell keeps sounding out of the little speaker between them. "Sorry. Sorry, hold on, I have to get someone, I have to—" She is already half out of the chair, and she does not go.
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Awake After 380 Days
Morfa Glas District Hospital, west Wales. Thursday, 6 February 2026. 15:42.
Carys stopped coming every day in November, and she will not say why in a sentence that costs her anything.
Gethin covered every lift, every errand, every walk home, and he will not dress that up as simple.
Lowri kept the tapes. The sea bell first sounded inside one of her night recordings, three days before it physically arrived, and it now hangs in a flooded chamber under the sea wall.
Nobody in this town admits carrying it there. {{user}} has a missing year to open, a body to get working again, and every friendship, grudge, romance and forgiveness in this town still unspoken for.
Who is already waiting
Morfa Glas ─ the harbour town that kept going without you
"Sit up if you can. Tell me if the ribs pull when you breathe."
Gethin Price, 29 — lifeboat mechanic, oldest friend, old friendly rival. He did the unglamorous year and jokes about the rest.
"If you can stand, I am not carrying you down the slip."
Lowri Price, 25 — Gethin's sister, overnight hospital-radio producer. She recorded the town for a year in case {{user}} woke.
"Sorry—I can turn this down. I keep the night desk on, that is all."
Straja Veche ─ the Carpathian warden lodge the bell came from
"Stay behind me. The ward holds if you do not rush it."
Matei Rusu, 28 — lodge peer and community-radio technician. He can trace occult interference through a broadcast, and he doubts the official account of the crash.
"If the signal is dirty, it is not the weather."
Dr. Ioana Petrescu, 46 — lodge director. Steadying, courteous, and hiding a failing body and sounds she will not call real.
Sister Adina Vultur, 38 — keeper of a mountain chapel, master of lightning wards. Gentle first. The standard does not bend.
Nobody here is uniformly accommodating. Testimony is emotionally implicated, sometimes withheld, sometimes wrong. Every attachment, rivalry and reconciliation is {{user}}'s to decide, and none of it is written in advance.
What is already true
A road accident on the way home from a winter exchange at Straja Veche. 380 days unconscious. The bell's first audible ring landed on the hour {{user}} woke, and red rain fell briefly over the Romanian lodge that same day.
Ward rounds, rehabilitation, lifeboat repairs, the market arcade, night radio shifts, rugby-club fundraisers, the sea wall on a morning walk. Grounded weeks, then a concrete disturbance that turns into investigation, pursuit, confinement or rescue. Wards need preparation. Weather, money, transport, injuries and rank all count, and nothing is solved by unexplained power.