Silence
She didn't scream. She didn't beg.
Just silence—that's what stuck.
There was no noise. No begging. Just a dull thud—her body hitting the ground—and then nothing.
No breath. No crying.
The bread lay beside her, half-unwrapped, soaking in her blood. The cloth was stained through. One of the loaves had split open.
I stared at it.
"Now the bread's ruined."
That was the first thing I said.
Not sorry. Not why.
Just that.
Because I still hadn't looked at her.
Not properly.
I forced myself to glance down. Her body was twisted sideways, one arm outstretched toward the wall.
Her face was still turned up at me.
And even now—still, wide-eyed—I couldn't make out the details.
Just a shape. Just a blur. Like my mind refused to hold onto it.
Only one thing stood out.
Those eyes.
Locked on mine like they were waiting for something. Like they expected me to fall apart.
But I didn't.
I stood there for a long time.
The air was still.
The slums always had some noise—distant shouting, dogs, carts on stones.
But not here.
Not now.
It was like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for me to finish what I started.
And there was one piece left.
I turned toward the boy.
Still curled up on the mat. Still breathing, soft and steady.
Like none of it mattered.
Like his world hadn't just ended two feet from his head.
I took a step.
Boots dragging blood behind them.
My steps echoing through the house, piercing the silence.
He didn't move.
Didn't twitch.
Just a sleeping shadow with a mop of hair and a dried flower still pinned behind his ear like a crown.
I raised the knife.
Quietly. No thrill in it. No rage. Just... necessary.
I've done this hundreds of times. Today is no different.
But before I could step closer—
Light.
Soft, at first. Like moonlight underwater.
I paused, confused.
Then it got brighter. Warmer.
The boy's body glowed—skin touched by gold, like fire under paper.
Like he'd swallowed the sun.
"You've gotta be kidding me," I muttered.
Because I knew what it meant.
What he was.
"Giftborn."
The word rang in my head like a curse.
I took a step back.
Then it hit me.
Agony split my skull like glass.
My knees slammed into the floor. Breath ripped out in a strangled gasp.
The glow pulsed—soft, golden, alive.
But it wasn't just light.
It was reaching.
I could feel it pressing against something in me. Something I'd buried.
And then it tore it open.
Memories.
Not clear. Not ordered.
Just fragments.
A hand. A voice. A doll.
Eyes that smiled when they should've cried.
Light—soft, warm, familiar.
A scream.
A shadow.
"No," I hissed.
I dug my fingers into my scalp, tried to tear the images out, rip them loose.
"Not real. Not now. I locked this away. I locked it away—"
But it was too late.
It felt like something was pulling me open from the inside—like it wanted me to remember
Grief hit first.
A punch to the ribs.
Then anger, hot and blind—but beneath it, something worse.
Guilt flooded in, colder and sharper, a blade sinking deeper than any I'd ever wielded.
Heavy and cold and sharp—sharper than any blade I'd ever held.
My breath caught. My throat closed.
I saw his face.
Not blurred anymore.
His face.
Not this boy.
The other one.
The one who—
"Stop," I whispered.
But the light didn't stop.
It just burned brighter.
It reached deeper.
And the memories changed.
Not the scream.
Not the blood.
But before that.
Way before.
I saw him—tiny, barefoot, running across the clay pits, arms outstretched. A laugh caught on the wind.
That stupid half-wilted flower still tucked behind his ear like it was treasure.
He turned and looked back at me.
Smiling.
Always smiling.
Then—
A woman's hand brushing through my hair. A warm lap. A lullaby hummed off-key.
The smell of stew. Of soap and ash.
The feel of cracked hands pulling a blanket over my shoulders in the dead of winter.
A whisper.
"You don't have to be strong tonight."
The warmth turned my stomach.
It felt wrong.
Too kind. Too gentle.
This wasn't supposed to be mine anymore.
I'd buried this. Shoved it down so deep even the rats couldn't find it.
I curled tighter on the floor.
More emotions hit me.
"I forgot them," I choked.
"I let myself forget them."
The light kept burning—
but something changed.
The edge dulled.
The fire softened.
It stopped feeling like knives under my skin and started feeling like something else.
Warmth.
The pressure behind my eyes didn't hurt now. It ached, sure—but in that deep, hollow way that comes right before you fall apart.
And I did.
The tears came before I could stop them.
Hot. Sudden. Furious.
I pressed my face into the floorboards and let them fall, because I couldn't hold it anymore.
I didn't even know what I was crying for.
The guilt?
The light?
The warmth?
All of it. None of it.
It just hurt.
My voice broke as I tried to speak.
No words came out.
Just sound.
Just grief.
The light didn't burn anymore.
It just stayed with me.
Like it knew what I couldn't say.
Soft.
Steady.
Like it knew.
I lay there on the floor, breath shallow, muscles shaking.
Tears dried on my cheeks in streaks of salt and dust.
Everything in me felt hollowed out—scooped clean.
I couldn't move.
Didn't want to.
The light dimmed slowly, settling into quiet warmth—as if it had finally found something in me worth saving.
I let out a low, bitter laugh.
"Should've just taken the damn bread."
My eyelids fluttered. Heavy.
The floor swam.
The room faded.
And then the world vanished.
Not into darkness.
But into memory.