Sofia's POV
I felt a lump form in my throat as Eric's words cut deep. "You're not built for silence, Sofia," he'd said. It was true, I knew. I'd always been a bit of a clumsy, chatty person. But that didn't mean I couldn't try.
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I looked down at Refugia, sleeping peacefully in her makeshift bed. I felt a surge of protectiveness towards her, and towards Eric. I wanted to be able to help, to contribute.
"Why do you get to decide?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "Why do you get to go out there and risk yourself, while I'm stuck here?"
Eric's expression was calm, but I knew him well enough to see the tension beneath. "Because someone has to stay with Refugia," he said. "And I'm the one who can move quietly."
I felt a pang of frustration. He wasn't wrong, but it didn't feel fair. "I can learn," I said. "I can try."
Eric's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of understanding. But then his expression hardened again. "Not this time, Sofia."
I felt a surge of emotions: anger, frustration, hurt. But I pushed them down, refusing to let Eric see how much his words had stung. Instead, I stood up, my eyes locked on his. "Fine," I said. "But this isn't over."
Eric's expression didn't change, but I knew I'd gotten through to him. He nodded, a small, curt movement. "I'll be back soon."
I watched him go, a silent silhouette slipping through the broken door frame.
The world outside was a different kind of quiet—the kind that held its breath, waiting. A quiet that Eric was made for. I, on the other hand, was built for noise.
The clatter of pots and pans, the hum of a hundred conversations, the cheerful chaos of a life that no longer existed.
I sank back down, the makeshift bedding rustling under me. The stillness of the room felt heavy, suffocating. My eyes fell on Refugia again. Her small chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, a stark contrast to the frantic beat of my own heart. I reached out a hand, hovering it over her head, careful not to wake her.
Her hair was a soft, pale gold, catching the dim light filtering through the cracks in the walls.
A small, perfect hand was curled into a fist beside her cheek.
Eric was right. Someone had to stay with her. And right now, that person was me.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, the air tasting of dust and decay. I had to let go of the anger and the frustration. They were useless emotions, a luxury we couldn't afford. My job, for now, was to be a guardian. To be a silent protector. I looked around our small, cluttered sanctuary. Every object told a story of survival. A tattered blanket, a half-eaten can of beans, a rusted knife Eric had sharpened with a rock.
I found myself meticulously checking the locks on the door, a series of bent nails and a heavy piece of wood wedged against the frame.
I listened, my ears straining to hear anything other than the quiet breathing of the little girl. A floorboard creaked in the distance, and my hand instinctively went to the hilt of the rusty knife. It was a small thing, but it was all we had. I waited, holding my breath, until the sound didn't repeat.
It wasn't a glamorous fight. It wasn't about heroics and daring escapes. It was about the quiet, relentless battle against despair. It was about making sure the little girl sleeping in her makeshift bed woke up safe.
And as I sat there, in the silence, with the weight of the world on my shoulders, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was built for silence after all. Not the kind that Eric had, but a different kind. The kind that came with a fierce, unwavering purpose. A silence born of love and protection. And for the first time since Eric had left, I felt a flicker of hope, a tiny ember in the vast, cold darkness.
I would be ready when he got back. I would be silent, I would be strong, and I would be waiting.
As I sat there, listening to Refugia's steady breathing, I felt a sudden urge to move. To do something. Anything. I couldn't just sit there, stewing in my own frustration and anger.
I got up, careful not to disturb Refugia, and began to pace around the room. My eyes scanned the space, taking in the familiar sights of our makeshift home. The tattered blanket, the half-eaten can of beans, the rusted knife Eric had sharpened with a rock.
But as I walked, my gaze landed on something that made me pause. A small, battered bookshelf in the corner of the room, filled with books Eric had scavenged from God knows where. I walked over to it, running my fingers over the spines of the books.
I pulled out a tattered copy of "Pride and Prejudice" and began to flip through its yellowed pages. The words blurred together, but I didn't need to read them to know the story. I'd read it countless times before, back when life was simpler.
As I stood there, the book cradled in my hands, I felt a small sense of peace settle over me. It was a fleeting moment, one that I knew wouldn't last. But for now, it was enough.
I put the book back on the shelf and continued my pacing, my eyes scanning the room for something else to distract me. That's when I saw it - a small, dusty box in the corner of the room, filled with art supplies. Eric had found it in one of the houses he'd scavenged, and I'd been meaning to use it for weeks.
I pulled out the box and began to rummage through its contents. Paints, colored pencils, sketchbooks. I pulled out a sketchbook and began to flip through its pages, the blank paper staring back at me like an invitation.
I sat down on the floor, the sketchbook cradled in my lap, and began to draw. The lines and shapes flowed from my pencil like water, a messy, imperfect expression of my emotions. It wasn't art, not really. But it was something.