Chapter One: The Weight of Silence
The room smelled of dust and forgotten things. Syan could feel it settling on his skin, a thin layer of neglect that no one bothered to wipe away. He couldn't see the cracked ceiling above him or the faded blue walls that hadn't been painted since he was a baby, but he knew they were there. His world was built on sounds and sensations now—the creak of the wooden floorboards when Lila tiptoed in, the faint hum of the wind sneaking through the window's broken seal, the slow drip of water from the kitchen sink down the hall. These were the threads that stitched his days together.
He was sixteen now, though time felt meaningless when you couldn't mark it with anything but memory. His hands rested limp in his lap, fingers curled inward like wilted flowers. Once, they'd been small and quick, fumbling with toys or tugging at his mother's sleeve. Now they were useless, just like his legs, his neck, his everything. The illness had taken it all, piece by piece, leaving him a prisoner in his own body. The doctors had called it "progressive degeneration," a fancy way of saying his life would only get smaller until it blinked out entirely. They'd stopped coming years ago. So had his parents.
"Syan?" Lila's voice cut through the haze, soft but bright, like a bird calling through fog. She was eleven, all energy and stubborn hope, the opposite of the stillness that defined him. He heard the rustle of her jacket as she dropped it on the floor—probably that ratty red one she refused to throw out—and the thud of her sneakers as she kicked them off. She never bothered with quiet entrances, and he loved her for it.
"Hey, Lila," he said, his voice raspy from disuse. Talking hurt sometimes, his throat weak from years of silence, but he'd push through it for her. Always for her.
She bounded over, the floor groaning under her steps, and plopped down on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped slightly, tugging at the blanket draped over his legs. "Guess what I found today?" she said, her words bubbling with excitement. He could imagine her wide brown eyes, the ones she'd inherited from their mother, sparkling with some new treasure.
"Tell me," he said, tilting his head toward her voice. It was the only movement he could manage anymore, a small tilt, but it was enough to show her he was listening.
"A book! A real one, with pages and everything. Not those boring digital ones Mrs. Carter makes us read at school. It's got pictures too—dragons and knights and a princess who doesn't need saving." She paused, and he heard the crinkle of paper as she pulled it from her bag. "I thought… maybe I could read it to you?"
His chest tightened, a familiar ache that wasn't from the illness. Lila was always doing this—bringing him pieces of the world he couldn't reach. She didn't see him as broken, not the way everyone else did. To her, he wasn't a burden or a ghost haunting their tiny, crumbling house. He was her brother, and that was enough.
"I'd like that," he said, forcing a small smile. It probably looked more like a grimace, but she'd know what he meant.
"Okay, but you have to promise not to fall asleep," she teased, nudging his arm gently. Her touch was light, careful not to hurt him, but it was warm. Alive. "It's got a big battle in the first chapter, and I bet you'll love the dragon. He's got scales like fire."
Syan let out a faint laugh, a sound that rattled in his throat. "I won't sleep. Promise."
As she flipped open the book and began to read, her voice filled the room, chasing away the dust and the silence. The story unfolded—clashing swords, roaring flames, a dragon soaring through a sky he'd never see—and for a little while, Syan wasn't trapped. He was there, riding the wind with Lila's words as his wings.
Outside, the winter sun sank lower, casting long shadows he couldn't witness. But inside, with her voice painting pictures in his mind, it didn't matter. She was his light, and as long as she was here, the stillness couldn't claim him completely.