Chapter Two: Echoes of Before
The cold crept in overnight, seeping through the thin walls of their house like an uninvited guest. Syan woke to the sound of Lila shivering, her teeth chattering faintly as she curled up on the old armchair beside his bed. She'd fallen asleep mid-story, the book still open across her lap, its pages fluttering slightly with each breath she took. He couldn't see her, but he pictured her there—knees tucked up, dark hair spilling over her face, the red jacket pulled tight around her small frame. She'd stayed with him again, like she always did when the nights turned bitter.
"Lila," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind rattling the window. She didn't stir. He hated this part—the helplessness. He couldn't reach out to nudge her awake, couldn't pull the blanket from his own legs to drape over her. All he could do was listen and wait, trapped in the prison of his body while she shivered just out of reach.
The house was quiet now, save for her soft breathing and the occasional groan of the pipes. It hadn't always been this way. Once, there'd been laughter here—his mother's sharp, musical voice calling them to dinner, his father's low chuckle as he wrestled with Syan on the living room rug. Syan had been four then, still able to see blurry shapes and toddle around on unsteady legs. Lila had been a baby, giggling in her crib. He remembered the warmth of those days, the way the light streamed through the windows and painted everything gold. Back then, his illness was just a shadow, a whisper the doctors brushed off as "something to monitor."
But shadows grow. By the time he was six, the world had faded to black, and his parents' smiles had started to falter. When he turned ten and his legs gave out, those smiles vanished entirely. They fought at first—about money, about him, about how to "fix" something that couldn't be fixed. Then they stopped fighting. Stopped talking. One day, they packed a single suitcase each and left, promising to come back "when things got better." That was four years ago. They hadn't even said goodbye to Lila.
She'd been seven then, too young to understand why they were alone, but old enough to decide she wouldn't let him fade away too. She'd taken over—cooking burned toast with the stove she could barely reach, dragging blankets from the closet, chattering nonstop to fill the emptiness. She was his anchor, tethering him to a life he'd otherwise have let slip away.
A soft groan broke his thoughts as Lila shifted in the chair. "Syan?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "You awake?"
"Yeah," he said. "You're cold. Go get the quilt from the closet."
She yawned, and he heard the book thud to the floor as she stretched. "I'm fine. It's not that bad." But her footsteps shuffled away anyway, the floor creaking as she headed down the hall. She was back in moments, dragging the heavy quilt behind her. The sound of it rustling over the floor was oddly comforting, a small rebellion against the silence.
"Here," she said, draping it over herself and then tucking part of it around his legs. "We can share. Like when we used to build forts, remember?"
He didn't answer right away. He did remember—vague, hazy flashes of piling pillows and blankets with her, giggling as they hid from imaginary monsters. It felt like a different life, one that belonged to a different Syan. "Yeah," he said finally. "I remember."
She settled back into the chair, closer now, her warmth radiating through the quilt. "I didn't finish the story last night. The dragon was about to fight the knight. Want me to keep going?"
"Only if the dragon wins," he teased, his voice lighter than he felt.
She laughed, a sound like bells cutting through the gloom. "Spoiler—he does. But the knight's sneaky, so it's not over yet." She scooped the book from the floor and flipped it open, her fingers brushing the pages as she found her place. "Okay, here we go…"
Her voice wove the tale again—clashing steel, the dragon's fiery roar, the knight's desperate gambit. Syan let it carry him, drifting into a world where strength wasn't measured by what your body could do, but by what your heart could endure. He couldn't fight battles or slay monsters, but he could listen. He could be here, for her.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the house like it wanted to tear it apart. Inside, Lila's words held it at bay, a fragile shield against the cold and the dark. For now, it was enough.