For a while, it was as if the sun had returned to their tiny apartment.
Jalen was radiant again, brighter even than after the first vial. His energy returned in torrents, rushing over Mira like a tide that threatened to sweep her away. He sang while cooking, danced in the kitchen, and dragged her out to see the city's festivals. His cheeks glowed with color, his eyes alive with a spark that had been absent for so long.
Neighbors began to notice. Mrs. Rell, who lived two doors down, stopped Mira in the stairwell one morning.
"Your brother," she said with a smile, her wrinkled face softening, "he looks like himself again. You've done well to take care of him, dear."
Mira nodded, smiling automatically, though the words lodged in her throat. Done well. She wanted to believe it. But each time someone praised her, she felt the hollowness inside stretch wider.
Because she could not remember her own laughter anymore.
When Jalen joked with her, she forced herself to grin, but it felt like shaping her face into unfamiliar patterns. The sound that came from her throat when she tried to laugh startled her—too sharp, too brittle.
She began to notice things missing in conversations. Jalen would bring up a story from their childhood, some mischief they had gotten into, and Mira would blink, unable to follow. He would look confused at her blank expression, then laugh it off and fill in the details himself. She pretended along, nodding, but inside panic clawed at her.
How much had been erased?
One evening, Jalen came home carrying a small wrapped bundle. He placed it on the table with a grin.
"Open it," he urged.
Mira unwrapped it to find a book of poetry, the leather cover worn but cared for. She stared at it, confused.
"You used to love this poet," Jalen said, eyes shining. "You'd read them aloud to me when I couldn't sleep. Remember?"
She turned the pages slowly, the words blurring together. Nothing stirred inside her.
"I thought… maybe it would make you happy again." His smile faltered at her silence.
"I—thank you," she whispered, closing the book. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "It means a lot."
But it didn't. The gesture, the memory, the words—none of it reached her. The part of her that should have responded was gone.
That night, when Jalen slept soundly for the first time in weeks, Mira sat awake in the dark, clutching the book to her chest. Tears slid down her cheeks, soundless and hot. She wanted to remember. She wanted to feel. But all she had was emptiness.
The city outside was changing too. Mira began to notice how many people carried vials tucked into belts, necklaces, even sewn into sleeves. Small flashes of color glowed faintly as they walked the streets: bright yellows of joy, sharp reds of anger, pale blues of calm.
At the marketplace, a merchant shouted, "Tranquility for the weary! Courage for the timid! Half-price until dusk!" A crowd pressed close, coins changing hands. Children clutched diluted vials of giggles, drinking greedily before dissolving into manic laughter. Their parents stood by, hollow-eyed.
Mira shivered. She had never noticed before how deeply the trade had seeped into every corner of life. Emotions weren't simply stolen in the shadows—they were everywhere, packaged and consumed like bread.
Was anyone real anymore?
She wondered how many smiles in the street were bought, how many arguments fueled by borrowed rage, how many tender embraces hollow because love had been siphoned away. The thought unsettled her, twisting her stomach with unease.
And yet—she was part of it now. She had no right to condemn.
As the weeks passed, Jalen flourished. He found work again, taking shifts at a printshop where the rhythmic clatter of machines kept his hands busy and his mind calm. He brought home food more often, cooked meals for them both, and spoke of the future with a hope Mira hadn't heard in years.
"Maybe we could save enough to move somewhere brighter," he said one evening, excitement in his voice. "Near the river. You've always loved the water."
Mira nodded numbly. She wanted to respond, wanted to match his hope. But she couldn't summon the memory he spoke of. She had no image of herself by the river, no echo of joy tied to the thought. It was gone, stripped away in the Exchange.
She excused herself quickly, hiding in her room until the tears stopped.
One morning, Jalen returned home with a bouquet of wildflowers tucked under his arm. He set them in a glass jar on the table, beaming.
"Thought the place could use some color," he said cheerfully.
The flowers were vivid, petals splashed with crimson and gold, their fragrance filling the room. Mira stared at them, willing herself to feel the beauty, to feel anything.
But nothing came.
She touched the petals gently, their softness undeniable beneath her fingertips. And yet the color seemed muted, the scent faint, as though the world had dulled without her permission.
Jalen didn't notice. He was too busy arranging them, humming happily under his breath.
Mira turned away, clutching the edge of the table until her knuckles whitened.
The cracks grew deeper.
At night, Mira began to dream of emptiness. Long corridors stretching endlessly, lined with locked doors she could not open. She ran, searching for something she couldn't name, but each door led only to more blankness. She woke gasping, sweat soaking her sheets, the silence of the apartment pressing down on her.
Sometimes she thought she heard whispers in the corners, soft and insistent. Echoes of laughter she could no longer claim. A lullaby she couldn't place. They taunted her, reminding her of what she had given up.
By day, she kept her mask in place. Smiling when Jalen laughed, nodding when he spoke of dreams. She told herself it was worth it, that his light was worth her darkness.
But the hollow inside her grew louder, impossible to ignore.
The pale-eyed woman's words haunted her. Happiness burns quickly, like kindling.
Was this how it would always be? A cycle of brief joy followed by collapse, each renewal costing her more? She feared the answer.
And yet—when Jalen looked at her with gratitude, when he clasped her hands and whispered, "I don't know how I'd live without you"—she knew she would go back. Again and again, if she had to.
Even if it destroyed her.
The sixth week arrived, and with it, Jalen's glow began to dim.
It was subtle at first—he slept later, moved slower, his laughter softer, less frequent. Mira felt dread coil inside her, sharp and familiar. She saw the shadows creeping at the edges of his eyes, and she knew.
The happiness was fading again.
And her brother's gaze turned to her, desperate, pleading.
"Mira… please. Not yet. I can't lose it again."
Her heart cracked. She reached out, brushing his hair back, forcing a smile she didn't feel.
"I'll take care of it," she whispered.
Even as her chest hollowed further, even as the whispers in her dreams grew louder, Mira knew she was already lost.
Because she would go back to the Exchange.
Because she could never let him drown again.