The house felt quiet.
That was the first thing Pax noticed when he came in through the front door. He usually found comfort in quiet. But this quiet?
It was a murderous quiet.
A quiet that devoured and left hollow
His sister had always been there. She'd be the one to save him from the quiet, even when he didn't want to be saved. She'd always been like that…
Even in her last months, when her voice had grown frail, she still filled the house with something, whether it was the faint sound of music from her bedroom, her laughter at a novel, despite it being supposed to be serious, or her tiny shouts after one of her long-time cultivated characters died.
Now there was nothing.
Pax shut the door behind him.
That weird hospital smell clung to him. He hated that smell.
'She's gone. Really gone.'
The thought was harrowing and despicable.
'I'm alone…'
'All alone.'
He should have been prepared. The doctors had said it months ago, their careful voices making promises that weren't promises at all:
"We'll try everything."
"We'll make her comfortable."
"She's strong."
She was strong. Stronger than he'd ever been. But strength, he learned, had its limits.
His legs wistfully carried him to the living room. The couch sat there, empty.
Across the couch was a TV that displayed the phrase 'Enemies of Corruption' with 'New Game' and 'Continue' options below it. Behind the words, he could faintly see his and her characters standing at the gate of the final labyrinth door… The Gate of Purity…
It was the insanely hard roguelike game they'd been playing together for the last five years. They never got to finish it… they never saw the world uncorrupted.
She had told him they would finish it together later…
'Later…'
The word clung to his mind.
He sat on the couch, and his hands quietly trembled as he picked up the controller and stared at the screen.
For a moment, he waited, waiting for something… waiting for anything.
Nothing happened. Nothing changed.
She was dead
She was still dead.
The day had been a blur. The call from the hospital, the rush to her room... He'd watched his sister's chest rise and fall, slower and slower, until it didn't anymore.
The nurses had said words, gentle, practiced words, but Pax hadn't heard them. His world had narrowed to the stillness of her body, the unfairness of it all.
His older sister was gone.
He rubbed his eyes hard with the bottom of his palm.
An awkward noise slipped from him.
She'd always been the one to remind him of life beyond himself. She'd said once:
"You're the anchor, Peace, and I'm the sail."
What did a sail do when the anchor was left behind? What did an anchor do when the sail was torn away?
They were useless and meaningless without each other.
The clock ticked in the corner, indifferent. He realized he hadn't eaten all day. Hunger felt obscene, somehow. How could he think of food when she'd never taste another bite? How could his world keep spinning when hers had stopped?
He put down the controller, stood up from the couch, walked to her room, and slowly stepped inside.
Her bed was neatly made… The blanket she loved, patterned with little constellations, lay folded at the foot.
On the desk sat her sketchbook, pencils scattered like she'd just walked away from it. He touched the cover lightly, then pulled his hand back, afraid that if he opened it, he'd drown in all the unfinished things she'd left behind.
On the wall, pictures were tacked up of him and her throughout the years. There was an especially important one of them playing their game, her sitting on the couch with a shaved head after chemo, flashing two thumbs up like she'd already won. His throat closed.
She had won, in her own way. She'd met death without flinching, even joked about it sometimes…
'Who am I kidding? She wasn't scared? She was scared shitless. She was more scared than any of us. She wasn't ready to die.'
He sat on the bed.
It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.
He whispered her name as if it would do anything.
"Serene…"
It was a silly name, just like his own. Names their late father had given them. He had never given his reasoning, but they cherished their names despite the ridicule from other kids.
'Peace…'
Peace was the nickname Serene often called him.
He pushed himself up and left the room.
By the time he reached his own room, his body felt heavy. He stripped down and collapsed onto the mattress without bothering to turn off the light.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling, he thought about all the moments they wouldn't share. The life he'd have to live without her.
Then, he thought of the last thing she said to him. Her voice had been thin, but her eyes were steady.
"You'll be okay, Peace. Promise me you'll live for me. Happily…"
He hadn't answered. He couldn't. How could he promise something that felt impossible?
His face crumpled, and before he could stop it, the tears came.
The bed felt enormous without her in the world.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook him.
Peace's breathing slowed, though his cheeks were still damp. With the last thread of consciousness, he whispered her name once more, clinging to it like a lifeline.
"Serene."
Peace finally closed his eyes, a crow staring at his limp body through the bedroom window.
In the main room, the family cat, Mordy, was walking over the couch, jumping around when it fell on the controller, and hitting the 'Continue' button on the game. The analog stick got stuck, and the characters walked forward into the boss's room. Then a weird new message flashed on the screen and Mordy hit the controller again…
A soft voice began to ring in the sleeping man's head:
[You're losing connection with the mortal plane…]
[Your spirit is being whisked away]