Morning came without asking permission.
Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains in pale strands, touching the floor, the walls, the edges of furniture that had not moved. Outside, something clinked—metal against wood, maybe—and a bird called out, sharp and clear, as if the world hadn't noticed anything missing.
Ray woke with a sharp inhale.
For one fragile moment, his chest loosened.
He was warm. He was safe. There was an arm around him, solid and familiar, and another presence behind him, steady and unmoving. The nightmare faded like mist, leaving behind only the echo of fear and the unpleasant dampness of tears dried on his cheeks.
Then he remembered.
Arthur was gone.
The thought didn't arrive with drama. It settled quietly, heavily, as if it had always been there and Ray had simply been avoiding it. His throat tightened. He didn't cry this time. He just lay still, staring at the pale light on the wall, afraid that moving would make everything worse.
Alice noticed anyway.
She always did.
Her arm tightened around him slightly, fingers brushing his shoulder in a gentle, unconscious motion. Ray felt her shift, heard her breath hitch before she smoothed it out again.
"You're awake," she whispered.
He nodded, then realized she couldn't see him and made a small sound instead. Something between a hum and a sigh.
Reynolds was already up.
Ray hadn't heard him leave, but the empty space behind him was unmistakable. It felt colder without his father there, the bed unbalanced in a way that made Ray want to curl inward again.
Alice eased herself up slowly, careful not to jostle him. "I'll make something to eat," she said softly. "You can stay here a bit longer, if you want."
Ray hesitated.
A part of him wanted to say yes. To stay wrapped in blankets, to pretend the day hadn't started yet. But another part—smaller, quieter—felt an uncomfortable pull to follow her, as if being alone, even for a moment, might invite something terrible.
"I'll come," he said.
His voice sounded too small.
The kitchen smelled the same as always.
Bread. Warm metal. A faint hint of herbs hanging near the window. Alice moved through the space on instinct, hands busy even when her eyes seemed unfocused, as though she were following a path she'd walked a thousand times before.
Ray sat at the table, legs swinging slightly above the floor.
For a moment, he forgot.
He reached to his right, pushing his cup just a little farther than necessary, the way he always did when Arthur sat there—Arthur, who liked things spaced just so, who would frown faintly and slide it back without a word.
His hand hovered over empty wood.
No one corrected him.
The realization stung more than he expected.
Ray pulled his hand back and pressed it into his lap instead, fingers curling tight around the fabric of his shirt.
Alice set a plate in front of him. "Careful, it's still warm."
He nodded again and picked at the bread without appetite. Across the room, Reynolds stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed on something beyond the glass. He hadn't changed out of his clothes from the day before.
No one spoke Arthur's name.
Not because it was forbidden.
But because saying it felt like pressing on a wound to see how deep it went.
Ray's head felt strange.
Not like a headache—nothing sharp or painful—but full, as if too many thoughts were trying to exist in too small a space. Images drifted in and out without warning: a page turning, black lines on white, a sense of anticipation that didn't belong to him.
He frowned, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.
When he opened them, the kitchen was still there. Solid. Real.
It was just a dream, he told himself.
But the certainty wouldn't come.
They didn't go out that day.
Reynolds left briefly—long enough to speak with someone at the edge of town, long enough to return with a look on his face that told Ray not to ask questions. Alice stayed close, too close, hovering as Ray moved from room to room, her hand never far from his shoulder.
Ray noticed.
He didn't comment.
Whenever the house fell too quiet, his thoughts drifted again.
He remembered knowing things. Not clearly—never clearly—but in fragments that slipped away the moment he tried to grasp them. Words without meaning. Events without order. A sense of something vast and dangerous pressing in from all sides.
Once, as he stood near the doorway, he looked up at the ceiling beams and felt a sudden, irrational fear twist in his stomach.
Too high.
The thought made no sense. The ceiling wasn't high at all. Still, his heart sped up, and he stepped back instinctively, bumping into Alice.
She flinched.
Then she knelt in front of him, hands gentle but firm on his arms. "You're all right," she said, voice steady despite the tightness around her eyes. "You're here. I've got you."
Ray nodded, swallowing hard.
He believed her.
He needed to.
That night, sleep came reluctantly.
Ray lay in bed alone this time, though Alice had lingered until his breathing slowed, brushing his hair back again and again as if afraid it might disappear if she stopped touching it. When the door finally closed, the house settled into a hush that felt heavier than before.
The dreams returned.
Not all at once.
They came in pieces.
A sense of falling—no, not falling, watching someone fall. A boy with silver eyes standing at the edge of something vast. A story that moved forward no matter how much he wanted it to stop.
Ray whimpered softly, twisting in his sheets.
His mind tried to follow the memories, to make sense of them, but his body rebelled. Fear surged, hot and immediate, drowning out everything else. His small hands clenched the blanket, pulling it tight around him as if it could keep the images away.
I don't want to, he thought, though he wasn't sure what he was refusing.
The nightmare shifted again, blurred, and then—
Ray woke with a sharp gasp.
Darkness pressed in from all sides. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, and for a moment he didn't know where he was. He curled onto his side, knees drawn up, breath coming in short, uneven pulls.
Arthur's face flashed through his mind.
Then vanished.
Ray squeezed his eyes shut and stayed that way until exhaustion dragged him back under.
Sleep claimed him again, uneasy and fragile, the remnants of fear clinging tight.
And in the quiet house, while the world continued on beyond the walls, Ray slept—haunted, unaware of how long those fragments would linger, or how deeply they would shape the boy who had stayed behind.