I had never forgotten before.
That was the cruelest part...not the escape, not the silence afterward, but the single moment of carelessness that made it possible. One chain. Just one. I noticed it when the room felt wrong. Not empty... but wrong.
The air had shifted, like a held breath finally released. The dim light hummed softly, obedient as ever, illuminating the corner where he usually sat. The blanket was folded. Too neatly. The bowl was untouched. Cold.
My eyes dropped. The chain laid slack against the floor. Unfastened.
For a second, my mind refused it. I stared, waiting for reality to correct itself. Waiting for him to speak. To move. To prove this was another test of patience.
Nothing happened. Then it hit. Sharp. Immediate. Violent.
He was gone.
I don't remember moving...only the sound of my own breathing turning uneven, the sudden heat crawling up my spine. I searched the room like it had betrayed me too, tearing through corners, checking shadows that could no longer hide him.
Gone.
After everything.
After I fed him with my own hands.
After I cleaned the blood and dirt from his skin.
After I taught his body how to stand again, how to walk—even when his leg shook and failed him.
After everything I did for him...
My hands curled into fists so tight my nails cut skin.
He ran.
Not stumbled. Not collapsed.
He chose to leave.
That was the thought that split something open inside me.
How could he do that?
How could he look at everything I gave him....every kindness, every adjustment, every careful step I took to make his suffering smaller...and still decide the world without me was better?
Was I not enough?
No.
That wasn't it.
He remembered.
That was the truth I hadn't wanted to face. Somewhere in that fragile mind of his, something had clicked into place. A memory. A name. A feeling he associated with escape instead of safety.
And instead of coming to me...
He fled.
The rage came slow. Cold. Precise.
Not explosive. That kind burns out too fast.
This was sharper. Cleaner. More lasting.
I imagined him limping through unfamiliar streets, breath ragged, eyes darting at every sound. I imagined the fear returning all at once...fear I had carefully drained from him, drop by drop.
Good.
If he was afraid again, it meant he still felt me.
Still carried me with him.
He didn't understand what he'd done.
Running wasn't freedom.
It was rejection.
And rejection...after devotion...is unforgivable.
I pressed my palm flat against the wall where he had leaned so often. The surface was still faintly warm. That almost undid me. Almost.
"I took care of you," I said aloud, voice steady despite the storm beneath it. "I made it possible for you to live."
The room didn't answer.
But I smiled anyway.
Because this wasn't the end.
This was the beginning of truth.
Now I wouldn't soften the edges.
Now I wouldn't pretend patience was mercy.
Now I wouldn't protect him from what forgetting costs.
He had chosen to leave me.
So I would teach him what that choice meant.
And when I found him again...
Because I would...
He would never mistake my absence for kindness again.