The room holds its breath.
Not the silence of emptiness. The silence of something waiting. Something watching.
I sit on the edge of the bed beside Silas. And I'm doing something I never imagined myself doing.
I'm patting his head.
My fingers move through his hair—slow, almost clumsy, like they're learning a language they were never taught. The strands are soft. Too soft. Brown silk slipping between my knuckles before falling back into place like water closing over a stone.
I don't recognize myself in this moment.
How did I end up here?
The question drifts through my mind like smoke—impossible to hold onto for long.
I should have left. Called his secretary. Walked away and let someone else deal with him. Let someone else sit in this dim room, patting the head of a boy burning with fever and refusing to be saved.
But I didn't.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye—just enough to look without fully turning.
