The storm tapped gently on the window glass like a lullaby sung with cracked knuckles.
Cain sat by Elara’s bedside, unmoving. His black shirt clung to him still damp from the rain, from the rescue. His jaw was tight. The light from the IV machine reflected in his eyes, cold and still.
Elara looked half-dead. Tubes. Blood. Fingers wrapped. Skin pale and cracked like it’d forgotten how to hold color.
Cain hadn’t slept. Hadn’t spoken. Nothing, he just sat there like a ghost as he blamed himself.
Like he was guarding the last part of him that hadn’t turned to ash.
Then she stirred.
Her lips parted with a weak breath. Her eyes blinked slowly, landing on him.
He stood immediately, not out of urgency… but fear, fear that he would be condemned, hated upon.
The guilt of his actions weighed
