Small development
1565 Words
Daniel stood quietly in the doorway, watching the boy.
Siraj was still standing by the fireplace, barely swaying, as if sleep were a wave he was trying not to sink into. His small body was wrapped in a gray wool blanket, his feet dragging slightly. His dark hair stuck to his forehead from the previous rain, and his skin—so pale in the orange firelight—looked as if it had never known sunlight well.
The child blinked slowly. Long, heavy blinks.
Daniel stepped forward.
"Come on," he said quietly. "Let me carry you. You need to rest."
He leaned down slightly, opening his arms just enough—not a threat, not a command.
But Siraj backed away.
One step. Two. Wordless. Just a movement.
Eyes wide. Watching.
His fingers clutched the edge of the blanket like a tightly clenched shield.
Slowly, Daniel straightened.
He's scared. Or maybe... he's not scared. It's over.
He tried again, gently. "You're barely awake. The bed's close. It's warm. Just a moment, and you'll be—"
Sirraj turned suddenly, ducking away from him like a moth avoiding a fire.
He didn't run. He didn't flinch.
But he didn't allow Daniel to come close enough to touch him.
Daniel lowered his hand.
That's how it was. Even now. Even when his legs trembled.
He watched Sirraj walk, one small foot in front of the other, the blanket pulling at him like a torn cloak. His thin arms remained tight around his body. He looked back once, not in fear—but in warning.
Daniel saw it clearly in those dark, almond-shaped eyes.
Don't. Touch me.
Sirraj reached the edge of the bed, climbed unaided, and then immediately crouched down. He didn't take off his shoes. He didn't spread the blanket. Instead, he became smaller, tighter, and quieter—like a locked box inside a locked house.
Daniel exhaled slowly.
He wanted to lift him. Not out of pity, but out of instinct. The same instinct that had made him carry wounded soldiers from the enemy's fields, bleeding and broken. This child wasn't bleeding, not visibly, but Daniel could feel the wounds rumbling in the room like a noise.
Not five years old. Not really. Not like other children.
He moved as if he were being hunted. He spoke as if silence were safer than sound.
And his body... even he belonged to no one—not even him.
Siraj opened his eyes for a moment.
He saw Daniel watching.
And he said, very quietly, more to himself than to anyone else:
"Don't carry me... Don't let them... carry me again..."
His voice broke at the last word. It was almost a whisper. Almost a cry. But not quite.
Daniel froze.
So that was it. Someone was carrying him. Someone who hadn't asked. Someone who had broken the rule of skin and choice.
He took a step back.
"Okay," he said quietly, as if talking to the wind. "I won't. I promise."
Siraj blinked once, then closed his eyes.
His breathing was slow. Even.
But his fingers were still taut at the edge of the blanket.
Not fear. Self-control. A quiet warning to the world:
This skin is mine. This distance is mine. This silence is mine.
Daniel watched for a few more seconds.
Then, wordlessly, he turned off the light, leaving the fireplace casting a soft amber glow. He stepped out, half-closing the door.
Behind him, the palace murmured with distant voices and footsteps.
But in that room, the baby slept, on his own terms.
After that night,
Morning light slowly crept into the palace, streaming like honey through the high windows of Daniel's private suite.
A light mist clung to the gardens outside, soft and silvery, while inside, the world remained quiet—very quiet.
Daniel walked down the hall, carrying a heavy tray. The smell of warm porridge, honeyed bread, and black tea drifted gently into the corridor. He had made it himself. Not because he lacked staff, but because something about this morning felt personal.
He hadn't eaten last night.
And he couldn't go on like this.
He was already too thin. Too pale.
Daniel pushed open the door.
Siraj was awake, sitting at the far end of the bed, his knees drawn to his chest again. He was still wearing the same clothes, the blanket wrapped around him like a shield. His eyes didn't meet Daniel's, but Daniel saw a slight twitch in his fingers. Awake. Alert. Watching.
"Good morning," Daniel said in a calm, quiet voice.
No response.
He came in and placed the tray on the small table near the fireplace. The room immediately filled with the smell of food.
Siraj's eyes caught the image—just once. Then they drifted away.
Daniel sat opposite him.
"You need to eat," he said quietly.
Siraj tightened his arms around his knees.
"I'm not asking for much," Daniel added. "Just a few bites."
Still no response.
Daniel sighed and picked up a spoonful of porridge. He held it out, waiting. Not too close. Not too far. "You're weak. You'll get sicker if you continue refusing food."
Siriraj's eyes finally met his.
And they were filled with the same quiet defiance.
Not a tantrum. Not a protest.
Just... no.
Daniel delivered a firm, firm refusal through silence, breathing, and the light pressure of his lips.
He felt frustration creeping into his ribs.
He was starving, and he still said no.
What had they done to him to make him feel like this?
What child would rather collapse than accept care?
He tried again.
"Do you think I'd poison him?"
No answer.
"Do you think I'd hurt you if I came near?"
Siraj's body didn't move, but his eyes twitched. For a moment.
That was it. Someone had fed him before. Not food. Strength. Obedience. Maybe worse.
Someone had taught him that hunger was safer than dependence.
Daniel's hand tightened around the spoon.
"I can't let you die," he said firmly.
He stood and closed the short distance between them.
Siraj moved immediately, sliding into the farthest corner of the bed. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just grew smaller, his eyes fixed on Daniel's with a mixture of resistance and a deeper feeling—
Not fear.
Shame.
As if allowing someone to help him was a betrayal of himself.
Daniel said in a softer voice, "I don't want to hurt you. But this time... I have no choice."
He reached forward.
Siraj tried to move away, but Daniel was faster.
With a quick movement, he sat beside him, his arm around the boy's thin back—not tightly, not harshly, but firmly. With his other hand, he gently placed the spoon against Siraj's lips.
The boy's mouth remained closed.
"Please," Daniel whispered.
Siraj's jaw trembled.
Then, as if the last shred of his pride had cracked, he opened his mouth.
Just a little.
Enough.
Daniel fed him.
One spoonful.
Siraj chewed slowly, stiffly, his eyes wide—not from the taste, but from the terror of surrender.
Another bite.
Daniel still didn't let go.
Siraj didn't resist.
But he didn't give in either.
His body was caught between fighting and freezing.
Inside, the boy was screaming.
"Don't let him hold you."
"Don't let him feed you."
"You don't need anything."
"Don't weaken."
But his stomach—treacherous as it was—begged for warmth. For something other than air.
A third spoonful.
A fourth.
Daniel felt it with every bite: the weight of what he was doing. The betrayal of Siraj's boundaries. It was necessary.
He whispered again, almost to himself this time:
"I'm sorry."
Siraj blinked hard.
For the first time, a single tear slipped down his cheek.
Not because he was hurt.
But because he had let someone win.
Daniel gently backed away. He put the spoon down and didn't touch it again. He stood up, stepped away, and let Siraj hold the space.
The boy remained still, his eyes fixed on the tray, his mouth tight.
Daniel turned toward the door.
But before he could leave, he heard a whisper behind him.
"...I didn't want to need you."
Daniel paused.
Then he replied quietly, "I know."
He left the door slightly open.
Finally, the sun broke through the gray clouds, illuminating the palace gardens with a soft golden light. It was just after noon, and the palace corridors—usually saturated with the scent of gun oil and polished wood—felt softer.
Daniel stood in the doorway of Siraj's room, his arms crossed, watching the boy as if he were reading an exceedingly complex, untitled book.
Siraj was hunched over the bed again, but this time sitting up, partially wrapped in the gray blanket that was now so familiar to him, as if it were sewn to his skin. His head was tilted slightly toward the window, his eyes squinting at the sunlight as if it were a strange enemy.
Daniel rapped lightly on the doorframe.
"No one's going to shoot you, boy. That's the sun."
Siraj blinked. Slowly. Then he looked away.
Daniel entered, clutching something in his hand.
A lamp.
A small, oddly elegant, battery-powered lantern with a warm amber glow. Daniel didn't really know why he'd brought it. Maybe because he didn't want to bring anything. And Siraj seemed the type who might trust things before people.
- Writer
