Touched by Smoke

Chapter 2

Elara

Morning finds me still wide awake. I spent the whole night thinking about that man.

What demons haunt him? What makes him have such powerful panic attacks?

I've seen panic attacks before—my mother used to have them—but they were nothing like his. With my mom, I could talk to her and bring her back before it got too bad. But with the man from last night, no matter how hard I tried to pull him out of that state, I couldn’t. It was like he wasn’t even there. His body was beside me, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

I get out of bed cheerfully, not wanting to dwell on how terrified I was when he screamed at me.

I slip into a top and a pair of leggings, pull my hair into a messy bun, and step out of my bedroom.

I find Mom in the kitchen, staring at a picture of Dad—who died during a mission somewhere in the desert—and I walk over to kiss her temple.

"I made pancakes," she says, placing the photo on the kitchen counter and sitting down at the table with me.

"You're the best, Mom," I say warmly, and she smiles.

For a long time, I watched the woman who gave me life fade a little more each day because of my father's death. And I swore I’d make her smile again.

Eventually, I did. And now I can say she’s not as sad as she once was.

"Aren’t you sick? You came home soaking wet last night. And those stains on your dress—was that blood? Did you get hurt?"

I avoided telling her about him. Avoided saying that the blood wasn’t mine—it was his.

"I spilled a tube of red oil paint on the street. Tried to pick it up, but it was broken, and it got all over my hands. I wiped them on my dress. Sorry, Mom." I lie. She scolds me with her eyes.

I finish a few pancakes and then get up, heading toward the door.

"Where are you going?" she asks, and guilt washes over me knowing I’m about to lie again.

"To the library," I say simply with a smile, then leave.

Last night, I saw he had no food. Only alcohol. So I’m going to buy a few things and head to his place.

I carry two bags—one with groceries, the other with basic first-aid supplies. I stop in front of his house and take a deep breath. Part of me is screaming to turn around. That I have no business being here. That he's dangerous, unstable, maybe even violent.

But another part—a quieter, deeper one—tells me that his pain needs something else. Not fear. But presence.

I've never been able to walk away from someone who needs help. No matter how small. But he seems to need a lot of it.

My knock falls dull against the silence. Once. Twice. The third time, my hand freezes mid-air. The door swings open suddenly. My heart drops, but I smile.

He appears in the doorway. The same dark eyes, the same broad, bare shoulders, with that massive scar stretching from his brow to his neck. Messy hair. Days-old stubble. A soldier’s body. The gaze of someone who hasn’t felt alive in a long time.

"You again?" he asks tiredly, already starting to shut the door, but I slide my foot inside, and he stops just short of slamming it on me.

"I brought you something to eat. And a first-aid kit. I noticed last night that you had nothing. Not even water. And..." — I raise the bags a little — "I don’t think whiskey counts."

He hesitates. His eyes narrow, but there’s no anger in them. Something worse: distrust. Like every kind gesture is a trap. A lie. Poison.

"I don’t need you. And I didn’t ask for anything."

"You don’t have to ask. Sometimes... you just have to accept."

I slip past him gently, without touching him, and enter.

The air is heavy. The silence in the house is thick, like a damp blanket thrown over the furniture, the walls, his heart.

I open all the windows in the living room and kitchen, letting light, fresh air, and warmth seep inside, all under his watchful eyes.

He looks like he's waiting for me to explode at any second. Or maybe he thinks I’m not real.

"What part of 'leave' didn’t you understand?" he asks, but his voice is weak, unconvincing.

"The part where I leave you alone to starve. Or go mad," I reply, setting the groceries on the counter.

Some canned food, bread, eggs, coffee. Milk. Ordinary things that smell like normal life.

"My name’s Adam," he finally says, like he’s handing me a weapon.

I look at him. The scar on his cheek should disgust me, but I don’t care how he looks. The one on his palm, though, is poorly bandaged. I approach slowly. I don’t want him to think I mean harm.

"Can I?"

It feels like hours pass in his mind as he decides what to do. But I have patience.

He says nothing, just offers his hand. A small gesture—but for him, it’s like a mountain crumbling.

I begin cleaning the wound gently. His hand trembles. I don’t know if it’s from pain or something else. Maybe fear. Maybe anger. Maybe it’s the first time someone has touched him without hurting him.

"Why are you really here?" he asks in a whisper, as if talking to ghosts, not me.

I meet his eyes and smile softly.

"Because I feel like you need someone."

He closes his eyes like he’s absorbing my words into his soul. When I finish bandaging his hand, I retreat to the kitchen and see him staring at his palm like it doesn’t belong to him.

"Sorry... I forgot my manners. You introduced yourself, but I didn’t. My name is Elara. Nice to meet you." I say, and when our eyes meet, he looks haunted, as if seeing through me.

"You shouldn’t be glad to meet me," he says, glancing around like the walls might collapse.

I don’t respond. Instead, I look for a pan. Quietly. I still don’t know what sounds might trigger his panic attacks, and I don’t want to make things worse.

"What if I cooked something while you... I don’t know... rested?"

He says nothing, just stares through me, and I try not to appear too vulnerable around him.

Adam doesn’t respond. Just blinks slowly, like he’s trying to return to a body that hasn’t felt like his in a long time. He sinks into the couch and lets out a deep sigh—silent, heavy, like it came from the bottom of his soul.

I move through the kitchen like a shadow. I find a pan and start making fried eggs and toast. Simple, but it smells like home. Maybe it’ll calm him. Or maybe not. But I have to try.

"Do you always walk into people’s lives uninvited?" I hear him murmur.

I set the knife down carefully, not wanting to make noise.

"If I can help that person somehow, then yes. I do it gladly. I’m not forcing you to do anything. If you tell me to leave, I will."

"That’s the problem, Elara. I don’t want you to leave... not yet, but I can’t let you stay either. People like me bring bullets, not flowers."

I turn to him and look. It’s not just the scar on his face and neck that marks him. It’s his gaze. The way he holds his arms, like someone who’s been tortured and is still waiting for the next blow.

"Maybe sometimes... people like me bring bandages, not questions." I smile faintly, then return to the eggs.

Behind me, I hear him rise. His heavy steps approach, but he doesn’t touch me. Stops at a cautious distance.

"You really want to know what demons haunt me."

I tense. Turn slowly.

"Only if you want to tell me."

"I can’t. If I open that door... I might never close it again."

"Then we keep it closed. Today... we just eat. That’s all."

Silence. Then a small nod. He accepts.

It’s a beginning.

A fragile one.

But in his world... it’s a miracle.

I place the eggs and toast on a plate and hand it to him.

He doesn’t take it. Stares at it like it might explode, lips twitching.

When was the last time he ate?

His mistrust stings, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I break off a piece of toast, scoop some egg, and eat. His eyes follow me, probably waiting for me to collapse from the food, and when I don’t, he takes the plate and a fork.

He doesn’t bother sitting. Takes a careful bite. His face gives nothing away, but I feel slightly better knowing he’s managed a few bites. Maybe he won’t finish it all—maybe he hasn’t eaten anything solid in days—but it’s a start.

"Close the windows, Elara. There’s too much light. It doesn’t belong here."

I pause from washing the pan and turn to him. He said it calmly, but behind the words is a deep fear, like the light itself is a weapon aimed at his chest.

"Sure," I answer simply. I walk over and draw the curtains, one by one.

With each sliver of light I block out, I see him breathe a little easier. Not fully relaxed—he’s not the kind—but easier, like the shadows shield him. Like darkness is the only thing that’s never betrayed him.

"Thank you," he says, his voice low, almost unaware.

"I'm not afraid of the dark. And you shouldn’t be afraid of the light," I reply, tying my hair back, trying not to let the heavy atmosphere affect me.

"Light... is a liar. Shows you beautiful things, but doesn’t keep them. Then it vanishes and leaves you with the blood. The screams."

His words slice the air like a cold blade. I look at him. He’s frozen, fork mid-air, eyes locked on some corner of the room. I don’t even know if he sees me.

"They all died, didn’t they?"

The question slipped out. I didn’t mean to say it. But his silence is an answer in itself.

Adam sets the fork down. Walks to the wall where the light sneaks in under the curtain. Presses his forehead against it, fists clenched.

"They didn’t just die. They were butchered. Each in their own way. Each in front of me. I survived."

He turns toward me. His gaze is darker than I’ve ever seen on anyone.

"And now I live with all of them. In my ears. My skin. My dreams. My blood."

I stay still. I don’t run. Even though I’m afraid. I just move closer, until I’m beside him.

"You don’t have to live with them alone."

He raises an eyebrow, exhausted.

"And what are you, Elara? A fallen guardian angel? A dream of mine? Or just a naive girl?"

"Maybe all three. Or maybe just someone who doesn’t want to watch a man fade away in silence."

For a moment, the silence turns warm. Almost gentle.

Then he looks back at the wall and whispers:

"If you choose to stay... part of my darkness will become yours. You won’t come out of this whole."

And all I can say is:

"Then I’ll learn to walk in the dark. At least until I can help you heal."

"You won’t succeed," he says, certain, then walks out of the living room and shuts the door behind him.

I sigh, disappointed. I didn’t expect it to be easy to make him believe...