THE SPACE BETWEEN SILENCE(3)
1387 Words
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The dock hummed with the usual rhythm of ropes creaking, gulls crying, and waves slapping against wood. Zayan had no intention of lingering, until a low voice drifted from a group of men hauling nets.
“… Man’s got no respect. Picking on that girl like she’s a problem, when Elina’s always been decent. Grew up right here in front of us. Not like that boy of his, strutting around like he owns the ocean.”
One fisherman muttered, shaking his head. “But then again, a Winterson can’t stand to see anyone else shine.”
Zayan stiffened. Heat climbed his neck. His hands hovered at his sides, itching to clench.
Another voice chimed in, sharper, carrying above the ocean breeze.
“Kaeo’s no better than his father. The Wintersons think they’re above us, always have.”
Zayan froze. His gut tightened.
A laugh, bitter and old.
“Don’t forget, Captain Emberwing and Khione were lovers for so many years. Everyone knew they were meant to be. But Isander? He crushed it. Said Emberwing wasn’t good enough for his daughter.”
The name hit Zayan like a wave. Isander. His grandfather. A man his father almost never spoke of.
Someone spat into the water.
“Funny, ain’t it? Kaeo panics the moment his son looks at Emberwing’s daughter. Maybe he’s scared history’s about to repeat itself.”
Zayan’s breath faltered.
Then words that cut deeper than any blade.
“A man who couldn’t even keep his wife should worry about himself.”
Zayan’s stomach knotted. His mother. The air seemed to press heavy around him.
“Can’t blame Kystelle for leaving,” another muttered. “What’s shameful is she left the boy behind. Look at him now, spoiled, soft, nothing but his father’s shadow.”
Laughter followed, cruel and careless.
Zayan’s fists curled tight. His chest heaved as if the ocean were pressing against him.
The last voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial.
“… Everyone remembers what the Wintersons did to Eryx,” one of the older men said, lowering his voice though the bitterness sharpened every syllable.
The group fell into silence for a moment. Zayan’s stomach twisted at the name, familiar, but blurred with the haze of childhood.
“Aye,” the first man said grimly. “Hard to forget. Eryx was the pride of this port. Folks loved him carried himself like a man born of the Ocean. They say his bloodline goes back to the ones who built this very harbor.”
Another worker scoffed. “Eryx was a good man. Strong. Loyal. Didn’t deserve what came to him.”
“A royal line,” another whispered, almost in awe. “Descendant of great kings. You could see it in him, the way people followed his lead. Too popular for Kaeo’s liking or old Isander’s.”
“Then came that… incident.” The first speaker lowered his voice. “But no proper investigation was ever done.”
“Didn’t need to be,” another cut in bitterly. “The Wintersons made sure of that. Used it as an excuse to strip him of his work, ban him from the port. Crushed him overnight. A man like that reduced to nothing.”
Zayan’s fingers curled into fists.
“And why?” the old fisherman spat into the water. “Jealousy. Eryx had what they never did: the people’s respect. Isander couldn’t stand it. Just like Kaeo can’t stand to see his son bested.”
A murmur ran through the group.
“Poor Eryx. Never recovered. And his family…” the man sighed. “No wonder his daughter keeps to herself.”
The others fell silent for a beat, as though even speaking the story aloud carried weight.
Zayan felt a chill run through him. Eryx. His father. His grandfather. Their lives tangled in a story older than he understood.
As if to twist the knife, another voice muttered, “And to think, Kaeo treats his own boy the same way Isander treated him. History repeating itself.”
The group muttered their agreement.
Zayan’s ears rang. His throat felt dry. He couldn’t breathe.
His father… was once like him? Shaped by the same cruelty?
The men kept talking, voices blurring now, Zayan’s chest burned. He turned sharply, walking away before they could notice the storm gathering in his face. Each step felt heavy, his ears ringing with their words.
For the first time, he wasn’t just angry at his father.
He was afraid of becoming him.
___________
The house pressed in with silence.
Clara lay sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The ticking clock in the kitchen was louder than usual. Normally, her sisters’ laughter would’ve drowned it out. Now the absence of their noise made the place feel cavernous.
She sat up restlessly, eyes flicking toward the hallway. Her mother’s door stood ajar. Curiosity tugged at her, and she padded over.
Mrs. White lay curled on the bed, still in her work clothes. A basket of laundry sat half-folded on the chair beside her. One arm was draped across her forehead, the other limp at her side. Her breath came heavy, almost labored.
Clara’s throat tightened.
She backed away, closing the door quietly before her mother stirred.
Back in her room, the weight pressed harder. She needed to do something. That was when her eyes caught the old diary on her desk. The once-bright cover had dulled, edges curling.
She sat down, flipping it open. The blank page stared back, waiting. Her hand hovered over it before finally dragging the pen across.
Not words.
Shapes.
Lines curved into the outline of a girl’s face. The girl’s eyes were wide, fearful, reflecting a shadow of something in the water. Clara’s pen scratched faster, adding scales, a flick of a tail…
Her hand froze.
She stared at what she had drawn, heart hammering.
No.
This wasn’t normal.
And neither was she.
________
The hum of conversation in Southside Bar buzzed like static in the background. Neon lights flickered, throwing restless shadows across the table.
Zayan’s words trailed off as he finally lifted his drink, finishing the last of what he’d been spilling. His throat burned not from the liquor, but from saying it out loud.
For a long moment, Jace just stared at him, his glass forgotten in his hand. His brows knit together, not in disbelief, but in the weight of it.
“s**t,” he said quietly, leaning forward. “That’s… a lot, Zee.”
Zayan smirked, but it was brittle, a shield he wore too often. “What, you expected better from my family?”
Jace didn’t smile back. “No. But hearing it like that out in the open, like you’re some curse they’re passing down? That hits different.”
The words hit home. Zayan looked away, fingers tightening around his empty glass. He wanted to act like it rolled off him, like it was just another story, another drunken tale from the docks. But the burn in his chest said otherwise.
“They made it sound like my whole family is cursed,” he muttered. “My grandfather wrecked my dad. My dad’s wrecking me. And then there’s this other name, Eryx. Like some ghost they all whisper about. Someone my family destroyed.”
Jace frowned. “Eryx? Never heard of him. Who was he?”
Zayan shook his head, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter. Just another man crushed by the Wintersons. Add it to the legacy.”
Jace leaned in, his voice steady. “No. It does matter. Look at you…you can’t even say his name without it cutting deep. Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter when I can see it all over your face.”
Zayan forced a laugh, sharp and bitter. “So what? The Winterson legacy. Breaking people and calling it tradition.”
Jace leaned in, his voice firm but soft. “That’s not you.”
Zayan met his eyes, the smirk faltering. For a second, the weight in his chest threatened to spill over. But then he looked down again, pressing it all back inside.
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, signaling for another drink. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Jace didn’t argue, but his gaze lingered like he could feel the cracks Zayan was trying so hard to hide.
- Writer
