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It's the sun that wakes you up. You're getting better at sleeping through it until past dawn at least, but at some point, it's just too damn bright to ignore. You're not complaining. This is the only room in the apartment where you can open the curtains, so you try to make the most of it. Even if you are looking forward to the end of summer already, because the nights seem to be over by the time you blink.
Charlie, on the other hand, will sleep the whole day away if you let her, now that she isn't afraid of the dark anymore. It must be a novelty. She never slept well as a kid; she's finally catching up on all that lost time.
You know the feeling. You lost so many years, but now you've got all the time in the world with her.
Her room is practically pitch black, but you know how many steps it takes to reach her. And it's easy to adjust to being in the dark. All you can really make out is the vague shape of her, curled up under the covers like a puppy, the tiniest cracks of light that escape through the window.
"Morning," You say cheerfully, loud enough to wake her.
The noise she lets out is pained, a low hiss of discomfort that drags into a growl as she opens her eyes, as if it hurts her just to look at you, immediately squeezing them shut again.
It's an improvement. For the first few months, all Charlie did was scream, and scream, and scream, no matter what you did or said, howling at you like a wild animal; the only things she would talk about were how she wanted to go home, and how much she hated you for taking her away. It was worse than being in the Constant. You don't hold it against her - if you took it to heart every time Charlie said she hated you as a kid, you'd have disowned eachother by fourteen. But she's getting better, anyone could see that. You think you're good for her. And you've learnt to keep the lights off and the curtains shut, which makes a real difference. She still gets antsy, but the less she can see, the better it seems to be. It makes you think of those little hoods people put on birds to keep them calm. Blinders on a horse. Your sister, and the boarded-up window in her bedroom.
Charlie's nowhere near as dangerous as a falcon, obviously. She doesn't even bite or scratch much, now that it seems to have sunk in she's not a monster anymore. She's cut herself on her teeth a few times, digging them into her hand too hard and staring weirdly at the imprints; you keep reassuring her she's still human, but she just puts her hands over her ears.
Figures that that would be what comes back to her the easiest, ignoring you.
"Come on, up and at 'em, sleepyhead." You shake her shoulder, huffing when she makes another mournful sound. "You can't stay here all day."
She mutters something under her breath, too low to catch much, but you don't worry yourself trying to make something out of it; she never waits for a response or tries again louder, never acts like she expects you to understand her at all. You think maybe she's just making noises. You can't hear a damn word.
"I know, I know. But you'll feel more like yerself after coffee."
You turn around, waiting for that long, irritated sigh and the sound of covers shifting, before you retrace your steps to the door and head for the kitchen, Charlie trailing behind.
She'll only follow if you don't look at her. It's a silly game. If you drag Charlie out of her room, she follows, step by mincing step; but the moment you turn to face her, she loses her mind. It's fifty-fifty on if she'll start clawing at your face, or if she just bolts to her room and hides under the bed like she's five again. You really don't get it. She's human again, why does she still want to hide from you? It's not like you're going to walk out into the dark with a lit torch and run screaming back out when you see a dozen rows of shining, white fangs like before. You're not scared of your sister. Eventually, you're sure she'll realise that, and stop being scared of you too. But for now, you just squint in the low light and try not to stare when she can see you.
(That first night home, you dug out her old night-light and she broke it so badly even you couldn't fix it. You have one for yourself, now. Seems like one of the two of you is always going to be afraid of the dark.)
It's brighter in here, curtains thinner, 'cause you need to be able to actually see what you're doing. A necessary evil. You know Charlie hates it, because she pulls out a chair with a sigh, and by the time you turn around, her face is already hidden behind her hair. It's gotten so long since you last knew her. All tangles, like she's still a little kid. She can always tell when you're watching - her nails scratch against the table louder, claws digging in. You turn away.
Fire spooks you now. Some residue from so long spent investigating ones that started without rhyme or reason, maybe, or just a piece of common sense you've held onto after finding out how quickly a summer wildfire can get out of control. If the Constant taught you anything, it's that you don't care much for campfires; at least when Voxola had gone up in flames around you, you'd have died in the comfort of a factory floor. Whatever the reason, you sure don't like it as you light the burner on the stove and put the kettle on.
The toaster doesn't have any complicated feelings attached. It's a handy little thing. You like it. Even if it belongs in a scrap heap, with how long it takes to get the job done. But you never throw anything away if you might want it later, so you'll hang on until you think of something you can use the parts for, and just suffer the waiting 'til then.
"Behave," You warn it, as you slot bread in. Charlie lets out a huff of air that could almost be a laugh. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.
You still can't believe she's real. You've always known she was still out there somewhere - never allowed yourself to doubt even for a second, because if you decided Charlie was dead, then that was as good as killing her yourself - but that's different from having her here. It feels like it could kill you to be this happy. Missing her couldn't hurt you the same, not when you could keep telling yourself it was temporary. But it's going to be like this for the rest of your life.
How do you live with losing your sister? Easy; you can't. But now you know how that feels, to live through your worst nightmare and realise you didn't have a clue how bad it could get, how much worse the fact of it is compared to the fear. And you know how it feels to get back what you've lost, and somehow it's the relief that scares you worse. Everything is between those two fears, because there's nothing but her and the absence of her. You... There was a point in time where you didn't have a sister anymore. Where the only other person in the world who's lived your life, knows all your memories well enough that all it takes is a vague few words before you both know exactly what you're describing, who's always been there and always will be, was gone. There's no other kind of grief like that. There's no language for it. She was your earliest memory, and you had to face the idea that you would live the rest of your life without another memory of her. It's not right to outlive someone you saw grow up. You don't know how to be anyone except her sister. You don't know how you're meant to do anything but start screaming, because everything broken has been repaired, and the relief is deep enough to drown in.
Well, nearly everything has been fixed, except that night-light that's probably beyond saving. Still, you've got the scraps tucked away in a drawer for safekeeping, because what else can you do but keep trying?
"You sleep alright?" You ask without turning to face Charlie. And continue, because you know she won't talk to you, "It's supposed to get colder in the next couple days. The nights are too damn warm right now."
It gets too hot to breathe in summer. You'd take anything over spring, anything, but that doesn't mean you have to like it.
"Crazy that it's almost September, ain't it? You close yer eyes for a second, an' it's almost Christmas already." Almost your birthday too, but you don't care about that half as much.
Charlie loves the holiday season. It always made you think of her, when she was gone. You hope it might cheer her up a bit once the cold weather sets in - after all, she was still making a big production of it in the Constant, it still must mean something special to her. You almost miss it. Season after season of fighting against a whole world that wanted to kill you, just for everything to flip a switch the moment snow started to fall; tiny houses made of gingerbread with their own tinier occupants, and decorations in the shape of the monsters you killed, and presents popping up beneath trees under cover of darkness. It's not a thought you'd admit to, missing that place, even if it was beautiful sometimes. Hell, you don't even let yourself think about the people you miss.
You do what you always do when the feeling hits you: breathe out, roll your shoulder like you can shrug them off, and move on.
"Still got a few months left, though. You should go out some time. Make the most of the sun while it's still here."
Whatever Charlie mutters, it's lost in the whine of the kettle.
"Coffee alright?" You ask, not waiting for an answer as you reach for the tin, because both of you know you don't drink tea. You'd buy it, if Charlie asked. If she'd talk to you.
You don't remember if she likes it or not. You set the mug down in front of her anyway.
It should be weirder than it is, how quiet she's gotten. But outside of the Constant, and God knows how long you actually spent there, you've lived with the quiet for a long time now. You haven't called anyone since Charlie's number got disconnected.
(That's not how it happened, if you were being honest with yourself. You've spent a lot of time in payphone booths, just listening to dial tones and feedback blaring, as if the static might tell you everything you want to hear. But if you say something to yourself firmly enough, it's as good as true.)
At least your parents are used to the radio silence from you by now, when you've spent the last decade moving around so much there's no point sending letters to an address that'll be vacant by the time they arrive. You're not sure when Charlie will be up for visitors. But she's getting better, you know that. One day (hopefully soon) you'll call to say you're back in Ohio for good, and they'll be so happy to see Charlie alive like you told them she must be, and it'll be like nothing happened in the first place. You can hardly wait to have your family all together again.
Just a little more time, that's all. So Charlie can start acting more like her old self, and you won't have to explain what the hell happened between then and now. It doesn't bear thinking about.
Sometimes, it feels like she recognises you less now than she did as a monster. You used to get a spare second to dodge before she lashed out at you, as if she was pulling her punches, enough to keep that faint hope alive; if she knew you well enough that she didn't want to hurt you, she wasn't beyond saving. Even in her darkest moment, she was still your sister.
Now, she's different. She can't look at you most of the time. And when she does, it's as if everything that ever went wrong is your fault. It's not even loathing - when Charlie meets your eyes, all you see is emptiness.
You don't blame her, if she blames you. How could you? You know as well as she does that it was your fault, that you should've been there to stop all this to begin with; the most you can do is promise her that you will never let her go back to that place again, and trust that one day, that'll be enough for her. It hurts you more than anything to see your sister hurting. But she knows you're stubborn, she must know this is a promise you'd sooner die than break. There's no reason to be unhappy. This is the best possible ending you could've asked for.
And if there's one thing you won't miss from being stuck out in the wilderness, it's cooking over a campfire; even your God-awful toaster rates higher than living without technology. You can practically still smell woodsmoke as you dump toast - burnt to black, 'cause your sister is insane - onto the plate and slide it over to her, before shoving more bread in.
Charlie sits, her head buried in her hands, white-knuckled with how hard she's gripping her hair. She doesn't look up.
You pass her the jam and turn away again.
Stirring your own coffee, you warn her, "You're gonna hurt yerself if you keep that up."
The words fall on deaf ears. If she notices pain, you can't tell. You don't think she really registers that she doesn't have powers anymore. She'll snap her fingers a couple times if something startles her, and when it doesn't do anything magical, she curls into a little ball, staring blankly ahead for hours. Or she'll hurt herself and just look at the wound impatiently, waiting for it to close. There's scratch marks on the walls where she keeps trying to pick shadows off of them, as if the dark is going to leap right back into her hands if she tries hard enough to reach it. You feel awful for her. After so long spent cursed, it's got to be hard for her to believe she's really free of it. All you can do is be patient, remind her that there's nothing wrong with her, and be there for when she accepts that.
One day, the two of you are going to be laughing about this; or you will, and Charlie will be kicking you in the shins for laughing at how weird she used to be, rolling her eyes. For now, you pull her hand away from her mouth if she bites down and don't take it personally when she bares her teeth at you.
You can't see her through the curtain of hair, falling over her face instead of swept back, but you can imagine how she'll look when she's happy.
"Love you."
It'd be easy to lose yourself in the idea, but you rescue your toast before it burns as bad as hers. You set your plate down, your mug, and sit down at the table. This could be any other day from the rest of your life; the two of you could be kids again, eating breakfast bleary-eyed before school and bickering about who stole whose nice erasers. You feel so normal it's like you haven't lived a day apart at all. It's a sweet thought.
There's a smudge of jam across Charlie's thumb, dark and viscous. You wonder when your first thought looking at it is going to be blackcurrant and not nightmare fuel. She picks absently at her crust.
"Y'know I hate a mess with food," You say, in some vague impression of your mom's voice; imagine Charlie echoing. "Get it ate."
You'd prefer bacon and eggs over toast too, but whenever Charlie eats meat, she eats like a dog. It's awful to watch. Tearing it apart with her hands, the harsh click of her teeth snapping together, swallowing in chunks as fast as possible as if you were gonna snatch it away from her. She's growled at you over it. So it's toast, because you don't want to see her choke to death. Because you don't want to think about how the only thing she seems to hunger for is blood, how she doesn't need to rip or tear, but she still wants. More than she wants to sit and eat with you like a person.
(It makes you think of rabbits gone missing from shredded grass traps, streaks of blood on the forest floor and distant screams. You don't have much of an appetite yourself.)
Still, you count your blessings. This is everything you've ever wanted, and you are luckier than you knew a person could be, because it's yours forever. You have your sister again. She's safe, she's home, right back where she belongs. It's funny, calling this place home. You'd lived in other places longer, hopped from apartment to apartment all over the country as you chased down whatever little clue might lead you back to Charlie, but the moment you had her here, this one meant more to you than any of the rest. There's nowhere you wouldn't go if it meant sticking with her. You went to hell and back to find her - and it worked. It's like a dream come true. Over a decade of sleepless nights searching like a woman possessed, odd jobs and red string on your walls, seasons of surviving in the wilderness, all of it finally paid off. You weren't crazy for refusing to believe Charlie died in an earthquake like it was nothing, like you could just lose your sister in a heartbeat with no warning, and not even realise she was dead and gone until you read it in the paper. You weren't a fool for thinking you could drag her out of the darkness and back into the light. You always knew.
You reckon that's the point where stubbornness stops being a bad habit and becomes a strength - when you realise how far you're willing to go to see that you're right, or what you'll do to make it right. You reckon that's love. This is how things were supposed to be, and you've made a monster back into a person to show it. Everything broken is whole. Every doll is back in its proper place, up on some high shelf where they'll be safe, even though they still give you the creeps. Charlie used to love those awful little things when she was a kid, and you want her to feel at home. And you've never been big on decorating for yourself anyway.
Point is, you're the happiest you've been since you were young, full of a kind of joy you'd almost forgotten existed. You haven't been this happy in a long time. Ever since Charlie vanished, all you'd been running on was the determination to find her again; now, you don't feel a damn thing but thrilled. All that guilt over letting her get hurt has gone up in smoke, because you'll never let that happen again. You're past middle age now, and Charlie hasn't been your responsibility in a lifetime, but you'll always be her big sister.
Nothing bad can reach either of you now. This is how it's going to be for the rest of your lives; safe and sound, together forever, family again.
"Ain't this the best?" You're grinning so wide your face hurts, even though you know she can't see it.
Charlie's nails dig into your hand hard as you intertwine your fingers with hers, shaking her head, like she still can't figure out why they don't cut clean through your flesh the way they did before. It stings, but you don't let yourself wince. You know she doesn't mean to hurt you. She's not a monster anymore. Everything is exactly the way it's meant to be, and you are so happy that you can hardly stand it.
"It's okay," You tell her firmly. It's a promise. "There's nothin' to be scared of. I'm here, and I'm always gonna be here for you, alright? You'll never be lost again."
Her grip tightens.