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The apartment is plunged into darkness. There's only silence, heavy and oppressive. Dressed in your creased pajamas, mismatched socks, and days-old mascara smudged on your cheeks, you’ve been sitting on the couch for ages, hours blending into an endless day that knows neither sleep nor rest.
Life seems to mock you. A week ago, a teenage girl was killed by a Wanderer before your very eyes as you stood there, helpless. But what truly broke you wasn't just the failure and the loss. It was the accumulation of small inconveniences and irritations from daily life that chipped away at you until you cracked. Your cup of coffee spilled on your brand-new white shirt. The attachment you forgot to include twice when emailing a superior. Your favorite necklace chain snapping, beads scattering across the floor. The sudden downpour that soaked you as you went on a walk to relieve your stress.
And then there was the printer. It was too slow, too loud. It looked like it was conspiring against you, testing your patience until you punched it in the middle of the office. That's when Jenna ordered you to take a few days off. "Take time," she said, "put yourself back together." But rest feels like a foreign concept you once knew and have now forgotten. The quiet of your home only sharpens the hurt and the shame branding your soul.
In those moments, loneliness is cruel. It presses against your lungs until every breath hurts. All you think about is how you weren't enough. Not fast enough, not strong enough, not wise enough to save a girl with so much left to live, to learn, and to discover. And worse: you had to face her parents, to break the news to them that their little girl would never come home. You saw something die in their eyes—probably the hope of witnessing countless smiles and happy memories. They didn't blame you, didn't accuse you, and even managed to thank you for trying. Their kindness broke your heart in a way anger thrown at you never could.
By the third day alone in your apartment, you had forgotten why people bother cooking, cleaning, and getting dressed. Dirty dishes spill over the sink, takeout boxes litter the counter, and laundry piles up in the corner of the living room. You can't bring yourself to care about the mess. You want to scream, to break things, to pull at your hair, but the effort is too much. Instead, it's easier to drown in silence.
And then, a sound, anchoring you back to reality. The rattle of the front door handle. And a voice, soothing and low, breaking through the hush: "It's me." Sylus never announces himself because he's the only one with a spare key. But tonight, he does. He stands in the doorway, suitcase still in hand, exhaustion written on his face, and yet, something shines bright in his crimson eyes. Concern.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” you reply weakly, your voice raw from lack of use.
He drops the suitcase at the door and crosses the room without hesitation. He drapes your favorite worn plaid around you, tucking the edges close, as if the fabric could shield you from the harshness of the world. While he's doing so, you study his face, so familiar, yet somehow distant, as if you’re seeing him through fog. Guilt has built a wall around your mind, but you remain trapped within your body, a passive witness to your own suffering.
Sylus straightens and scans the chaos, taking in the mess, the dishes, the laundry. And then, he wordlessly begins to clean, clearing the takeout boxes, stacking dirty dishes to wash, wiping the counter. You want to protest, to say, “Don't,” but the words get stuck behind the sobs rising in your throat. He must sense it, because he glances back with a faint smile. “Rest,” he says. “I'll handle this.”
So you try. You sink into the sofa, pajamas rumpled, hair wild. You listen to the sounds of him shuffling around the kitchen to ground you: cupboards opening, drawers shutting softly, the steady tap of the knife against the board. He moves carefully, as if even the room itself needs gentleness. Garlic and onions sizzle, the scent creeping into the veil clouding your mind. Hunger twists your stomach, but it isn't only hunger for food. It's for warmth. For him. You needed him, but hadn't found the strength to ask for help. You’d hidden behind the distance that separated you while he was away for business matters. You’d buried your pain in texts that said “I’m fine,” and declined calls. But still, he came home sooner than expected. He came for you.
You don't talk. He doesn't either. But the quiet is no longer suffocating; it's comforting. In his silence, you find an invitation to do whatever you need. He'll always make space for your words or your muteness.
When the food is ready, he sets a plate on the coffee table in front of you. He sits beside you, close but never suffocating. Heat radiates from him, seeping into the cold parts of your heart. You finally look up to meet his eyes, and the weight of everything crashes all at once: shame, regret, disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I let myself break apart, and here you are, trying to fix it all for me.”
He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving you. “Sweetie, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
And then, the dam finally breaks. Hot and endless tears stream down your cheeks. You bury your face in his shoulder as sobs tear through you. You feel small, broken, and vulnerable, and he lets you be all of it. He holds you as you cry, as you gasp for air.
“I feel so stupid,” you choke between shaky breaths. “I couldn't save her. I am gross and useless and you—”
His fingers comb through your hair. “That's enough. Whatever you’re going through right now, you’re allowed,” he interrupts. “Text me, call me. No matter how far I am, no matter what time it is. Whether you're sad, angry, or you can't name what it is. But, please, don’t shut me out, my beloved. Lean on me, share your burden.”
The words sink into you. They seem like hands pressed against the cracks in your heart, holding you together. Your breath stutters at first, but then slowly evens. A faint shiver ripples through you, exhaustion mixing with the chill that pierces you, even draped in the plaid. Sylus notices it instantly. He stands and pulls you into his arms.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s take a bath to warm you up.”
As soon as the tub is filled, he steps in with you in the hot water. You drift in his arms for what feels like hours, letting him wash your hair with careful tenderness, your tears blending with the steam. Sometimes you speak, pouring your heart out, talking about how you're feeling hollow. Sometimes he talks, telling you about his trip, about the twins and Mephisto’s latest mischief, about how your flowers are almost blooming. Sometimes silence says enough. The apartment, the city, the world, everything fades into the background, and only his presence remains.
He never rushes you, never asks for more than you can give. He just stays by your side, like a lighthouse in the storm, allowing you to come apart and slowly stitch yourself back, in the safety of his embrace.
And finally, when your tears have dried and your chest feels lighter, you close your eyes. Because you know with absolute certainty that he won't leave. And that he will never be afraid of your broken pieces.
“I don't know what I'd do without you,” you whisper, raw with gratitude.
He presses a kiss to your temple, his laughter humming softly against your skin. “You'll never have to find out.”
And for the first time in too many days, something gentle blooms inside your chest—small but warm as a candle flame. You are safe. He caught your hand as you were falling, and he will catch it again and again, through every storm.