"Yeah… total trash," he muttered again, his voice dry and rough. The sun had dipped below the skeletal line of pine trees, casting long shadows across the dirt path as Alex limped home, his bag empty, his coin pouch almost as light as the filthy shirt clinging to his back.
His hands were blistered raw from carrying heavy gear all day. His legs throbbed. Hunger gnawed at him, but he ignored it. He was used to ignoring things: pain, exhaustion, insults.
But what he couldn't ignore was the stillness in the air.
His home if the crumbling one-room shack at the end of the forest path even deserved that name stood crooked against the dying light. The front door was open, drifting lazily in the breeze. That had never happened before. Mia always shut it. Always.
He stopped.
A strange weight settled in his gut. He felt it before he saw anything. The wrongness. The quiet that wasn't peace it was suffocation. Not a bird chirped. Not a leaf stirred.
Alex's heartbeat quickened.
He approached slowly, his boots crunching over old ash and brittle leaves. The wood of the door creaked like a whisper of warning. His hand reached for the hilt of the dull rusted dagger at his waist not that it would help if something was inside.
He pushed the door open.
At first, all he saw was shadow.
Then
Blood.
Dark, sticky, smeared across the floor. Drag marks. A broken chair. A cracked bowl. A trail leading to the corner behind the ragged curtain they used to separate the beds.
His throat closed.
No. No no no.
He rushed inside, boots sliding in the blood. He tore the curtain aside with shaking hands.
Mia lay there.
She was twisted awkwardly, her dress torn, stained red and brown. Her eyes fluttered barely. She was alive. But only barely.
"Mia !"
Her mouth moved.
He dropped to his knees beside her, scooping her up like he always did when she had nightmares. But this wasn't a nightmare.
Her body was cold. Too cold. Her breath hitched like a drowning child. Blood bubbled at the corners of her lips. Her stomach had been stabbed deep. More than once.
"Stay with me hey, Mia, look at me, stay awake, you hear me?" His voice cracked, frantic. He pressed against the wound with trembling hands, trying to stop the bleeding. It kept coming.
She reached up, her fingers brushing his cheek. Weak. Featherlight.
"B-big... bro..." she whispered.
"I'm here. I'm here, I'm right here. You're okay. I'm gonna fix this, I'll get help "
"N-not... your fault..."
"What?"
She smiled. The kind of smile people gave when they knew they were dying.
"...I d-didn't... tell them... anything..."
A sound tore from his throat. It wasn't a word.
She coughed once. Blood. Then her hand fell.
Her body went still.
Alex didn't move.
Not for seconds.
Not for minutes.
Only the slow drip of blood from his shaking fingers filled the room. Only the breeze creaking the door. Only the echo of her voice.
Not your fault.
He held her tighter. As if he could still warm her.
He couldn't even cry.