Erma can still remember the first time she saw him.
A newborn, swaddled in quiet warmth, his small hands curled tightly into fists. His skin soft. Eyes shut tight. Breathing like the flutter of a sparrow.
Her baby brother.
She had stood there, no older than six, staring down at the bundle in her mother's arms with wide eyes and trembling fingers. And then—she smiled.
For the first time, she thought… maybe she wouldn't be alone.
The Dalma family was vast, but cold. Her father's name carried weight, but no warmth. Her siblings ignored her. Some mocked her. Others made it their sport to remind her that she and her mother didn't belong.
But when Fray was born, something shifted. She wasn't alone anymore.
There were birthdays—quiet ones. No grand halls. No choirs or regal banquets. Just the three of them. Her mother baking small cakes in the crooked iron oven, icing them with trembling hands. Erma singing off-key while Fray laughed, his face smeared with cream.
