It was one of those golden Sunday mornings where sunlight streamed in through the curtains like liquid warmth, and the house smelled faintly of cinnamon toast. Alice stretched on the living room rug, her limbs sprawled like a lazy kitten, her braid half-undone and her white socks mismatched.
Chris lay on the couch above her, a comic book balanced on his chest, eyes scanning the panels without much attention. He wasn't really reading—he never could focus when Alice was too quiet.
"You okay, Princess?" he asked without looking up.
She didn't answer at first. Just traced circles on the wooden floor with her finger. Then, finally, she whispered, "Do you remember what Mama's voice sounded like?"
Chris's comic slipped off his chest.
He blinked. "Your mama?"
Alice nodded slowly, still not meeting his gaze. "I remember the lullaby. I remember her perfume… and the way she tied my shoelaces with double bows. But her voice is… it's fading."
Chris sat up, alarmed by the smallness of her voice. In all her eight years, Alice had rarely asked about her mother so directly. Most of the time, she clung to Elvin when memories became too heavy. But this time—this moment—she'd come to him.
He took a breath and scooted down to sit on the floor beside her.
"She had a voice like a flute," he said finally. "Soft, but clear. She used to sing while cooking—remember that? Badly, I might add."
Alice chuckled softly. "She did sing off-key."
"And she always called you her 'starlight.' Even when you spilled juice on her favorite carpet."
"She didn't get angry," Alice murmured.
"Not once."
Chris paused, his voice quieter now. "You were her world."
Alice blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. She hadn't meant to cry today. But the memories crept in, bittersweet and warm, curling around her chest like a squeeze.
Chris noticed.
Without a word, he stretched out his arm, motioning her closer.
Alice didn't hesitate. She crawled into his lap like she used to when she was smaller, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. Chris wrapped both arms around her, gentle and firm, and began rocking her slowly.
"You don't have to remember everything," he whispered. "You just have to know you were loved."
Her tears fell silently now, soaking into his shirt.
"I keep trying to remember all the pieces," she choked, "but they feel like a dream sometimes. And I'm scared one day I'll forget them completely."
Chris's throat tightened. He brushed a few stray strands of hair from her forehead, tucking them behind her ear.
"I'll remember for you," he said. "Elvin will too. We'll remind you of every stupid, beautiful thing she ever did."
She smiled, wet and wobbly, but real. "Even the part where she burnt rice three times in a row?"
"Especially that," he grinned. "Legendary failure."
Alice giggled, and Chris felt something ease in his chest. Her laughter—so fragile, yet so bright—always made him want to protect her even more.
"Do you miss your mom and dad too?" she asked suddenly.
Chris hesitated. His parents had died when he was twelve—long before Alice came into their lives. He didn't talk about them often.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I miss them in quiet ways. Like when I ace a math test and there's no one to brag to. Or when I see a family at the park, and the dad is tossing a kid in the air."
He looked down at her. "But you know what helps?"
"What?"
"Having a little sister who fills the house with ballet twirls and cookie crumbs."
Alice beamed. "I do leave crumbs."
"You leave entire cookie trails," he teased.
They sat like that a while—two siblings bound not by blood, but by grief and love, and the slow healing that time gives. The sun warmed their backs, and the world outside the window kept moving, but inside the house, it was just them.
Chris finally stood and stretched. "You hungry?"
Alice nodded. "Can we have pancakes?"
"Sure. But only if you help stir."
"Deal!"
As she skipped to the kitchen, Chris paused to look at her once more. Her small feet pattered across the tile, her braid swaying behind her, her sadness tucked away for now.
Elvin was her protector, her anchor.
But Chris… Chris was her gentle hand in the dark.