The darkness sat heavy around her, pressing close like damp air. Cecilia sat slumped against the wall, knees pulled tight to her chest. The faint sound of raindrops hitting the house was the only thing alive.
Her thoughts tangled, pulling at one another — work, rent, bills, lesson plans. The endless pretending. The constant smile.
She had spent so long holding everything together that she couldn't remember what it felt like to just breathe.
Faces blurred through her mind — students laughing, papers scattered, Paul's unblinking stare.
"If you wanna live more, do your job."
His words stuck like thorns. She had brushed them off earlier, but now they wouldn't let go.
Her fingers dug into her sleeves. "Maybe he's right…" she whispered. "Maybe I should stop trying to fix people who don't want to be fixed."
And then Knives' voice — sharp, trembling — cut through the fog.
'They're long dead, Cecilia. There's nothing left for us to do for them!'
The words stung, like old scars reopening.
She could still see her mother — frail and paper-pale under the hospital lights. Those weak hands that still reached for Cecilia's cheek, whispering "Take care of your brother. Promise me."
And her father…
Her jaw tightened.
That man had left before the machines went silent. Left them both drowning under debts and sympathy.
He didn't even come to the funeral.
After that, she stopped crying. She learned to stay busy. To work, to teach, to smile when people said, "You're strong, Cecilia."
She wasn't. She was just surviving.
Knives never saw that version of her — the one breaking quietly at night. He only saw his "sister the teacher," his rock.
But he was wrong.
He was still a child, no matter how clever he'd grown. Still too young to understand what giving up actually costs.
Her throat tightened.
"I'm tired," she breathed. "I'm so tired… of keeping it together for ghosts."
Her voice cracked at the end, like something inside her finally gave way.
The silence that followed was unbearable — heavy, suffocating.
And then, a whisper, clear and merciless, slicing through the dark:
> "Do you think you deserve to know me?" <
Her eyes flew open.
Paul's voice. Cold, distant, echoing from somewhere deeper — maybe inside her own head.
The world felt smaller.
She lifted her head. The door stood there, faint light spilling through the bottom crack.
Maybe it was time to stop running from it all.
Maybe… it was time to face him.
She stood up slowly, every movement heavy. Walked down the narrow hallway, barefoot on the cold floor.
When she reached the door, she hesitated — just long enough to steady her breath — then knocked softly.
Once.
Twice.
The pause stretched.
Then came a voice from the other side, quiet but firm:
"It's open."
She opened the door slowly.
The hinges creaked — a long, soft note swallowed by the dark.
Inside, only the glow of the desktop illuminated the room. Knives sat before it, the faint clicking of keys filling the air like the heartbeat of the silence. The blue light carved his outline against the dim, painting half his face and leaving the other half in shadow.
Cecilia hesitated in the doorway. Her hand still trembled on the knob — maybe from exhaustion, maybe from the weight of everything left unsaid.
Knives didn't turn. "Don't you have school tomorrow?" he said, voice steady, detached. "Why aren't you sleeping?"
The tone almost fooled her. Like nothing had happened — like the argument, the slap, the tears were all just static on a forgotten channel.
"I…" she faltered. "I can't sleep."
That made him pause. The typing stopped. The hum of the computer filled the gap. Then, without hurry, he turned his chair to face her.
The light caught his eyes — sharp, observant, unreadable. He studied her the way he might study a broken equation — searching for the part that didn't add up. Her face was pale, streaked faintly from dried tears, her lips pressed tight as if she were holding the words back by force.
"Alright," he said softly. "Come and sleep."
He nodded toward the bed beside him.
But Cecilia didn't move. For a second, it was like she didn't even hear him. Her body stood still, shoulders slumped, eyes unfocused. The strings that held her together all day — work, patience, composure — finally loose, hanging useless by her side.
"Sis?" Knives said again, more gently this time.
That broke her trance. "Nothing," she whispered, almost automatic.
She turned, closed the door quietly behind her, and stepped into the dim room.
Her footsteps barely made a sound. The faint glow from the screen followed her like a spotlight until she reached the bed. She didn't look at him — not once. She just sank down onto the mattress, slow and heavy, like gravity had doubled its pull.
Slowly her head turned to him. Knives looked her.
He'd seen her like this before — after long days, after lost sleep, after crying quietly in the next room.
Every time he told himself he'd do better next time. Every time, it still came to this.
"What?" he finally said. His voice cracked just slightly. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to answer or not.
She didn't. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Knives turned back toward the monitor, pressed a few keys, and the screen went dark — the last glow fading from his face.
"Alright," he murmured.
He pushed the chair back, stood, and crossed to the bed. The mattress dipped as he layed down beside her, the space between them small but silent.
For a while, there was only the sound of their breathing — uneven, then synchronizing, then uneven again.
Cecilia's eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling she couldn't see. The shadows swirled and reshaped into faces — her mother's tired smile, her father's angry silence, the faces of her students, Paul's unblinking stare.
Do you think you deserve to know me?
The words struck again, a whisper lodged deep in her skull.
She exhaled sharply, forcing the thought out. Her fingers curled tighter around the blanket.
Beside her, Knives shifted slightly. His breathing slowed. Maybe he was asleep, maybe not.
She turned her head just enough to glimpse his outline — the faint shape of his back, the slope of his shoulders.
He was still her little brother. Still that boy who once cried himself to sleep when the world turned cruel.
And she — she was still trying to be everything he needed, even when she had nothing left to give.
But now, as the dark pressed closer, something inside her loosened — a quiet, dangerous thought: Maybe he was right. Maybe it really is time to move on.
She blinked, once. Twice.
Then whispered into the dark, so faint even she wasn't sure if she spoke it aloud:
"…Knives?"
She raised her left hand upward — fingers trembling — as if trying to reach the ceiling… or maybe heaven itself.
But neither answer felt right.
Her fingertips curled slowly into a fist, closing around something unseen.
Something she wanted to believe was there.
But when she opened her hand again — nothing.
Empty. Hollow.
Then, from beside her, another hand rose — Knives'.
He reached too, mirroring her movement.
His arm extended just past hers, only by half an inch — but still, higher. Always a little higher.
Cecilia's hand drifted sideways, finding his in the dim.
Their fingers brushed, then locked together.
This time, when she closed her hand — it wasn't empty anymore.
She turned her head toward him.
Knives was still looking upward, unaware. But he felt it — the faint pressure of her grip, the warmth against his palm.
When he finally turned to face her, he froze.
A tear rolled from the corner of Cecilia's eye, tracing down her cheek, soaking into the pillow.
Silent. Slow.
Her lips trembled — not from sadness alone, but exhaustion, relief, surrender.
Knives's chest tightened. The guilt returned like a knife twisting in his ribs.
His fault. Always his fault.
And she—she was the one paying for it.
Why her?
Why always her?
His hand slipped free — only to reach again.
Both arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close, holding her so tightly that the space between them disappeared.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sis. I'll never say that again. Never. Never."
He kept repeating it, the words blurring together. His voice cracked.
Each apology more desperate than the last.
If he stopped now, if he let go now — he might lose her forever.
"I'm sorry, Knives," she murmured weakly. "I always loved you. Always will."
And then—
A light began to rise.
Faint at first, like dawn seeping through the cracks. Then it grew — blinding, pure, all-consuming.
It filled the room, every shadow burned away. The air itself seemed to hum.
Knives's arms tightened.
He felt her warmth fading against him — slipping through his hold like smoke.
"No, no—please, not again," he whispered. His words trembled, breaking apart.
"I'm sorry, sis! I'm sorry!"
He pressed his face into her shoulder. But it wasn't there anymore.
The warmth — gone.
The scent of her hair — gone.
Only cold. Empty.
The light swallowed everything.
When his eyes opened again, the world had fallen silent.
No glow. No sound. Only the faint hum of the computer on the desk.
The bed was half empty.
The pillow beside him—wet. Still dented, still warm, but no one there.
Knives froze. His hands hung midair, shaking, searching for something that wasn't there to hold anymore.
"...Sis?" he called softly.
Then louder. "Cecilia?"
Nothing.
The stage collapse like a wave — sudden, brutal, absolute.
His breath broke apart. He reached for the spot again, still disbelieving, still hoping.
And then his voice cracked open.
"Why did you leave me!?"