Chapter 21: The Cloak of Night and Shared Silence
After documenting his experiences on his computer, every creak of the house, every voice in the hallway, made Joey tense, his preference for his secrets to remain unknown making him hyper-aware.
He feared his new, fragile understanding would be shattered if discovered.
Concern for Lyra and his mother's mention of possible "vigils" near the library consumed him. He imagined Lyra, alone and scared, surrounded by a curious or, worse, hostile crowd—the kind of loud, emotional situation he found deeply uncomfortable.
The idea of her vulnerability was unbearable, stirring his protective instincts.
Lunch was an ordeal.
His father, Roberto, complained about politics and the heat, oblivious to his son's internal storm. Léo, on the other hand, wouldn't stop talking about the "mysteries of the city," as he now called the recent events.
"There's even a group on Zap planning to go 'elf hunting' tonight near the library," Léo commented excitedly, while devouring a plate of feijoada. "They say she only appears at night. It's gonna be a big adventure!"
Joey choked on his juice. His tendency to worry flared.
"Vigils? At night? Léo, that's dangerous! What if this person, whoever she is, gets scared? What if she just wants to be left alone?"
His voice came out louder and more passionate than he intended, surprising even himself.
Roberto stared at him. "Since when do you care about this nonsense, Joey? And what's this about 'wanting to be left alone'? If there are weird people up to no good, the police should handle it."
"It's not nonsense, Dad!" Joey retorted, a rare surge of courage overriding his deep-seated aversion to confrontation. He felt a strong need to defend the oppressed, even if it meant challenging his father. "People... they might be lost, scared. They need help, not a screaming mob!"
A tense silence settled over the table.
Clara looked from Joey to Roberto, apprehensive. Léo observed his brother with new curiosity. Joey rarely raised his voice or disagreed so vehemently with his father.
"Since when did you become the protector of the city's weirdos?" Roberto growled.
Joey shrank back, his brief surge of courage draining away as quickly as it had come, the familiar fear of his father's anger resurfacing.
"I just... think people should have more empathy," he muttered, lowering his eyes to his plate, retreating into himself.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of anxiety for Joey.
He knew he had to do something. He couldn't leave Lyra at the mercy of a crowd's morbid curiosity. The image of Lyra, with her frightened eyes and silent gratitude, was a more potent motivator than his fear, a testament to the connection he felt and his desire to protect her.
When night finally fell over, bringing with it a slightly cooler air and the chirping of crickets, Joey prepared himself.
He waited until his parents were engrossed in their soap opera in the living room and Léo had gone out, probably to meet his friends and, who knows, participate in the "elf hunt."
With his heart pounding uncontrollably—a physical manifestation of the anxiety that taking decisions alone always caused him—he put on a dark jacket, placed a few extra cereal bars in his pocket – an almost automatic gesture born of his anxiety about contingencies, but also of his intention to give – and furtively slipped out of the house, ensuring his actions remained unseen.
The streets at night had a different atmosphere. Shadows stretched long, city noises seemed more distinct, and for Joey, whose need for security was paramount, every dark corner hid a potential threat.
But he pressed on, his concern for Lyra outweighing, albeit barely, his social phobia.
As he approached the library area, he noticed unusual activity. Small groups of youths, some with phones in hand, whispered and pointed towards the dark alleys.
The "vigil" was real.
Joey's stomach churned. He needed to find Lyra before they did.
He remembered the abandoned cinema his mother had once mentioned, adjacent to the library. It was a dark, forgotten place. A perfect hiding spot.
With utmost caution, avoiding the curious groups, Joey circled the library and approached the back of the old cinema. The entrance Lyra had used – a creaking, ajar side door – was still there.
Taking a deep breath, a small ritual he used when trying to overcome his problems, he stepped inside.
The air was heavy, laden with dust and the smell of mildew and neglect. The darkness was almost total, broken only by slivers of streetlight penetrating through broken windows high above.
"Lyra?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, a familiar hesitation when he wasn't comfortable speaking.
A small noise, a quick movement in the denser shadows of the old auditorium. Joey froze.
"It's me... Joey," he said, remembering she wouldn't understand his name, but perhaps she'd recognize his voice from the previous night, or his presence. "I... brought more food."
Silence. Then, slowly, a silhouette emerged from the darkness of the stage. It was Lyra. Even in the gloom, her silver hair seemed to catch what little light there was.
She stared at him, her eyes large and cautious.
Joey took a hesitant step towards her, pulling a cereal bar from his pocket and holding it out.
"For you."
Lyra didn't move for an instant. Then, slowly, she descended from the stage and approached, taking the cereal bar with the same delicacy as the night before. Her fingers brushed his for a brief second, and Joey felt a shiver, not of fear, but of a strange, undeniable connection.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
No words could bridge the chasm between their worlds, between their experiences. But in that moment, words weren't necessary.
Lyra retreated a few steps and sat on the dusty floor, leaning against one of the torn seats of the old cinema. She opened the cereal bar.
Joey, feeling an impulse he couldn't explain but that felt right, slowly approached and sat beside her, at a respectful distance, but close enough that they didn't feel completely alone.
And there they stayed, in silence, for a long, long time.
The only sound was their breathing and the distant noise of the city outside, the occasional shouts of the youths from the "vigil" who, fortunately, didn't seem to have discovered this refuge.
Joey stared ahead, into the darkness of the cinema, feeling Lyra's presence beside him.
It was surreal.
He, Joey, the shy boy who could barely ask for directions on the street, was sitting next to a being from another world, in an abandoned cinema, in the middle of the night. He often felt like an outsider looking in, and here he was, sharing that feeling with someone truly from the outside.
He didn't feel the usual panic of his social phobia. There was tension, yes, an acute awareness of the strangeness of the situation, but beneath it, there was an unexpected calm, a sense of peace he rarely found.
Perhaps it was the darkness, the silence, the absence of judgment in Lyra's eyes. Or perhaps it was something deeper, the recognition of a shared loneliness, of a displacement that, in different ways, they both experienced.
Lyra ate slowly, each bite seemingly savored. Occasionally, she would glance at Joey, a quick, indecipherable look, before returning her attention to the cereal bar or the darkness ahead.
There was no fear in her eyes now, only a deep caution and perhaps, just perhaps, a glimmer of curiosity.
Joey thought of his dream of a world without wars or evil. There, in that silence, with that creature from another world beside him, he felt a pang of the peace he so longed for. It wasn't the grand peace of utopias, but a small, fragile peace, found in the simple act of sharing a moment, a space, without demands, without hostility.
A connection that felt more real than many he'd experienced.
Time seemed to lose its meaning. Minutes stretched, perhaps a whole hour passed in that shared silence. For Joey, it was an eternity and the blink of an eye.
He didn't know what it meant, didn't know what would come next.
But he knew that this moment, this silent communion in the dark of an abandoned cinema, would change him forever.
Outside, Kael observed the movement of the curious youths with growing concern. He had also detected Joey's entry into the cinema and, moments later, the stabilization of Lyra's vital signs, indicating less stress. This human continued to surprise him. His intervention seemed genuinely protective.
Pip, under the cloak of night, was already on her journey across the rooftops towards the industrial area, her scavenger's heart beating with a mixture of fear and excitement at the possibility of finding the power source she so desperately needed.
And Zylar, in his cell, sensed that the opportunity for his "demonstration" was approaching. The midnight guard change would be the moment.
But for Joey and Lyra, the universe, for a brief and precious interlude, was reduced to that dark and silent space, where two beings from different worlds found common ground in stillness and the mutual absence of threat.
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