For the next few days, Leah returned to Izana's room without fail.
Every morning and every evening, she walked the same quiet corridors, passed the same uneasy staff, and stepped into the same dark room where time seemed unwilling to move forward. Each visit followed a similar rhythm. She would sit in the armchair beside his bed, speak gently, tell him where she had been that day, remind him of small, ordinary things—what the weather was like, what Elias had said that morning, how the mansion sounded different now that summer had settled in.
And Izana would listen.
He always listened.
Sometimes he responded calmly, accepting her presence without question, treating her words as if they belonged to a version of reality that only existed within his room. Other times, he tilted his head with faint confusion, asking questions that made Leah's chest tighten painfully.
"Are you staying today?" he asked once, voice distant.
"I am," she said immediately.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good. You disappear when I'm alone too long."
Each time she heard that, it felt like something inside her cracked a little more.
She tried everything she could think of—logic, memory, reassurance. She reminded him of conversations they had shared weeks ago, things that had happened outside the room. She told him details he couldn't have imagined on his own. She spoke of the car ride back, of Elias's worry, of how she had been brought through the gates again.
Sometimes, Izana grew quiet when she did this. Other times, he laughed softly and shook his head.
"You're trying too hard," he told her once. "Hallucinations don't need proof. They just… exist."
That sentence stayed with her long after she left the room that night.
Leah watched him closely over those days. Watched how weak his movements were, how his voice faded in and out like it took effort just to speak. He rarely shifted positions unless he had to. His blindfold never came off. His clothes remained the same—creased, loose, worn thin from days of neglect.
He barely ate.
When staff brought food, he rarely touched it. When he did, it was only a few slow bites before exhaustion overtook him again. Medication was left untouched on the bedside table, the bottles gathering dust.
Each visit made it harder for Leah to leave.
On the fourth day, she realized something with sudden clarity.
She couldn't keep watching this.
She sat in the armchair as she always did, hands clenched tightly in her lap, listening to Izana speak to something only he could see. He was smiling faintly, murmuring words meant for no one in the room but her—or rather, the version of her he believed existed only in his mind.
"That look suits you better," he said quietly. "When you don't look so sad."
Leah swallowed hard.
"Izana," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady.
"Yes?"
"I can't keep doing this," she whispered.
He frowned slightly. "Doing what?"
Pretending, she wanted to say.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Instead, she slowly stood up from the chair.
The movement caught his attention immediately. His head turned toward her, brow furrowing beneath the blindfold. "You're leaving," he said, not accusing—simply stating it like a fact he had already accepted.
"No," she said softly.
She stepped closer.
The space between them closed far more quickly than he expected.
Before doubt could stop her, before fear could pull her back, Leah leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.
The reaction was instant.
Izana flinched violently.
His entire body jerked in shock, breath hitching sharply as panic surged through him. His hands clawed weakly at the sheets, muscles tensing as if preparing to pull away.
"Don't—," he gasped, voice breaking. "Don't touch—."
But then he froze.
Because this was wrong.
This wasn't how hallucinations behaved.
They never touched him.
Never startled him.
Never sent electricity through his nerves like this.
His breathing turned uneven as realization crept in, slow and terrifying. The warmth was real. The pressure was real. The way his heart began to pound painfully in his chest was real.
Leah didn't tighten her hold. She didn't trap him. She simply stayed there, arms steady, presence unyielding but gentle.
"Izana," she whispered.
His lips parted.
Her name slipped out of him like a fragile truth.
"Leah…"
The sound was so weak it barely carried, but it shattered something deep inside him.
Slowly—hesitantly—he lifted his arms.
Every instinct screamed at him to pull away. His body trembled with the effort of defying years of fear, years of conditioning. But he did it anyway. His arms wrapped around her, loose and uncertain, like he was afraid she might vanish if he held too tightly.
Leah inhaled sharply as she felt him.
He was so thin.
Far thinner than she had allowed herself to imagine.
She could feel every sharp line of his body beneath her hands—his spine pressing against her palm, his ribs flaring beneath her arms, bones too prominent beneath skin stretched thin from weeks of neglect. It felt fragile, like holding someone made of glass.
Her heart broke quietly.
Izana buried his face weakly against her shoulder, his breath shallow and unsteady. She felt his cheekbones—sharp, hollow—rest against her collarbone.
"You're… warm," he murmured, almost to himself. "They're never warm."
Leah lifted one hand and gently threaded her fingers through his hair.
It was dirty. Uncut. Tangled from weeks without care.
She stroked it slowly, carefully, the way one might calm a frightened child. Her movements were steady, reassuring, wordless.
His body shuddered.
At first, Leah thought it was another tremor from weakness or the curse.
Then she felt it again.
And again.
A quiet, broken sound escaped his throat—something between a breath and a sob.
"I don't understand," Izana whispered, voice cracking. "You're not supposed to be real."
"I am," she said, her own voice shaking now. "I'm here."
His grip tightened slightly, the most strength he'd shown in days. "Don't disappear," he pleaded, the words barely audible.
"I won't," she said immediately.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his breathing—uneven, fragile, fighting its way through something he had held inside for years.
Then it happened.
His shoulders shook.
A sound tore free from his chest—raw, unrestrained, utterly unguarded.
Izana cried.
Not silently.
Not neatly.
But openly, helplessly, like someone who had finally reached the end of their strength.
Leah held him through it all.
She didn't speak. Didn't move away. She simply stayed, one hand in his hair, the other steady against his back, grounding him in a reality that hurt—but existed.
For the first time in sixteen years, Izana allowed himself to break.
And for the first time in just as long, he wasn't alone when he did.