Leah didn't remember walking back to her room.
One moment she was standing in that suffocating medical wing, Caesar's cold voice still echoing in her ears.
"She was an obstacle."
The next moment, she was staring at the closed door of her bedroom.
Her hand was shaking.
Elias stood a few steps behind her, silent, giving her space.
"Leah," he said gently.
She didn't answer.
She pushed the door open.
The room was quiet. Still. Untouched.
Izana's side of the bed remained the way she had left it that morning — neat, but unmistakably his. The faint scent of him lingered in the sheets. The lamp on his bedside table sat slightly crooked, just the way he always left it.
For two years, she had survived his absence by believing one thing:
He was healing somewhere.
He was surviving.
He was fighting.
But now—
Now she knew something else.
Her knees gave out before she could reach the bed.
She hit the floor hard.
Elias rushed forward instinctively, but stopped short when he heard the sound that left her.
Not a scream.
Not even a sob at first.
Just a sharp, broken inhale — like something inside her had cracked open.
"He was ten," she whispered.
Her hands pressed flat against the floor as if the ground itself was the only thing keeping her upright.
"He was ten."
Elias closed the door quietly behind them.
"Yes," he said softly.
Leah let out a trembling breath that turned into a laugh — but it wasn't humor. It was disbelief. Shock.
"He doesn't remember," she said. "He doesn't even remember."
Her shoulders began to shake.
Elias stepped closer but didn't touch her yet.
"He remembers fragments," Elias said carefully. "Nightmares. Emotional surges. But not the whole event itself."
Leah finally looked up at him.
Her eyes were red already.
"He thinks it's the curse," she said. "He thinks something is wrong with him."
Elias didn't deny it.
"That's what we told him."
Leah's breathing became uneven.
"So every time he wakes up shaking… every time he looks at his hands like he's afraid of them…" Her voice broke. "He doesn't even know why."
The tears finally came.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just silent streams down her face as the weight of it crushed her.
"He was a child," she whispered again.
Elias knelt slowly in front of her.
"Yes."
"And she tried to calm him," Leah continued, voice barely audible. "She stepped toward him."
"Yes."
"And he—."
She couldn't finish it.
Elias didn't make her.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was her breathing — fractured and shallow.
"I was angry at him once," she said suddenly.
Elias frowned slightly.
"For shutting me out. For pushing me away when his episodes got worse." Her fingers curled against the carpet. "I thought he didn't trust me."
She let out a small, broken laugh.
"He didn't even trust himself."
Elias' expression softened.
"He carries guilt without context," Elias said quietly. "That's sometimes worse than memory."
Leah closed her eyes.
She pictured Izana at ten.
Small hands.
Red eyes too bright for his face.
Confused.
Afraid.
"Did he cry?" she asked suddenly.
Elias hesitated.
"Yes."
The word shattered something inside her.
"He didn't understand what he'd done," Elias continued. "He kept asking why everyone was screaming."
Leah covered her mouth as a sob finally escaped her.
Elias reached forward carefully and placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
She didn't pull away.
"He's been alone in this for eighteen years," she said through tears. "Even when he was surrounded by people."
"Yes."
"And Caesar…" Her voice hardened slightly. "He still talks about him like he's unfinished."
Elias didn't argue.
"He would do it again," Leah said. "He would push him again. He hasn't changed."
"No," Elias agreed.
Leah looked toward the bed.
Toward Izana's empty pillow.
"If he finds him," she whispered.
Elias' jaw tightened.
"That's why we can't let that happen."
Leah slowly pushed herself up and crawled onto the bed, sitting on Izana's side instead of her own.
She ran her fingers over the fabric of his pillow.
"He hates losing control," she murmured. "He panics when he feels it building."
Elias stood slowly.
"Yes."
"He thinks if he loses control, he'll hurt someone." Her voice cracked again. "He already did."
Elias didn't correct her.
Leah hugged the pillow to her chest.
"For two years he's been running," she whispered. "And I thought it was just from Caesar."
She shook her head slowly.
"He was running from himself."
The realization was unbearable.
Elias moved toward the window, giving her space but staying close enough that she wasn't alone.
"Do you think we should tell him?" Leah asked quietly.
Elias didn't answer immediately.
"That depends," he said carefully, "on whether knowing would heal him… or break him."
Leah stared down at her hands.
"If he remembers on his own," she said, "and we never told him…"
The thought was worse.
Elias' voice softened.
"Then we will face that when it comes."
Leah wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
"I don't want him carrying this alone anymore."
"He isn't alone," Elias said gently.
She looked up at him.
"He doesn't know that."
The room fell quiet again.
After a long moment, Leah lay down on Izana's side of the bed, curling slightly, holding his pillow like it might disappear too.
"I should be there," she whispered.
Elias frowned.
"For what?"
"For when he starts remembering."
Elias walked toward the door.
"You will be," he said quietly. "When he comes back."
Leah closed her eyes.
Her tears soaked into the pillow.
"He didn't mean to," she whispered into the fabric.
No one was there to answer her.
But she kept repeating it.
"He didn't mean to."
Because if she didn't believe that — if she allowed even a fraction of doubt — it would tear something fragile inside her.
Outside the room, Elias paused before walking away.
Inside, Leah finally let herself cry fully.
Not just for Izana's mother.
Not just for the child he had been.
But for the man he had become.
And the truth he still didn't know.