Half-asleep
When Regulus fell, he still felt drunk of James's gaze.
The world was spinning around him, feverish, disjointed, as if the sky itself had decided to turn upside down. The air was seeping through his clothes, rough as sandpaper, clinging to him. Raw, the wind scratched his cheeks and his dark hair was stirring, like mad snakes in the vortex.
His body, once firm, was now heavy, dragged downward in a raw fragility. Regulus felt numb, as if his bones were melting and each limb was detaching from the rest of him. And he was falling, lost in the whirling air. His irises, immersed in the fog, were lost among fragments of sky and earth.
His shoulders were closed, the shoulder blades tense like bows on the verge of breaking, as if they were warning him of the imminent crash. Yet, there was no fear in him. Only hesitant, silent acceptance.
His half-closed eyes let in a faint light, a ray of liquid white that stretched beyond the shadow of his lashes, touching his cheekbones, reddened by the cold. His lips, barely parted, let out a short, broken breath.
But in that fragment of an instant, fragile as the flutter of a moth's wings, a shadow loomed over him. A figure was lowering, enveloped in the swirl of air. He didn't have time to think, to understand. There were only hands that anchored him to his shoulders, sinking into the fabric of his robe and a tuft of hair that pinched the bare skin of his neck.
Then he closed his eyes.
And it was dark.
The acrid smell of ammonia split his senses.
Regulus barely moved his eyelashes, feeling them slimy, matted with sweat and dried tears. He tried to lift his eyelids, but they were heavy, weighing down on his irises. When he finally managed to pierce the veil of darkness, the light on the ceiling exploded on him, flickering in an unstable shimmer.
The room was muffled, suffocated by a silence that smelled of medicine and mold. And in the room hung air that was thick, full of that sterile, intoxicating smell, so thick you could taste it in your throat: bitter, metallic.
He tried to move his head, but a sharp pain hit his neck. Every muscle in his body was stiff, numb, worn with debilitating exhaustion. His bones creaked against his flesh in a low groan, and the pillow beneath him felt like stone.
The sheet covering his chest was rough, pinching his skin like sand. The fabric rippled against the raggedness of his breathing, following the rise and fall of his chest. Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, begging for the world to stop spinning.
Then a voice.
Soft. Seraphic.
Like warm butter melting on the roof of his mouth.
«Regulus.»
The name crumbled into the air in a brittle whisper.
The boy opened his eyes again and the light seemed dimmer.
In front of him, Pandora.
And it was as if the very reflections of dawn had slipped off her. Her hair, a corolla of pale gold, floated around her pretty face, light, untamable. Her eyes were summer skies, wide and full of apprehension. Eyes that peered, attentive, yet so soft they seemed caresses.
«Hi» The girl's voice was low, a rounded, soft sound.
Regulus didn't answer. He mumbled instead, sinking into the pillow, his face turned toward the ceiling, which still pulsed with an unsteady light. And his bones weighed on his limbs.
But Pandora was there, and she seemed real enough to anchor him to the present.
She bent slightly, her hair flowing over her shoulders like liquid silk. There was a faint scent rising from her skin, a scent of moss and dewy flowers, something fresh and delicate.
«You hurt yourself.» It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
Regulus swallowed hard. His throat burned, raw as if he'd swallowed ash.
«Where-» his voice came out broken, almost a rattle. «Where am I?»
Pandora tilted her head, a slow, deliberate movement. «Infirmary. They picked you up in the field like a sparrow. You were bleeding.»
Had he bled? He couldn't remember. Only cold. And wind.
And Potter.
A flash cut through the thought. James, with his warm, cruel eyes. James laughing, challenging, destroying.
His throat closed.
«They brought you here quickly.» Pandora sat down beside the bed, her hands resting in her lap, white and delicate. «They were good, really. But you were...» She hesitated. «You were so pale.»
Regulus didn't answer. He let the words slide off him, like rain on glass. A full silence stretched between them. Not heavy, but thick. Pandora watched him, but she didn't ask. She didn't force. And in that silence, Regulus found a hold.
He closed his eyes.
Slowly.
He breathed.
The pillow beneath his neck became less hard. The pungent smell of ammonia faded, covered by another smell: the subtle scent of Pandora's perfume, warm and reassuring.
He opened his eyes and she was still there. An anchor.
No words were needed.
Pandora handed him a glass of water. The glass, cold and thin, trembled slightly between the girl's tapered fingers, held by a thin wrist and an equally delicate forearm.
Regulus took it, slowly, lazy from the silence that saturated the room. His fingers brushed hers for an instant, but there was no heat, only the icy contact of two bodies. He raised his head slightly, like a shadow detaching itself from the wall, and brought the rim of the glass to his lips.
The water slid down his throat, fluid and soothing, but it was not enough to soothe the grainy dryness that scratched his palate. Swallowing was labored, a broken gesture, and a low sound, almost a whimper, escaped him unconsciously.
«Mhm.»
That was all the gratitude he was able to give to her.
He settled back into bed, covering his hips and shoulders with the skimpy blanket, and his black curls spread like scribbles of ink on the pale fabric of the pillow. His breathing slowed, the tension melted little by little from his bones, and his eyelids dropped, heavy as curtains in an empty theater.
Sleep enveloped him again, heavy and dreamless.
Black Manor had always been a frigid place.
It wasn't just cold: it was hostile, repulsive, like a beast that closes its jaws around anyone who dares to approach it. Its walls were made of dark wooden planks, packed tightly together like the ribs of a creature from the most ancient testaments. The corridors stretched into deep shadows, hung with tapestries that silenced the light, masking its heat.
Every surface exuded a slimy desolation that crept into your skin, crawling to your bones. It was a house that clung to you, rough, immovable.
It wasn't just the darkness, though, or the depressing vastness. No, there was something in the foundations.
A dull, creeping magic. It lived in the cracks of the wood, lurked in the veins of the marble, pulsed in the frayed curtains and dusty frames. It wasn't a magic cast, it wasn't a spell: it was an essence, a poison that mixed with the air and that made you breath it in without realizing it.
And Regulus hated it. But he had always found comfort in nesting in sadness.
He looked up.
The house unfolded before him as if through a hazy veil, every edge blurred, every corner swollen with shadow. The air smelled of smoke, thick and acrid.
The crackling of the fire was a deep, distant rumble, mingling with the thin, sharp sound of his mother's voice. A dull, toneless chant, mirrored in the walls and amplified, a tired echo.
And Regulus walked, but he felt like he was floating.
His footsteps were muffled, weightless, as if the floorboards weren't really holding him up. The wood creaked beneath him, a low groan, as if the house itself recognized his presence and was determined to irritate him.
He reached the living room.
And the fire was burning.
In the fireplace, Sirius's robes were burning.
The fabric was wearing away, yes, but that fabric was also flesh, was memory. The flames devoured every fold, reducing them to ash that rose slowly, sinuously, like a snake of smoke.
Regulus stopped.
The floorboards groaned under his weight.
Then he raised his eyes.
His mother was there, peering at him over her shoulder, like a shadow that wouldn't quite show itself.
Walburga Black didn't speak, didn't scream.
She just stared at him.
Her once artfully styled hair was now disheveled, tangled like swollen roots hanging from her head. Dark circles hollowed her face, deep, fisted around her dark eyes.
Tears, thin as glass threads, streaked her cheeks, yet they didn't soften her face.
But it was the eyes that pierced Regulus.
Eyes resentful, filled with a roused sadism, a pain that wanted no comfort, only revenge. Eyes that did not shine with anger, but with indignation.
A tic twitched her eyelid, a dry, mechanical movement.
And she smiled in tense, numb features.
Regulus felt his blood run cold.
It was as if the floor had opened up beneath him.
And he sank.
He did not know how much time had passed when he awoke.
The sun was setting.
The room was bathed in a slanting, golden light, which slid along the walls with the delicacy of a whisper. The rays of sunlight filtered through the half-open curtains, cutting the air into blades of dust that danced slowly.
The last tongues of light climbed the walls, dripping molten gold onto the opaque surfaces. The outlines of objects blurred, like drawings just erased. The sky, glimpsed beyond the fogged glass, a sea of crimson and purple, and the clouds dragged slowly, like strips of torn fabric.
The sky outside was a soft fire, shaded of copper and indigo.
Everything was suspended in that moment.
The light licked the contours of the objects with gentle fingers, caressing the edges of the bedside table, of the blankets.
The air was colder now, but not sharp. Just a slightly rough caress, like worn linen.
Regulus opened his eyes slowly, as if he were afraid of breaking something with the simple gesture of a breath.
The room was silent.
Pandora was gone.
Only the glass of water, still half full, was placed beside him.
The glass refracted the last gleams of the sun, breaking into fragments of light that danced on the bedside table. Regulus inhaled slowly.
The pungent smell of ammonia had dissipated, leaving a fainter aroma, perhaps the residue of Pandora's perfume, or perhaps just the tired smell of the room.
He didn't move.
He lay there, staring at the darkening ceiling.
A distant thought touched him.
Like an echo.
James.
Potter's face, fleeting as a raven's wings. The golden, incandescent eyes. The sharp smile.
And Walburga.
Eyes of stone.
And the fire.
Sirius' robes burned to ashes.
The boy closed his eyes. Then he opened them again.
He let them the dancing shadows on the walls, skimming the outlines of things. And for a moment, just a moment, he didn't think of James, or his mother, or the weight that was suffocating him.
He just stood there.
Bathed in the dying light.
Listening to the silence.
Then a noise, the sound of footsteps, a distant echo, muffled by the thick faded curtains that surrounded the bed broke the silence.
Evan Rosier was the first to emerge from the shadows.
The sterile light of the infirmary slid over him, sculpting his severe features. His dark blond hair, disheveled at the base of his neck, fell in rebellious waves over his forehead. He was wearing his Hogwarts robes, but his tie was untied and his collar unbuttoned, a gesture foreign to his usual order. He raised his chin slowly, his thick eyebrows arched in an expression that oscillated between curiosity and annoyance and that accentuated his Nordic features. His clear eyes, cold as glass, scrutinized Regulus without any delicacy, dissecting him with their gaze as if to understand if he was worth worrying about. There was a rough solidity about him, as rough as stone, but also a hint of concern.
A moment later, Barty Crouch Jr. appeared beside him, his insolence trailing behind his body.
He wore his usual grin, which crept slowly up the curve of his full lips, making them gleam with mischief. The smile barely touched his straight nose, yet his eyes—those sharp, mobile eyes—were filled with a restlessness he could not quite hide. His uniform hung carelessly, his tie badly knotted, his shirt wrinkled. He shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning forward with a conspiratorial theatricality, acting as if that were enough to keep him at his side.
«You finally dignify us with your presence.» His voice was a whisper laced with irony, caressing and cutting at the same time. «We thought we were going to have to arrange the funeral.»
And then Dorcas.
Silent, solid.
She entered with a slow, calculated step, her movements delicate in their directness. Her doe eyes, large and deep, regarded him with an intensity that left no room for retort. Long lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and her dark skin seemed to catch the cold light of the infirmary, reflecting it back in warm, comforting reflections. There was no smile on her lips, just a firm line, composed but not hostile. Her high, sculpted cheekbones gave her an air of gentle severity, careful authority. Long black braids danced at the edge of her slim waist, barely touching the sweater of her uniform.
«Hello, Regulus.»
Dorcas's voice was calm, precise. No unnecessary flections.
Black inhaled slowly, a grainy breath that scratched his throat. Then he snorted.
«What happened?»
Evan tilted his head slightly, the tiniest shift, almost imperceptible.
«You fell.» His voice was rough, dry, like gravel underfoot.
Barty laughed.
«'You fell' is an understatement, Rosier.» Barty's eyes were twinkling, and his smile widened. «Fuck, there was a moment when I thought you were going to crash into the stands. Fucking epic.»
«Don't joke, Crouch.» Dorcas's voice was a sharp cut. Then it came back to Regulus, softer, more soothed. «You fell off your broom during the match. It was a prank by those idiot Gryffindors.»
Black's lips tightened.
Barty held up his hands, a flourish. «Oh, come on, Reg. Don't tell me you don't want to make them pay?»
Meadowes glared at him.
The boy closed his eyes for a moment. His throat was still burning.
«Potter looked mortified.» Dorcas said more quietly. «He did. And the professors had those long faces, you know, the ones they put on when they have to pretend to be sorry but are just worried about bureaucracy.»
Barty chuckled. «Dumbledore looked like he was about to tear his hair out. Maybe because he's realised his precious Gryffindors have gone too far. Or maybe he's afraid they'll take his tenure away after this.»
Evan shook his head impatiently. «This is no time for jokes, Crouch.»
A brief silence fell over them.
Dorcas looked down, hesitated a moment. Then she spoke, more carefully, finely.
«Regulus...»
He looked up a fraction.
«It was Sirius.» The name stabbed him like a blade through ice.
«What?»
Dorcas nodded slowly. «He was the one who caught you. You were crashing, and—» She stopped, searching for words. «You have no idea how he made the broom rear down. He jumped like a madman. The teachers yelled at him. You know how dangerous it is to help someone who's falling off their broom.»
Regulus stopped breathing for a moment.
Sirius.
Him.
His throat closed, a harsh, tight knot. His hands dug into the folds of the blankets, clenching them as if they could keep him from crashing again.
Barty ran a hand through his messy hair.
«Ironic, isn't it?» he muttered, but without the usual sarcasm. «Your brother. The one who hates you.»
Evan said nothing, his face carved into an inscrutable mask.
And Dorcas lowered her eyes, her lips tightening.
No one spoke.
Black let the silence wash over him, thick and suffocating. The room tightened, the walls of the hospital wing closing in.
Sirius.
Sirius throwing himself into the air.
For him.
His breath caught, a liquid vacuum swelling his chest.
It was Evan who broke the tension, his voice rough.
«Get well soon. We can't lose our best seeker.»
Barty chuckled. «Yeah, so get off your ass and get well. I spend too much time with the two of them already.»
Dorcas sighed, shaking her head. Regulus didn't answer.
Because there were no words. Only Sirius' name pounding in his temples, dull and stubborn.
The hospital wing door creaked open, breaking the muffled silence of the room. A pungent smell of bitter herbs and vaunted potions wafted through the air like a warning whisper. Madam Pomfrey strode forward, her white robes rustling lightly against the stone floor, a starched apron clad her like armor.
She was a solid woman, her presence filling the space without needing to raise her voice. Her gray hair, pulled back in a severe bun, barely touched the back of her neck. Her eyes, small and bright, scrutinized meticulously, every wrinkle on her face a scar of worries accumulated over the years. Her hands were large and gnarled, they spoke of gestures repeated a thousand times: touching, tending, curing.
«That's enough.» The woman's voice was a sharp blow, cutting the air like a blade. It was not a rude order, but a declaration that left no room for reply.
Evan snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. Barty rolled his eyes, while Dorcas pursed her lips.
«Out. The boy needs rest, not your idle chatter.»
Crouch spread his arms dramatically. «Sure because our company is certainly more harmful than a fall from a bloody broom.»
Pomfrey glared at him with such a sharp look that even Barty chose to remain silent. Evan was the first to move, grunting slightly. Instead, Dorcas gave one last brief look at Regulus and then turned away.
Barty bent just enough to whisper: «Try not to fall again, or the woman will disembowel us.» A faint smile, then he too vanished through the curtain.
Silence settled back into the room, thick as dust.
Madam Pomfrey approached the bed, her hands already busy checking bottles and bandages.
«You really took a beating.» Her voice lowered, softening to a tone that almost touched the maternal, as the tips of her cold fingers touched his temple. The pressure was light, like a breath, yet full of control.
Regulus didn't answer, letting himself be scrutinized.
«Nothing's broken.» she murmured, more to herself than to him, «but the brain needs quietude.» She watched him for a moment longer, then her tone became dry, cut with the precision of someone who knows their job well. «Try to sleep.»
There was no need to say anything else. She walked away and in a few moments her figure vanished behind the curtain.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Regulus closed his eyes.
And immediately he was elsewhere.
The world appeared muffled, thick with reflections.
The sky was a stretch of heavy clouds, the sun a white disk drowned in the mist. In front of him him, the Black Lake lay, vast and impassive. Its wind-rippled surface bent in lazy waves, reflecting silver and deep shadows. The twisted roots of a weeping willow rose from the dark earth, twisting like bony fingers.
Regulus could feel the dry rustle of dead leaves under his soles, the murmur of water lapping at the shore. The air was sharp, mossy and damp, and there was something suspended, still.
He turned.
And saw him.
Sirius.
He was smaller. His dark hair, just long enough to touch the back of his neck, swayed lightly in the wind. And he was laughing. A full, bright laugh, climbing through the air like a star. But it wasn't for him. Sirius was looking away.
His profile was carved in the perfection of childhood: the strong line of his nose, the dark lashes that cast soft shadows on his cheeks. His lips curved in a smile that never reached Regulus.
Following his gaze was natural, like a call.
And he saw James Potter.
Small and disheveled, all big, bright eyes behind crooked glasses and a mass of brown curls that fell over his forehead. He was laughing too, with the naive bravado that only children possess. He was running across the lawn, the grass knee-high, and Sirius was chasing him, shouting something that the wind carried away.
It was summer.
The sun was burning hot and oppressive and everything seemed too bright, too alive. The air vibrated with saturated colors and distorted sounds.
Then he looked down and saw his hands.
They were pale, faded, so dissonant with the rush of colors that surrounded him.
He didn't belong here.
He was a wraith among the living.
Sirius stopped dead. He turned his face and his eyes locked onto his. Two bright blue wells, charged, fierce.
Regulus felt a shiver run down his spine.
And just as the dream dissolved, as the wind washed everything away, he felt it, the whisper in the back of his brain.
I am your brother, not him.
The world shattered.
Regulus woke with a start, his breathing ragged.
His heart was pounding in his chest, wild and unhinged, and the sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to his legs like chains.
He breathed in, but the air was too heavy.
Sirius.
The name was pounding in his temples, echoing in every corner of his mind.
He didn't know if he was shaking from the dream or from what it represented.
Running a hand over his face, his fingers buried themselves in his damp curls.
I am your brother, not him.
His voice boomed with the force of an oath. And Regulus, still trapped between dream and wakefulness, wished it could be true.
The silence fell thick and sticky, like a blanket too heavy to press on his chest. Regulus remained still, his breathing shallow, trapped in that still air that smelled of disinfectant and clean sheets. Every little sound—the distant creak of a door, the rhythmic thump of muffled footsteps—sounded like a hammer blow on a sheet of glass ready to shatter. But nothing broke. Nothing moved. There was only the growing, hungry silence.
The infirmary was a place of stone and emptiness, where each breath seemed to weigh more than the last. The faded curtains hung still, frozen in an eternity of forced quiet. The clock on the wall was ticking irregularly, almost tiredly, yet inexorably.
Regulus lay still, feeling the slow pulse of blood in his arteries.
Madam Pomfrey returned with dinner, and the faint clank of the plate on the bedside table echoed through the room.
Lamb. Stale bread. A pale apple, its skin shiny and tight.
«Eat something.» Her voice was short, without the warmth it had before. It wasn't malice, just habit.
Regulus didn't answer.
She sighed, then walked away, her footsteps dying away in the corridor.
The hours ticked by slowly, drops of lead in a still sea. The meat cooled. The bread remained untouched. The apple reflected the dim light of the lanterns until it looked like a dead moon.
Then, the sound of a door opening.
And Regulus looked up.
And he felt himself dying.
James Potter.
He stood there, as if the whole world had suddenly bent to make room for him.
His hair was disheveled, those damned brown curls that seemed to have been created to defy order. They curled absentmindedly at his temples, brushing his skin in an unconscious splendor.
And then there were his lips.
They were red. Foolishly red. Parted slightly, as if left hanging on the cliff of a word. His nostrils were slightly flared, as if he had been running, or as if he were holding something heavier than a simple thought.
The white shirt of his uniform clung to him, hugging his broad shoulders and the rounded muscles of his arms, showing without exaggeration. The fabric stretched over the curves of his biceps and it seemed almost obscene that he could wear something so simple so casually and still look... like this.
Indecent.
And the way he stood, off-balance on one side, made him appear shockingly confident.
But it was his eyes.
Salazar, his eyes.
Two irises of molten gold, vibrant, bright, and surrounded by long, dark lashes that framed them as if nature herself had intended to make them a weapon. And the lashes, thick and dark, cast delicate shadows on his cheeks. James Potter was looking at him.
He was looking at him with a naked, bare simplicity, yet so intense.
There was nothing indulgent in that look. No irony, none of his usual grimaces. Just that pure, total, devastating attention.
Regulus bit the inside of his cheek. The metallic taste of blood exploded in his mouth, raw and bitter.
And he was fucked.
Before he could articulate a thought, James spoke.
His voice exploded at him, hot and cracked.
«I'm so sorry.» James's voice was hoarse, as if the words had scratched his throat trying to get out. And there was sincerity in it. A sincerity that hurt, that made the younger boy's jaw clench. He truly meant it.
Regulus's eyes widened.
«Are you admitting that it was you and your friends who planned that farce?»
Sarcasm dripped from his lips like poison.
And it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair tor James Potter to be so fucking good.
Where was that cocky smile, that cheeky chuckle, that oversized ego? Where was that irritating confidence that Regulus hated so much?
It was all gone.
Because Potter had nothing more important than his friends. Nothing could take precedence over defending Sirius, Remus, and Peter. It was what he would always do, seriously and resolutely. Because it was worth it to him.
And Regulus hated him. But only because he was envious.
«Yes.» the Gryffindor admitted, his voice low. «But it wasn't their fault. I—»
«Oh really?» The word cut his throat, raw and dry.
James's eyes spread in disbelief. His eyebrows rose in a perfect arc, and he raised his hands in surrender.
«No!» James snapped, the word exploding in his throat. Then he bit his lip, uncertain. His gaze dropped, sliding away. «The prank was perfectly planned. Everything was perfect.»
Potter recoiled, as if struck. And he felt sad.
He stopped.
A moment of emptiness.
«So it was part of the prank to have my head split in two?»
James paled. Pain flashed across his eyes, honest, brutal.
«No—Godric, no. It was my fault. I don't know—I don't know how. But it was my magic. I was angry and—»
Regulus stiffened. A bitter laugh scratched his throat, but it wasn't humor. It was anger.
«Did you curse me?»
The other shook his head frantically, his hands rising again, defensively.
«I did not curse you!» The tone was desperate, almost pathetic. «Why on earth would I want to do that?»
Regulus's lips tightened. «Then how do you explain what happened?»
Silence fell. James opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Then, softly, almost in a whisper:
«I...maybe I cursed you. But not on purpose!»
Black stared at him. «Salazar, you're nuts.»
« I didn't curse you.»
«Are you—»
«I didn't curse you!»
The silence became sharp.
Regulus stood still, the words caught in his throat.
Potter ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, leaving it even more messy. Then he slumped his shoulders.
His voice was calm again, bare.
«Still... I wanted to apologize. Even if I didn't mean to, it was my fault.»
Regulus gritted his teeth.
Fuck you, he thought.
«I'm not going to thank you for apologizing after nearly giving me a head injury, if that's what you expect.»
James shook his head, barely visible. «No, I know. I don't expect anything.» He paused briefly. His chest rose and fell slowly, searching for words. «I... well, I arranged with Professor Vector to help you with arithmancy and...»
Black's laugh, short and sharp, cut through the air. But James was unfazed.
«And since I keep my promises—and I'm very good at arithmancy, obviously—and I can be of help to you, I want to make sure you show up.»
The boy's words sunk into the air and Regulus felt himself drown.
«So your surefire way to make amends is to make me study hard? You're more like my family than you think.»
Potter smiled, soft and fluffy and gentle. Then: «I'll help you. And I want you to say yes.» His voice, clear and firm, left no room for contradiction. Regulus hated him, but nodded anyway.
«Good...» James held out his hands, as if to complete an act that had already been accomplished. «So, as soon as you get out of here, I'll come find you and we'll see what we can do. Good night, Regulus.»
The Slytherin didn't answer. When the door closed behind the boy, the sound of it broke the air, but not the silence that had filled the hospital wing. Regulus stood still for a moment, his breathing slowing, almost as if he wanted to stay there.
But then, as the sound of Potter's footsteps faded in the corridor, he let out a heavier breath, the air thickening at the bottom of his lungs.
The uneasiness, however, did not go away.
Regulus rose slowly from the bed, feeling the heaviness in his limbs. He approached the window, the glass reflecting his figure like a trace, like a shadow separated from his body. He looked out at the night sky, where the stars twinkled faintly, like small lights flickering in an infinite abyss. There, in the darkness of the night, was neither redemption, nor hope. Only the deep silence that surrounded him.
He sat back down on the bed, his hands clasped on his knees, his eyes closed.
And his breathing slowed, deepened, as sleep claimed him once again.