Small footsteps echoed down an almost-abandoned hallway. The sound bounced between cracked walls, bled into the silence, and vanished. Its only residents were fragments of concrete scattered like old bones across the floor. The only light came from a flickering lamp. Still alive, unlike those who once lived here.

  “One. Two. One. Two.”

  A little girl counted, stretching her short legs with exaggerated care, making a game of it. She watched how her boots struck the broken cement, how every step found rhythm. She marched like a tiny cadet in training. Without ever realizing she would be one in the future.

  “One, and two. One. And. Two.”

  She repeated it, focused, careful not to trip on her half-tied laces. Down the ruined corridor she went, so serious she might have been rehearsing for a miniature parade. In her hands she clutched a perfumed blanket. The only sweetness in a place that smelled of dust and dry smoke, engraved on half-demolished walls.

  He had taught her the rules: cover your nose when entering apartments, in case the smell was bad; close your eyes; don’t breathe too deeply. Wait outside until he tells you it’s safe. Those were the rules whenever they went searching for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

  She hopped over a large piece of rubble. To her, it was like exploring a mountain. She crawled over it and slid down the other side, giggling. One of the doors stood slightly ajar. Her mouth opened in a smile.

  She turned toward the stairwell.

  “Papa! There’s one open!”

  Her voice rang bright through the corridor. She smiled back at the door. There was faint music, a radio muffled behind the wood. It was low, but it caught her attention immediately. She wanted to push it open, to step inside to listen to it better, but fear held her still. She didn’t want to see another dead person. She didn’t want death to look so much like sleep.

  Footsteps rose from below. Heavy, muffled. She called again, now more anxious.

  A short groan, the sound of weight shifting. A man appeared at the far end of the hallway, a backpack slung across his shoulders, his daughter pointing eagerly toward the open door.

  “No shouting,” he said, voice calm but firm. “You know the rules.”

  The girl nodded several times—quick, nervous, ritualistic. She watched him set the heavy pack down against the wall. She sat beside it, knees to her chest, while he approached the door with careful, silent steps.

  She liked the sound his fire made when it bloomed in his hand. Fwooosh. Warm, familiar. Like the bonfires they built in alleys or forest camps.

  “Fwooosh…” she whispered, mimicking him, holding out her tiny hands. “Fwooosh, fire. Fwooosh.”

  She wanted magic. She wanted to help him. She had seen the black smudges beneath his eyes, the sleepless bruises. She didn’t know why they were there—only that he stayed awake all night, guarding her while she slept inside one of his coats.

  Blake steadied the small sphere of flame in his palm, as ready as a loaded revolver. He swept each corner, each doorway. The apartment was intact—untouched by scavengers. The bombings must have jarred the lock loose.

  He flipped the light switches. The bulbs were broken by the blasts. The fire from this hand helped him check every shadow, every corner. He ignored the radio. Thought of turning it off, but he could hear Feralynn's voice trying to sing along from outside.

  He found the resident still there, or what remained of him—slumped in an armchair, half rotted, a hole in his temple, gun in hand, flies circling. The sour, putrid smell clawed at the throat.

  Blake pried the weapon free, slid the magazine.

  “One bullet left. An old man’s mercy,” he muttered, pocketing it after setting the safety. “Hope you don’t mind the visit.”

  The corpse’s eyes were glassy, his mouth frozen wide. Dried blood spread from chest to floor, a maroon shadow on gray fabric. Yet death wasn’t the priority. Blake searched each room, moving to the kitchen. He turned the tap. Water flowed—clean, clear. He sighed in relief.

  At the window he hesitated, then opened it. Before throwing the body out, he closed its eyes and straightened its collar. He didn’t know why he always did that. It had become a small ritual—some borrowed kindness for strangers who could no longer thank him. Normally he burned them, freeing them in ash, but not here. Not in a building that might still stand for the two of them, or for future survivors.

  The sound of the body hitting the snow below thudded faintly. Another red mark on the city’s white skin. Another nameless life to the void.

  “I’m sorry,” he softly whispered, not sure why he always did.

  He cleaned what he could, spraying a disinfectant he found in the bath to tame the stench. When he caught his reflection in the mirror—red eyes, hollow, exhausted—he splashed cold water on his face, rubbed his scarred hands until they stung, then returned to the hall.

  “All clear. Come in.”

  Feralynn looked up from where she’d been idly playing with the pocketknife he’d given her. She stood quickly, letting him haul the backpack inside and bolt the door.

  Silent, eager, she went straight for the radio.

  It still worked. The song was old, warped by damaged speakers. She stared at it, fascinated, fingertips brushing the knobs. In her other arm, the blanket rested like a small living pet.

  Blake checked the fridge—almost a full jar of milk. He read the date.

  “Still good enough.”

  He shut it with a slam. Behind him came a burst of loud noise—the radio volume shot up to full blast. She fumbled and turned it down, eyes wide and scared. He raised an eyebrow.

  Two pairs of red eyes met. Her innocent gaze pleaded a question without words: may I?

  Blake’s mouth twitched into a small, crooked smile.

  “Low.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  A tiny giggle escaped her as she turned it up again, softly this time.

  He opened the cupboards. Against all odds, there was chocolate cereal, untouched. A small miracle. That made him truly smile. He found a bowl, poured the cereal, then the milk. When he handed it to her with a spoon, she gasped at the floating cocoa spheres. She scooped one with her spoon, suspicious, then tasted it.

  “It’s like canned soup,” she said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, “but sweet. And cold.”

  Blake chuckled, running a rough hand through her dusty black hair.

  “There’s more if you’re still hungry.”

  She nodded, mouth full, humming approval.

  He sat nearby, opening a can of tuna with a knife. They ate together to the hum of the old radio.

  For once, there was peace. In the home of strangers long gone, they could pretend—just for a meal—that they were a normal family.

  And in that fragile warmth, with the wind whispering through shattered panes, the world outside—war, hunger, fear—ceased to exist. If only for a most needed moment.

  Then, suddenly, the image completely froze. Both figures stilled mid-motion, the air itself thickening until even the dust hung suspended. That’s when the two of them entered.

  “I didn’t remember any of this…”

  Feralynn, in her current school uniform, walked slowly through the scene. She stared at her younger self and at the father she’d lost. Ghosts caught in memory and sorrow.

  “The mind forgets,” said Romina softly emerging beside her, “but the soul remembers everything.” Her voice was a hand reaching through ruins. “We bury what hurts too much… so we can keep walking forward.”

  Fer approached her father’s frozen figure, tears spilling in quiet rivers.

  “Dad…”

  She reached out, brushing his chin. Her fingers passed through him—through light, through air—touching nothing but the echo of love and loss.

  Romina exhaled, sharing that ache, her own brown eyes bright with unshed tears she fought to keep.

  “I was his classmate once,” she whispered. “Never knew him completely. I don’t think anyone did.”

  Feralynn turned, startled. Romina stood by the window, gazing out at the snow-laden city. A faint smile lingered on her lips. One of those weary, wistful smiles that come only from wounds long scarred but never forgotten.

  “He was the rough one,” she murmured. “Didn’t have many friends in school. Astera lost her mind with him. She was always complaining about his attitude.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me before? Why didn’t he?”

  Romina looked at her sideways. Sorrow hidden behind her voice.

  “Your father did terrible things, Feralynn. Innocent lifes, all burnt away. Smiley erased most of our memories back then, so the Spellborne’s reputation wouldn’t be tainted. When he vanished from everywhere, we all thought he’d died.”

  The elf lowered her eyes.

  “No one could’ve imagined he’d had a daughter.”

  Feralynn’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her eyes spoke instead. Questions buried too deep for words. Why had her father hidden so much? Was it to protect her, or himself? Even her mother had avoided those topics, always evading them like landmines left untouched.

  “He never hurt me.” she whispered, fragile as a thread. "I still have so many questions..."

  Romina sensed the air thickening, the old pain clawing its way up again. She approached the frozen image of young Feralynn, spoon caught halfway to her lips, and crouched in front of her with gentle affection.

  “You had a little blanket,” Romina said softly. “You must’ve loved it dearly.”

  The older Feralynn stepped closer, glancing one last time at her father’s peaceful face.

  “Her name was Nini. I took her everywhere.”

  Her face broke into a small smile. She remembered the scent. Sweet strawberries, clinging to that gray cloth like perfume from another life she never could have. When she blinked, something was there in her hand. It was Nini.

  She lifted the blanket slowly, reverently, as though it were a holy, invaluable relic. Closed her eyes. Inhaled. The scent filled her lungs and her soul exhaled in relief, a faint warmth threading through the cold ache inside her.

  Romina watched silently. The weight of the room shifted—the sorrow no longer crushed but melted, reshaped into something tender and bearable. A sadness one could breathe without choking.

  When Feralynn opened her eyes, Romina spoke again.

  “Transitional objects,” she said, her tone soft but knowing. “I had one too—a little plush seal when I was your age. Still sleep with it sometimes.” She chuckled, as if admitting a personal and shy secret.

  Feralynn smiled. Then frowned, puzzled, waiting for her to continue explaining.

  “Everyone with memories has at least one. Something that helped them cross from one stage of life to the next. What you hold is that bridge. We pour our positive energy, our hope, into things that heal us.”

  Feralynn stared at the worn fabric.

  “…Like catalysts.”

  Romina nodded, pride glinting in her eyes.

  “And the most powerful kind. Not because they cast spells, but because they hold the ones we’ve already lived.”

  Fer hugged the blanket tightly to her chest, the way she once had as a child. She sat beside her father’s still form.

  “I miss him…” Her voice cracked apart. Tears spilled freely.

  She tried to touch him again, but the image trembled and dissolved. Smoke slipped through her fingers. Her words came jagged, splintered.

  “I miss him so much. So fucking much…”

  Grief sank its claws deep in her throat. The memory pulsed with her heartbeat, and the walls began to bleed a black, viscous fluid. Thick as tar. It was the guilt of surviving. The guilt of breathing when he couldn’t. The inner desire to die. To never be born.

  Romina fought to keep her composure. Quickly, she went to her, wrapping her in a steady, maternal embrace. Her hands combed through Feralynn’s dark hair with infinite patience.

  “I know, sweetie. I know. But to heal, you have to let him go. You’re not alone. You never were. We’re here to help you.”

  Fer drew in heavy, trembling breaths, clinging to her teacher with desperate strength. With each exhale, the black substance receded, evaporating into vapor. The cold left her limbs.

  She closed her eyes, letting herself drift into the memory of nights under makeshift tents, of scavenging for food, of her father’s arm shielding her from everything collapsing around them. Loved by a man with blood on his hands—who, despite it all, taught her how to fight. How to survive.

  From Nini’s fabric a pale light began to bloom.

  It started dim, then brightened until it burned to look upon. Not a gentle light—but one that cleansed. She held onto Romina tighter, smiling through tears, through pain that shimmered like glass.

  When the brilliance finally faded, she opened her eyes.

  They were no longer in the apartment. The blanket was gone. They had returned to the chamber of her soul—where the colossal red heart loomed, motionless, its beat suspended mid-thunder.

  Warmth bloomed in her chest, sharp but soothing. The enormous organ began to seal one of its cracks, where black ink had once oozed into the white void. Every inch that mended burned from within. The pain was real—alive.

  She looked toward Romina, pleading, but the elf only nodded once, firm and resolute.

  Fer steadied herself, letting the agony do its work. The fissure closed, leaving a thick scar across the heart’s surface. One wound less.

  It throbbed—hot, not from suffering, but from life returning. For the first time, her chest seemed to breathe without fear.

  Exhausted, she dropped to her knees. Her lungs trembled, her body quaking with a strange relief that bordered on the sacred—like surviving an unseen exorcism.

  Romina knelt beside her, patting her back with gentle pride.

  “One less,” she whispered. “We can stop here if you want. Come on, let’s go back.”

  But Feralynn shook her head, wiping her eyes.

  “N-No. I can still keep going…” Her voice was barely whole. “I need to change. I don’t want… I don’t want to hurt Miria, or anyone, ever again.”

  “Fer, you’re pushing yourself–”

  “It’s what I have to do, ok?!” She cut, almost furious. “Let me see him again, please…I beg you.”

  The woman bit the inside of her cheek.

  “... Just one more. Then we stop for today. Understood?”

  The girl nodded, determined.

  With trembling legs, she stood. Romina took her arm to steady her as she moved towards the heart once more.

  Another wound awaited. Still bleeding, pulsing with contempt. The cut was looking at her with despise, with pure awful hatred.

  Feralynn swallowed hard. Looked one last time at her professor. Romina smiled, unwavering.

  “You got this.”

  Feralynn nodded, solemn. Determined. She reached out to the open wound. Heat licked her fingers. The air tasted of iron and salt.

  A new flash consumed her sight. And thus, she stepped into another memory.

  One where her blanket would not be there any longer.

  ...

  ...

  ...

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