Chapter 8 #2
Yannis’s eyes widened, pupils dilating in fascination, his small fingers tracing patterns on my arm as if to tether himself to the tale.
“One night, a tiny comet named Mira came streaking through the darkness. She was fast, wild, full of light, and she laughed like wind chimes. She saw Lio shining all alone and slowed down.”
“‘Why are you by yourself?’ Mira asked,” I continued, letting the words stretch in the quiet.
“‘Because I’m too bright,’ Lio said sadly. ‘I burn too hot. No one wants to stay close.’”
Yannis tilted his head slightly, studying me, absorbing every word as though it were a lifeline.
I continued, soft and warm, letting the story fill the room, letting the words wrap around him like a blanket:
“Mira laughed. ‘That’s silly. I love bright things. Come dance with me.’”
Yannis shifted slightly, sitting up straighter, his small body tense with curiosity. His gray eyes were wide, fixed on my face, reflecting both awe and the lingering shadows of his dreams.
He mimicked her gesture with a little swirl of his hands, as if he could see the comet streaking across the sky, and his lips quirked upward slightly, a fragile flicker of joy.
“She pulled him out of his place in the sky,” I continued, my voice soft and melodic, “and they spun through the darkness together—leaving trails of silver and gold. They visited other constellations, slipped past sleepy moons, raced past planets that yawned as they slept. Lio laughed—really laughed—for the first time in his life. A laugh so bright it lit up the night sky.”
Yannis leaned forward, eyes wide, body leaning into mine as though he could catch every glittering detail. “What happened next?” he asked, voice urgent, soft but insistent.
I smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “One night, they flew too close to the sun. The sun was jealous. ‘You’re stealing my light,’ he roared, burning hotter, trying to chase them away.”
Yannis gasped, covering his mouth with his small hands. “Did it hurt them?”
I shook my head, keeping my tone steady, reassuring. “No. Mira was brave. She spun around Lio, shielding him with her tail of ice and stardust. ‘We don’t steal light,’ she told the sun. ‘We make our own.’”
“The sun faltered,” I went on, voice softening as I watched Yannis’s rapt expression. “He’d never heard anyone speak to him like that. Slowly, he dimmed—just a little—and watched them dance, realizing that there was enough light in the universe for everyone.”
Yannis’s mouth opened slightly, awe and wonder overtaking the lingering fear in his eyes. “And... did the sun stay mad?” he whispered.
“After that,” I said, voice gentle, almost a lullaby, “the sun became their friend. He gave them extra light to play with. And every night, Lio and Mira returned to the sky—brighter than ever—showing every lonely star that they didn’t have to shine alone.”
I paused, letting the words settle around us like a soft blanket. “And from then on, whenever a star felt lonely, it would look for the silver-gold trail in the sky. Because Lio and Mira always came back. They always came back.”
Yannis stared at me, eyes huge, lips parted in awe. Slowly, as though testing the possibility, a small, tentative smile curved across his face.
“That was... good,” he whispered, voice thick with lingering sadness, but lighter now, as though a shadow had lifted just a fraction.
He clapped once, soft and delighted. “Thank you, Elena. You’re a nice storyteller.”
I smiled—truly smiled this time—and brushed my fingers through his hair, lingering at the crown of his head. The scent of soap and childhood innocence filled my senses, grounding me in the fragile, fleeting happiness of the moment.
He yawned, eyes heavy again, the tension of nightmares slowly melting into drowsy comfort. “I feel hungry,” he mumbled, voice small and earnest.
I laughed softly, the sound warm and light in the quiet room. “Then let’s get you some food, little star.”.
Yannis’s little face brightened immediately, the first genuine spark of joy since the nightmare. His gray eyes gleamed, wide and hopeful, and he nodded eagerly. “Yes! I’ll wait here for you.”
Then, almost shyly, he signed and spoke at the same time, his tiny fingers moving with deliberate care, his words halting but full of expectation: “Can you make me... peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off? And... banana slices on the side? And chocolate milk? That’s my favorite.”
My chest tightened. Just hearing him talk about his favorite food—something so simple, so utterly ordinary—was a balm to my bruised soul. Classic five-year-old comfort food: sweet, safe, predictable.
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” I said, smiling more freely than I had in days. “Peanut butter and jelly, crustless, banana slices, chocolate milk. Coming right up.”
I bent down and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of his head. His hair was soft, smelling faintly of shampoo and the warmth of sleep, and his small hands briefly rested on my shoulders as if anchoring himself in safety.
He let out a tiny, content sigh and settled back against the pillow, eyes tracking me as I stepped toward the door.
He called out, small but insistent, “Don’t forget the chocolate milk!”
I laughed softly, the sound light and buoyant in the hallway. “I won’t forget. Scout’s honor.”
The hallway stretched before me, quiet and sunlit. Rays of morning light poured through tall windows, scattering over the marble floors like golden rivers.
Shadows of the statues danced along the walls—Athena, Apollo, nymphs frozen in stone—silent witnesses to every moment, every heartbeat.
I followed the faint scent of coffee and citrus wafting up from the ground floor, down the grand staircase, my bare feet padding softly on the cool marble.
The kitchen doors were arched, carved with intricate olive branches and meander patterns, almost like an invitation into another world.
When I pushed them open, I froze.
The space was breathtaking, the kind of room that demanded reverence.
White marble countertops veined with gold stretched endlessly, the polished surface catching the sun in warm streaks.
The mosaic backsplash stole my breath—a pastoral scene of nymphs harvesting olives under a glowing sun, their movements frozen in mid-motion, hands outstretched, baskets brimming with fruit.
Beyond the windows, the infinity pool shimmered like liquid glass, stretching toward the endless expanse of the Pacific.
I just stood there for a long moment, taking it all in. My chest rose and fell slowly, savoring a sensation I hadn’t felt in weeks: calm. Belonging, almost.
My first time in this kitchen. My first time feeling—dare I think it—like I had a place in this house.
I shook my head, letting the awe slide into purpose. Yannis was waiting. I had a mission.
The pantry was a treasure trove, stocked as though curated by someone who anticipated every whim of both child and adult.
Creamy peanut butter—real, thick, nutty—not the hollow, processed spread I had known.
Strawberry jam, glistening in its glass jar, waiting to be spread.
Thick slices of brioche bread, golden and soft, practically begging to be cut into perfect rectangles.
Bananas, yellow and speckled with ripeness.
Whole milk. And a tin of premium Dutch cocoa powder for the chocolate milk.
I even found a heart-shaped cookie cutter tucked on the top shelf. My lips curved into a small smile. Yannis would love that. He loved little whimsical things, little symbols of care.
As I worked, layering peanut butter and jam with meticulous care, cutting off the crusts just as he had asked, slicing bananas into neat little coins, I felt a strange, tentative joy.
For the chocolate milk, I warmed the milk slowly on the induction stove, watching steam curl upward in thin white ribbons.
I whisked in cocoa, dark and fragrant, added a touch of honey, and stirred until the surface turned silky and smooth. When I poured it into the small blue mug with the faded star pattern, something in my chest tightened.
Yannis’s favorite, I guessed. Or hoped.
Every movement felt... grounding.
Normal.
Like I could pretend—just for a few stolen minutes—that this was my life.
That I wasn’t a prisoner wrapped in silk and marble.
That the man who owned this house hadn’t spent last night standing over an open grave meant for me.
My hands didn’t shake. I noticed that with mild surprise. They were steady, practiced, almost serene. As if making a sandwich for a frightened child was enough to anchor me to reality.
But the feeling came anyway.
Eyes on me.
Not obvious. Not aggressive. Just... there. A quiet pressure at the base of my skull, the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Two pairs.
I didn’t stop what I was doing. I refused to. I focused on folding a napkin into a neat triangle—something my mother used to do, even when life felt like it was unraveling at the seams. Small details mattered to her. They made things feel kinder. Safer.
I turned once—quick, instinctive—scanning the doorway, the hallway beyond, the reflection in the dark glass of the oven.
Nothing.
Still, the sensation lingered, crawling up my spine.
I plated the sandwich, adjusted the banana slices, placed the mug just so, and lifted the tray with care. It felt heavier than it should have, weighted by expectation, by hope I didn’t dare name.
Upstairs, Yannis’s door creaked softly as I pushed it open.
He was already asleep.
Curled on his side, knees drawn up, one small hand tucked beneath his cheek. His lashes rested dark against his skin, his breathing soft, even, almost peaceful.
I exhaled, my shoulders sagging with relief.
Then I noticed the twitch.
His legs jerked faintly beneath the sheets, like he was trying to run but couldn’t move fast enough. His brow furrowed, lips parting as fractured sounds slipped free—half-formed words, broken pleas. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the cool air circulating through the room.
Another nightmare.
So soon.