Chapter 7 #2
It startled me more than any thunder. For him to give me an out for nearly killing him—an out I didn’t deserve.
My heart raced. “I shouldn’t have shot you.”
He tapped his chest again. ”I understand. Liv.”
Lightning flashed above, the bright light coming in through the small window and casting his shadow across the wall.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, not entirely sure for what I was grateful.
He looked at me for a long moment and then nodded once. “Welcome.”
The storm stalled overhead, rain hammering the roof.
Wild and unrelenting rain battered the roof above us, its rhythm as chaotic as a restless heartbeat.
The flickering light softened the edges of everything it touched, blurring shadows until they seemed alive.
Boone slept at my feet while June Bug lay stretched across the threshold, both dogs lulled into uneasy quiet by the thunder’s slow roll.
Vek sat across from me on the futon, his massive frame too large for the narrow space, shoulders curved beneath the low ceiling. Water glistened on his skin and fur, tiny beads catching the candlelight before slipping down to darken the concrete.
“You should rest,” I finally said, crossing the room to grab him a towel. “We’ll be here for a while.”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze steady and searching, then looked toward the stairwell as thunder boomed overhead. “Storm loud,” he said, the words rough-edged but clear enough to make my breath catch.
“Yeah,” I murmured, managing a faint smile. “Loud enough to make the world feel smaller.”
He tilted his head as though tasting the meaning. “Small,” he echoed, the sound careful on his tongue.
“You didn’t tell me how you know English.” Although I didn’t want to push, I needed to know.
For a while, silence settled between us.
The rain filled it easily, drumming a slow pulse into the earth above.
I could hear the faint, metallic hum of the lantern and the occasional whine of wind slipping under the door.
Everything felt suspended—fragile and impossibly still—like the world had narrowed down to this small, dimly lit room.
Then, in a voice quieter than before, he said, “Woman. Before. She… sing when storm come.”
The words struck something deep inside me, unexpected and tender. “A woman?”
He nodded once, his eyes going distant. “Ruth.” The name fell from him like an old prayer. “She… teach me words.”
My throat tightened. “She took care of you.”
His eyes lifted toward mine, gold catching the candlelight. “She find me. Small.” He lowered his hand to the floor, palm open, showing height like a child’s. “Cold. Cry. She make warm.”
The space between us seemed to change then, becoming heavier… intimate. The kind of silence that carried both sorrow and gratitude.
“She was good to you,” I said softly. “Like a mother.”
He nodded again, slower this time. “Good. Kind.” His brow furrowed as though the next words cost him something. “Men come. She say—run.” He hesitated, breath catching. “I run.”
He didn’t need to finish. I could hear what lived in the space between those words.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “You must’ve loved her.”
He looked at the candle, at the thin ribbon of smoke curling upward, and said quietly, “She smell like bread. Earth. Always warm.” His hand pressed against his chest. “Home.”
That one word landed hard—simple and sacred all at once.
“She sounds like someone worth remembering,” I said.
When he looked back at me, his gaze was too soft for such a huge being. “You same,” he said. “Kind.”
The words stole my breath. “I’m not her.”
“No,” he murmured. “But same heart.”
Thunder rolled overhead, softer now, the storm finally moving on. The candlelight trembled. Shadows moved along the wall in slow waves, and his eyes—dark gold, reflective, alive—found mine again and held.
“I hide long,” he said after a moment, the words halting but sure. “People see. Afraid.”
I nodded, the confession pulling something honest out of me. “I guess we both know how that feels.”
He tilted his head slightly. “You hide?”
“Maybe not like you,” I said, my voice quieter now. “But, yeah. It’s easier to keep to yourself. Easier than letting anyone close enough to hurt you.”
Gaze never leaving my face, he seemed to think that over. “Someone hurt you.”
It wasn’t really a question, but I answered anyway. “Yeah. Not the kind of hurt that leaves scars, though.”
He shifted slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his tone thoughtful. “Leave other mark.”
The words hit like a truth I hadn’t wanted to name.
“Yeah,” I said. “It does.” Blowing out a breath, I pressed my hand to my chest. “Here.” I rarely spoke about losing my parents, but it was something that still haunted me every day, especially living in their home.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke, but there was something unsaid in that silence—an understanding that was beginning to feel less foreign.
The storm had lost its rage, the thunder retreating in slow rumbles across the ridge.
Boone let out a low sigh and rolled onto his side.
June Bug’s tail thumped once against the floor.
Vek’s voice came again, his massive hand reaching for me, but pulling away before touching me. He was more afraid to touch me than I was of his touch. “You not alone.”
Gathering my own courage, I reached for him instead, touching his forearm. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t pull away.
“You neither,” I said, hoping he believed me.
He seemed to take that in. “Safe,” he said, touching his chest, then gesturing toward me. “Both.”
The warmth that stirred beneath my ribs startled me. “Yeah,” I whispered. “Both.”
For the first time since that night in the woods, the quiet didn’t frighten me. It felt like something closer to peace.
Morning crept in slowly, filtering through the cracks above the basement door in thin, silvery threads. The storm had passed hours ago, leaving the world rinsed clean and quiet. The air smelled of damp earth and candle wax, heavy with the scent of rain that had nowhere left to fall.
For a moment, I didn't move. The stillness felt sacred—the kind of hush that follows confession. Boone snored softly near the stairs, one paw twitching in a dream. June Bug had burrowed halfway beneath a blanket, her nose pressed against Vek’s knee.
He was awake.
I could tell by the way he sat—his shoulders relaxed but alert, his gaze lifted toward the narrow shaft of light above us. It gilded his hair and the curve of his arm where a bandage wrapped tightly, turning every breath he took into something alive and human.
“Storm’s over,” I said, my voice rough from sleep.
He turned his head toward me, a faint smile shaping his mouth. “Quiet now.”
It wasn't just the words—it was the rhythm, the almost-easy way he said them. His speech was still rough, but there was more confidence in it. I smiled and pushed myself upright. “You’re getting better at that.”
A hint of a smile lifted the sides of his mouth. “Remember. Just… long time.”
The simplicity of it hit me harder than it should have. “How long has it been since you talked to anyone?”
He thought for a moment, as if counting in years he couldn’t name. “Ruth,” he said finally. “Only her.”
The name sat between us like a fragile thing.
“She’d be proud,” I murmured. “You haven’t forgotten everything she taught you.”
His gaze softened. “Hard to forget… kind voice.”
I looked down, tracing the edge of the blanket with my thumb. “I know what you mean.”
For a while, the quiet felt almost gentle. The last of the rain dripped from the gutters outside, echoing faintly through the ceiling. Boone stirred and yawned, his collar jingling against the floorboards.
“We should get upstairs,” I said at last. “See if the barn still stands.”