It was hardest on rainy nights, when the air was heavy, when the sheets seemed to seep in the moist cold of the room. She would leave the window open, listening to the wind howling outside, trying to drown out the cries from the other room, pretending she was sleeping. It seemed to be the only sound to ever fill the house after darkness enveloped the hills of Risemberg. She remembered him getting up to rock Edward to sleep. Her first son had always been a daddy's boy. She would feed him before bed and again in the morning, but at night it was he who would leave the comfort and warmth of the king-sized bed to comfort their infant. He'd been such a good father. Alphonse was a different child. He would not let himself be simply rocked to sleep and set back into bed. He would cry until he was fed, then he would cry the minute he left her arms. It took hours to get him to sleep and hours more before she herself could join him. It had been alright when he'd been home. He would get up with her, stand beside her to hear her lullaby, hold her in his arms when she returned to bed, drained. He loved her voice, he'd always told her. Now Trisha preferred the feeling of guilt at her child's cries then the feeling of the cool air all around her, away from the comfort they had once shared. She lay on his side of the bed, it still smelled of his cologne and, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel his warmth beside her.
"Mom?" A high-pitched voice emanated from the door. The wooden door creaked eerily as a small form slipped into the room. Edward scrambled onto the bed, sitting at the edge, on his knees, his golden hair hanging limply to frame his face. She pushed herself up to a sitting position.
"What is it Edward?" she asked, knowing full well what he would say. She looked at him, perched on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with his answer.
"Mommy, Al's crying and I can't reach the bars to get him and I know you're tired but you really have to get up and take him out. He's crying and he's so small that he can't make himself stop." Ed lifted his gaze to meet his mother's, the worry evident in his eyes. I know you're tired.
Trisha couldn't help noticing the way her son's eyes were a carbon copy of his father's. It was as if Hohenheim were worried for his son and was telling her to get up and take care of him.
"I know you're tired mommy, but I can't sleep when he's crying." It amazed her how Edward enunciated his words, he didn't slur like most children his age, he even made an extra effort on the 'r's because he didn't want to mispronounce his own name. It was because he wanted to impress his father, who knew so much and spoke with such sophistication. Another sharp, desperate-sounding cry sounded through the house, amplified in the silence.
"Mommy?" Ed insisted, troubled by her lack of response.
She shook her head. "Oh yes of course." Trisha let out, getting up reluctantly and moving to the door. Edward bounded from the bed and, grabbing her hand, guided her to her younger son's bedroom, as if it were in some undiscovered part of the hallway. As an exhausted Alphonse snuggled into her chest, Edward stood at the door frame, the way he'd seen his father do and stood watch over what was left of his family.