A FACE WITHOUT A NAME
Two days passed, and Alma still hadn't managed to win a single game. Sirreth hadn't expected their accidental visit to his room to become a regular occurrence, but Alma seemed to have decided it would. She showed up each day with a fresh stack of games and even fresher determination to beat him. Her energy was boundless, her eccentric personality lighting up the room. Though Sirreth rarely spoke, her antics left him equal parts exasperated and entertained.
And beneath it all, his skin hummed. It was subtle at first—a faint vibration just below the surface, like the lingering resonance of a sound that had yet to fade. The sensation wasn't constant but came and went, stronger at moments when Alma's questions turned personal or her chatter brushed against topics he couldn't ignore. It was as though his body was trying to guide him, nudging him toward something just out of reach.
Through their games, Sirreth learned more about Alma and her companions. Alma and Aleksandr were siblings, their playful bickering a constant backdrop to her chatter. Jayne, quieter and often observing from the sidelines, was Alma's best friend who had moved in with their family due to a difficult home life. Their mother, Alma explained during one of their matches, was under Carlisle's care for an aggressive form of cancer.
The humming deepened slightly as Alma mentioned Carlisle, a soft vibration rolling through Sirreth's hands where they rested on the game board. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it sharpened his focus, anchoring him to the moment in a way he didn't quite understand.
Their presence was chaotic but strangely comforting, filling the silence Sirreth often found tyrannical. Alma's curious nature spared no topic, and she had an uncanny talent for making her questions feel both invasive and innocuous.
It started with her fascination about Charlie. "So, your dad's the Chief of Police," Alma said, her eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. "Do you get to hear all the town secrets?"
The hum in Sirreth's skin shifted—a low, steady thrum, as though testing the air for tension. He moved a game piece carefully, the vibration sharpening as if bracing for his response. "No," he replied quietly.
"That's boring," Alma groaned, leaning her chin on her hand. "If my dad were the Chief, I'd be all up in his business. You don't even ask him what he's been up to?"
Sirreth shook his head. "He doesn't talk about work."
The hum lightened, a small breath of relief passing through his chest.
"Lame," she muttered before her curiosity shifted. "What about siblings? You said Bella's your sister, right?"
"Yes," he answered, already bracing himself.
"Bella," Alma repeated with a sceptical tilt of her head, "the one with the orange truck." Her expression turned into an exaggerated grimace. "You two don't look anything alike. Like, at all. She's all dark and quiet, and you're..." She gestured at him, her hands waving in vague circles. "White as snow. Are you, like, albino?"
The hum flickered uneasily, a faint buzz just under his skin.
Aleksandr sighed heavily from where he sat, his irritation clear. "Alma," he said sharply, "you can't just say things like that."
"What?" Alma protested, throwing her hands up. "It's a valid question!"
Sirreth blinked, unfazed, though the hum in his skin refused to settle. "No," he replied softly, his tone controlled.
"Okay, but seriously," Alma continued, clearly undeterred, "are you adopted? Because you don't look like Charlie or Bella."
"Alma!" Aleksandr snapped, glaring at her.
Sirreth gave a small nod. "I am," he said simply, without a hint of hesitation.
Alma froze for a beat, her eyes widening. "Wait, seriously? You're adopted?"
"Yes," Sirreth confirmed, his voice quiet but firm.
"What about Bella?" she asked, her tone still alight with curiosity. "Is she adopted too?"
"No," he said evenly. "Just me."
"Huh. Okay, so what about your mom?"
The humming sharpened, running through Sirreth like a current. It wasn't painful, but it was insistent, a vibration that coiled tighter with each passing second.
"Well, what's she like?" Alma asked, her voice less teasing and more curious this time. "Was she the one who adopted you, or—"
"I don't know anything about her," Sirreth interrupted, his voice light, almost dismissive.
The hum vibrated erratically, a chaotic rhythm that matched the dissonance building in his chest.
"You can't know nothing," Alma pressed, her tone half-joking but tinged with genuine interest. "Everyone knows something about their mom."
Everyone knows something about their mom.
A pull inside him briefly distracts his mind. It wasn't gentle—it was sudden and sharp, dragging Sirreth down before he could even brace himself. His skin burned with the vibration, an internal hum escalating into a vociferation that threatened to drown out the world around him.
Sirreth's fingers stilled on the edge of the board. Head tilting as he appraised her wide-eyed stare, mystified.
"Come on," Alma pressed, her tone half-joking but tinged with genuine interest. "You don't have a photo or anything?"
The pull came again, stronger this time His vision dimmed at the edges, and the last thing he saw was Carlisle entering the room before the sounds around him faded as though the world had been swallowed by static. The hum, ever-present beneath his skin, surged upward like it was clawing toward something just out of reach.
It wasn't gentle—it was sudden and sharp, dragging Sirreth down before he could even brace himself.
What—who is—
The flood came all at once, a violent surge of sensations and fragments, disjointed and too fast to process.
The hum was everywhere now, vibrating through his hands, his chest, and his head, as though it was tethered to the images that filled his mind.
Blood. The metallic tang filled his nose, sharp and suffocating, hot against his skin. His hands—it was on his hands . Is it mine? Why is it there?
Arms. They were wrapped around him, tight and trembling. The pressure was unbearable, crushing, desperate. Too tight—too tight. Whose are they? Why are they shaking?
A face. Shifting, blurring, impossible to hold onto. It flickered like a broken film reel, and the hum pulsed in time with its movements, pushing him to focus—remember.
And a voice. Low, muffled, coming through water. It wasn't clear, but it was urgent, pleading. The vibrations mirrored it, frantic and pulsing, making the memory impossible to ignore.
Who is—why can't I—?
The chaos overwhelmed him, a weight pressing on his chest, suffocating and unbearable. He wanted to escape, to break free, but the images folded in on themselves, splintering into shards that cut deep before vanishing into the void.
Until—nothing.
When Sirreth came back to himself, the world felt distant and strange, as though he were seeing it through someone else's eyes. His skin still buzzed faintly, the hum now a low, persistent drone in the background, a shadow of its former intensity.
"Sirreth?" Carlisle's voice broke through the haze, low and steady, pulling him back inch by inch.
The hum pulsed weakly as he nodded, though the motion felt disconnected from himself. His hands trembled in his lap, and the vibrations echoed faintly in his fingertips.
Sirreth blinked, his vision sluggishly sharpening. Alma's face came into view, her usual bright energy replaced with wide-eyed worry. Jayne sat frozen, her hand half-extended toward him, her expression torn between fear and uncertainty. Aleksandr was stiff, his jaw tight as though bracing himself for something worse.
"What... just happened?" Alma asked, her voice unusually soft, hesitant.
Carlisle was beside him now, moving slowly, deliberately. He crouched to meet Sirreth's eye level, his golden gaze calm but deeply focused. "Sirreth," he said quietly, his tone steady and grounding. "Can you hear me?"
Sirreth nodded faintly, though the motion felt disconnected from himself. His hands trembled in his lap, and he curled them into fists to try and steady them.
"You blanked out," Carlisle said, his voice gentle, never rushing. His hand hovered over Sirreth's shoulder before resting lightly, a comforting pressure that didn't overwhelm him. "Do you know where you are?"
Sirreth's breath hitched as he glanced around the room, the pieces coming together slowly. The game board. Alma. Carlisle. "I... I'm okay," he said, though the words felt weak and hollow.
"You're not," Carlisle replied, his tone still soft, but firm. "You had a seizure."
"No." Sirreth shook his head, the motion stiff, jerky. "No, I'm fine. I just..."
Carlisle's hand stayed steady on his shoulder, his presence unwavering. "I know it feels that way," he said evenly, "but I need you to trust me. It was a seizure—brief, but significant. Do you remember what happened?"
Sirreth blinked, fragments of the flood clawing at the edges of his mind. Blood. Arms. The face. The weight of it all pressed against his chest, hollow and suffocating. He shook his head again, more forcefully. "No," he said softly. "I don't."
A lie.
"That's okay," Carlisle reassured him. He moved slowly, his movements deliberate as he reached for Sirreth's wrist to check his pulse. "Let's take it one step at a time. You're safe."
Safe. The word echoed hollowly in Sirreth's mind. Safe from what? The fragments still lingered, disjointed and aching, leaving him raw and exposed.
"You didn't look fine," Alma said suddenly, her words rushing out but softer than usual. "You just froze—completely. Like... like you weren't even here. It was freaky."
"Alma," Jayne murmured, nudging her slightly.
Carlisle glanced briefly at Alma, a calm yet pointed look that quieted her instantly. His attention returned to Sirreth. "Your pulse is steady," he said, almost to himself, before meeting Sirreth's gaze. "You might feel disoriented for a while. That's normal."
The words felt far away like they weren't meant for him. Sirreth's thoughts looped back to the fragments—the blood, the arms, the face that refused to come into focus.
Who was she? Why do I—?
It felt familiar.
—Momma?
Carlisle's voice broke through again, persistent and encouraging. "The feeling will pass."
Sirreth nodded faintly, though the ache in his chest remained. The weight of the memory lingered, suffocating and unspoken, and for the first time in a long while, he felt small. Vulnerable. And entirely unmoored.
Thankfully, Carlisle stepped in, his voice calm but firm. "I think your mother might want to see you before visitation hours are over," he said, his golden gaze meeting Alma's. There was no mistaking the authority in his tone, though it carried no harshness.
Alma hesitated, glancing between Sirreth and Carlisle, her curiosity still palpable. "But—"
"No buts," Carlisle said, his voice softening just slightly. "She'll want to hear how your visit went." He straightened, his posture effortlessly composed, and gestured toward the door. "I'll stay with Sirreth and make sure he's all right."
Aleksandr stood immediately, offering Alma a pointed look. "Come on," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Alma huffed but relented, rising to her feet and grabbing Jayne's arm to tug her along. "Fine. But you owe me a rematch," she said to Sirreth, though her usual fire was muted.
Sirreth didn't respond, his hands still trembling faintly in his lap.
The trio left the room, their footsteps fading down the hallway. The moment the door clicked shut, silence enveloped the space, heavy and overpowering. Sirreth sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him.
An empty feeling spread through his chest, hollow and unfamiliar. He felt untethered, as though the fragments of himself had scattered and refused to come back together.
Carlisle moved slowly, his footsteps soft, deliberate, as he returned to Sirreth's side. He crouched slightly, bringing himself down to Sirreth's eye level, his expression calm but watchful.
"How are you feeling?" Carlisle asked gently, his voice a low murmur that didn't disrupt the stillness of the room.
"I don't know," Sirreth said softly. His hands twitched against the edges of the table, curling into fists and releasing as though searching for something to anchor him.
Carlisle nodded, his gaze steady and patient. "It's all right to not have the answers right now," he said, his tone soothing. "What happened was disorienting—it's normal to feel unsettled."
"I don't... understand," Sirreth murmured, his words halting. "What... what was that?"
Carlisle took a moment before responding, his expression thoughtful. "What you experienced was a seizure, a different kind," he said carefully, his tone factual yet compassionate. "Your brain was processing something—perhaps a memory or a sensation that triggered it. It may feel fragmented or incomplete, and that's why it seems so difficult to grasp."
Sirreth's chest tightened, the emptiness threatening to overwhelm him. "It felt like... something..." He trailed off, his voice trembling, unable to describe the weight of what he had seen—what he had felt.
Carlisle's expression softened, his golden eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation. "Like something familiar?" he asked gently.
Sirreth blinked, his gaze flickering to Carlisle's. "Yes," he whispered. "But I... I couldn't..."
"Focus on it?" Carlisle finished for him, his voice calm and understanding.
Sirreth nodded faintly, his throat constricting.
Carlisle placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, his touch sturdy. "The mind works in its own time," he said, his tone even and measured. "But," he continued, his voice becoming thoughtful, "there may be more to this. It's possible your body is responding to something deeper."
Sirreth frowned slightly, a faint vibration stirring beneath his skin. The hum was subtle at first but continuous, as though reacting to Carlisle's words.
Carlisle leaned back slightly, his gaze sharp yet cautious. "We've talked about the marker we found in your blood," he said slowly. "It's unique—completely unlike anything I've encountered before. I don't yet fully understand what it does or how it interacts with your body, but it's clear it's significant. What if..." He hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "What if your body is working in tandem with it?"
Sirreth stilled, the hum beneath his skin surging quietly, like an unspoken affirmation.
Carlisle continued, unaware of the reaction. "The marker might be compensating for the effects of your illness. Your body could be using it to adapt, to protect itself—even to try preserving your memories, despite the illness's impact."
The thrumming within Sirreth deepened, a steady vibration spreading through his chest and limbs, resonating with Carlisle's words.
Carlisle's gaze remained fixed on Sirreth, his tone calm but intense. "It's only a theory," he admitted, "but if that's true, it means your body isn't just reacting—it's actively trying to preserve you. It's fighting for you in ways we don't yet understand."
Sirreth swallowed hard, the hum thrumming persistently now, a subtle yet undeniable presence that seemed to agree. "I..." He paused, his voice faint. "I don't know if it's working."
Carlisle offered a faint, reassuring smile. "It might not feel like it now, but progress is rarely obvious at the moment. What you experienced—the fragments, the familiarity—it could be part of that process."
The hum in Sirreth's skin didn't falter, vibrating steadily like a pulse, as if it were guiding him toward something beyond his comprehension. Carlisle remained unaware of it, his focus on Sirreth's expression and words.
"You're holding onto something," Carlisle said softly. "Even if it feels fragmented now, it's there. Trust that."
The weight of the conversation settled over Sirreth, heavy but grounding. The thrumming within him persisted, an enigmatic reminder that his body—and something else—was still fighting, still trying to guide him toward answers.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain, until Sirreth finally spoke, his voice quiet and strained. But his thoughts carried back to those flashes, to Alma. Toher.
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
"Do you... know anything about her? My momma?"
Carlisle paused, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Sirreth's face. His hand remained firm but gentle on Sirreth's shoulder, a touch that seemed to hold the weight of his words. "You know I wouldn't," he said softly, his tone calm but purposeful.
Sirreth's grip on the edge of the table tightened, his knuckles paling as the question lingered in the air. "I just thought... maybe you'd know something. Or that Charlie might've told you."
Carlisle exhaled slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "Charlie hasn't shared much about what happened before he took you in. And my first involvement with you came long after that." He tilted his head slightly, his voice dipping into something more pointed. "But I suspect that thinking about her may have contributed to what just happened."
Sirreth flinched slightly, his body tensing as though Carlisle's words had hit something raw. He dropped his gaze, his hands trembling faintly as they rested against the table. "I don't know what it was," he murmured, his voice uneven. "It just... felt like her."
Carlisle's gaze softened, though his tone remained steady. "Sometimes, the mind clings to sensations and emotions tied to memories, even if the details are blurred or incomplete. It could have been her—or what you've imagined her to be."
Sirreth didn't respond, his shoulders stiffening as his thoughts churned. Blood. Arms. That face. The pieces pressed against him, suffocating and dangerous, but none of them offered clarity.
After a moment, Carlisle continued, his voice careful. "If your mother is what you were thinking of when the seizure started, it may mean you're ready to explore those questions—even if only a little." He paused, watching Sirreth closely. "Perhaps you should ask Charlie. He's the one who would know the most."
Sirreth's chest tightened at the suggestion, his jaw clenching. "Charlie doesn't talk about her," he said, his voice tense. "He never has."
Carlisle nodded, his expression thoughtful but understanding. "I know. But that doesn't mean he wouldn't. Sometimes people stay quiet because they don't know how to begin. It might take you asking first."
Sirreth's hands curled into fists against the table as his mind looped back to the suffocating sensations of the seizure. Blood. Arms. That blurred face. Did he want to ask? Did he want to know? Or would it only make the ache in his chest worse, the hollow weight he couldn't shake?
"You don't have to do it now," Carlisle said gently, his tone never wavering. "When you're ready, Charlie will listen. But I think asking him might give you more answers than you realize."
Sirreth's breath caught as he nodded stiffly, though the motion felt automatic, like a reflex rather than a decision. The fragments of memory still hovered at the edges of his thoughts, threatening to pull him back under. He wasn't ready—not yet.
The next few days came in a haze. The hum had taken Sirreth's mind hostage, a ceaseless rhythm that refused to quit. It wasn't just beneath his skin anymore—it resonated through his chest, his thoughts, his every breath. It pressed on him with one relentless demand: ask. Know.
Time passed, shapeless and heavy. Sirreth hadn't moved. He couldn't tell if Alma or the others had returned; it didn't matter. Nothing outside the hum seemed to reach him, and even when Charlie sat beside his bed, Sirreth barely registered his presence.
The sterile light above him burned into his eyes as he lay staring at the ceiling tiles. The bed felt suffocating, the blanket thin and useless against the cold in his limbs. He had tried to push the hum away, to ignore it, but it grew sharper, louder, demanding he break the silence.
Finally, the strain became unbearable. Slowly, Sirreth pushed himself upright, his movements heavy and halting, as though the weight of the moment had seeped into his very bones. The room tilted briefly before settling again, and he turned his head toward the corner where Charlie sat.
Charlie's elbows rested on his knees, his hands loosely clasped, but the tension in his posture betrayed him. His head lifted the moment Sirreth moved, his sharp brown eyes meeting Sirreth's. Relief flickered across his face, tempered by something deeper—an apprehension that lingered in the lines of his brow and the tightness of his jaw.
Sirreth's chest tightened. The hum swelled in his chest, pressing him forward. His fingers curled into the blanket as he forced his voice to rise above it.
"Dad," he said softly, his voice dry and cracking.
Charlie sat up straighter, his expression softening. "I'm here, Sirree," he said, his voice calm but careful.
Sirreth hesitated, his throat constricting. The hum was relentless now, an unyielding pressure that pushed him toward the question he couldn't suppress any longer. His voice trembled as he finally spoke.
"Did you..." Sirreth averts his gaze for a moment, thinking over his words. "Did you know my... momma?"
Charlie's expression shifted subtly. For a moment, he didn't move, as if the question had frozen him in place. Then, slowly, he straightened in his chair, his hands clasping together tightly. His knuckles whitened under the pressure, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"I didn't know her well," he said finally, his voice steady but low, as if treading carefully over fragile ground. "She hadn't been in Forks for long. A few months, maybe."
Sirreth nodded faintly, though he didn't lift his eyes. The hum in his chest pulsed softly, a steady rhythm that made his breath hitch.
Charlie exhaled, the sound quiet but heavy, as though releasing a weight he had carried for a long time. "She kept to herself," he continued, his tone measured. "Didn't say much about where she was from or why she came here. But I remember her."
Sirreth's gaze flickered toward him, curiosity mingling with unease.
Charlie's hands unclasped, one hand rubbing the back of his neck briefly before falling back into place. "She was quiet," he said softly. "Kind. The kind of person who made you feel calm just by being near her."
The hum in Sirreth's chest surged faintly as if responding to the words.
Charlie's eyes softened, his tone gaining a quiet reverence. "She was tired, though. You could see it, even when she tried to hide it. But when it came to you..." He shook his head slightly, a faint, bittersweet smile ghosting his lips. "She lit up when she looked at you, Sirree. Like you were the only thing that mattered."
The hum sharpened, pressing against Sirreth's ribs. His fingers twitched against the blanket, his chest tightening with a mix of anticipation and dread.
"She loved you," Charlie said, his voice faint but sure. "That much was obvious to anyone who saw her with you. She held you like you were her whole world."
Sirreth swallowed hard, his breath catching as the hum grew louder.
"She wasn't here long," Charlie admitted, his voice dipping. "And there's a lot I still don't know. But what I do know..." He trailed off, his gaze drifting toward the window for a moment before returning to Sirreth. "What I do know is that she cared about you more than anything."
Sirreth hesitated, the words catching in his throat before he could force them out. "Do you... remember what she looked like?"
Charlie blinked, his hands tightening slightly in his lap. His expression shifted, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. "I do," he said quietly. "And I can show you."
Sirreth's heart skipped, the hum surging sharply. "Show me?" he repeated, his voice faint.
Charlie reached into his back pocket, his movements slow, deliberate, as though bracing himself for what came next. He withdrew a small, worn photograph from his wallet, his fingers brushing the edges as he turned it over in his hands.
"I kept this," he said softly, his tone almost hesitant. "Thought maybe... one day you'd want to see her."
He held out the photo with quiet reverence, his gaze constant but guarded.
Sirreth's trembling fingers brushed the edges of the photo as he took it from Charlie's hands. The hum in his chest swelled sharply, its rhythm vibrating through his limbs, urging him to look. Slowly, he raised the worn picture, his breath catching as his eyes fell on the image.
The woman in the photo looked like him. Her hair was a cascade of soft white curls that framed a perfectly rounded face, her wide, upturned eyes shimmering with an ethereal shade of wisteria. There was a softness to her expression, a quiet kindness that seemed to radiate from the paper itself. She was cradling a baby in her arms—him—wrapped snugly in a pale blanket, his tiny hand clutching at her shirt. Her smile was tired but unyielding, a gentle curve that spoke of a love so fierce it almost seemed to reach through the photograph.
For a moment, Sirreth felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. His chest tightened painfully, the hum vibrating more intensely now, sharp and insistent. His hands began to shake, the photo quivering in his grasp as he tried to focus on her face.
But it wouldn't stay.
Her features, so clear in the photograph, blurred in his mind like a mirage. He could see her smile, soft and serene, but the moment he tried to place it within his memories, it shifted and slipped away. Her eyes, so much like his own, were there—but they weren't. The more he grasped for her, the more she faded, the edges of her face distorting and breaking apart like shattered glass.
The memory of her blurred face rose unbidden, stark against the clarity of the photograph. It was the same haunting image that had lingered in his nightmares for years—a face he should have known but couldn't reach. The harder he tried to force the connection, to bridge the gap between the photo and his fractured mind, the more violently his thoughts rebelled.
"I..." His voice cracked, trembling. "I can't..." His breathing grew shallow, his chest heaving as the hum roared in his ears, breaking through some unseen floodgate.
The emotion came all at once, overwhelming and uncontrollable. Tears spilt freely from his eyes, dripping onto the photo and smudging its worn edges. He clutched it tighter, his fingers curling into the fragile paper as if holding onto it might somehow anchor him. "I don't know her," he whispered, his voice thick with anguish. "I don't... I can't remember her at all."
Charlie's hand rested gently on his shoulder, a grounding presence amidst the storm. "You were too young," he said quietly, his voice certain but heavy with something unspoken.
Sirreth shook his head, the words striking hollow in his ears. "No," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "That's not it. I should be able to remember. I know I should."
Charlie hesitated, his grip on Sirreth's shoulder tightening slightly. "Sirree," he began carefully, "you were barely a year old. It's natural not to remember."
"It's not natural for me," Sirreth snapped, his voice breaking under the weight of his frustration. The hum vibrated angrily in his chest, an almost accusatory rhythm. "It's not... I know it's not. It's like I was supposed to like it's in me to remember. But I can't. I can't—" His voice cracked again, the words dissolving into a sob.
Charlie crouched beside the bed, his hand remaining firm on Sirreth's shoulder. "It's not your fault," he said softly. "It's the illness, Sirree. It's taken things from you—things no one should have to lose."
The words hit him like a blow. His head dropped, the photo quavering in his hands as fresh tears blurred his vision. The hum quieted, retreating into a low, mournful resonance that echoed the ache in his chest. "She's gone," he whispered, his voice trembling. "And I don't even have her in my head. Nothing. It's like... she was never there. Why isn't she in my head?"
Charlie's expression tightened, grief flashing in his eyes. "She was there," he said firmly, his voice carrying a quiet conviction. "She was there every moment she could be. That's something no illness can take from you, Sirree. That's hers—and yours."
Sirreth shook his head weakly, his tears falling faster now. "What happened to her?" he asked suddenly, his voice raw and shaking. "Dad... what happened to her?"
Charlie flinched visibly, his hand falling away from Sirreth's shoulder. His jaw clenched, the lines on his face deepening as he looked away. "I don't think now's the time," he said carefully, his voice strained.
Sirreth's head snapped up, desperation flashing in his watery eyes. His voice trembled as he pleaded, the single word carrying the weight of everything he couldn't say. "Please."
But Charlie didn't meet his gaze. He stood slowly, his movements heavy, and turned toward the window. His hands slipped into his pockets, his shoulders tight with unspoken tension. "Not now," he said quietly, his voice soft but firm, the weight of it leaving no room for argument.
The rejection hit Sirreth like a fresh wave, washing over him and dragging him under. His shoulders sagged, the fight draining from his body as his gaze dropped back to the photo in his lap. Silent tears slipped down his cheeks, falling onto the worn paper.
The hum in his chest, once insistent and guiding, had quieted to a faint whisper. Its presence felt distant now, resigned, as though it, too, had given up.
For a long moment, the room was silent except for the faint sound of Sirreth's uneven breathing. Charlie remained by the window, his back to Sirreth, his stance rigid. The light filtering through the glass cast shadows across the room, adding to the stillness.
When Charlie finally turned back, his expression was unreadable, his eyes shadowed by something Sirreth couldn't quite name. He hesitated, his voice softening as he spoke. "I'll stay if you need me."
The offer hung in the air, tentative and heavy, but Sirreth didn't respond. His hands tightened around the edges of the photo, his tears blurring the features of the woman he couldn't remember.
Sirreth didn't respond. His trembling fingers traced the edges of the photo, his breath uneven as he tried, once again, to hold onto her face—anything that might feel real. But the void remained, vast and barren, leaving behind only the hollow ache that seemed to consume him.
Charlie lingered by the window, his gaze distant as if searching for words he couldn't find. The silence stretched, heavy and stifling, broken only by Sirreth's shallow, uneven breaths.
Finally, Charlie shifted, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. He turned toward the door, pausing briefly as though to say something, but the words never came. Instead, he glanced back once, his expression unreadable, before stepping out of the room. The soft click of the door closing behind him left the space emptier than before.
Sirreth's eyes flickered toward the photo again, its edges now worn from his trembling grip. He set it down carefully on the bedside table, but its presence loomed over him like a shadow, a quiet taunt he couldn't escape.
The night was restless. Shadows on the ceiling twisted and writhed, their movements like echoes of the thoughts he couldn't silence. Sirreth lay motionless, his body heavy against the bed, but his mind churned relentlessly. The photo remained untouched, its quiet weight a reminder of everything he couldn't remember.
Her face lingered at the edges of his mind—white curls, a perfect, rounded face, wide wisteria-colored eyes. The features were clear in the photograph, but in his thoughts, they blurred and twisted the moment he tried to focus. It felt wrong. It felt stolen, like trying to grasp smoke only to have it slip through his fingers.
He pressed his hands against his temples, his breathing shallow as frustration gnawed at his chest. I should remember her, he thought bitterly. Why can't I see her?
The hum stirred faintly in his chest, a rhythm steady and deliberate. It wasn't the soothing presence he had grown used to—it was something different now, something sharp. It pressed back against him each time he tried to bring her image into focus, its resistance quiet but insistent.
He gritted his teeth, his fingers pressing harder against his temples as the ache in his head began to bloom. It was a dull throb at first, radiating from the base of his skull like a crack slowly widening, spreading upward in relentless waves.
The hum grew louder, its pulse vibrating through his ribs, unyielding and intrusive. Sirreth winced, curling his fingers into the blanket as the heat behind his eyes began to build. The ache sharpened, stabbing at his temples and behind his eyes like hot needles burrowing deeper with each pulse.
"Stop," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. He pressed his palms harder against his head as if he could physically push the pain away.
But the hum didn't stop. It surged, chaotic and overwhelming, its rhythm matching the fiery pulses in his skull. Each beat sent fresh waves of agony spiralling through his head, the pain searing and raw.
His vision blurred, the room tilting dangerously as his breaths grew shallow and erratic. The shadows on the ceiling twisted and collapsed into a swirling haze, the edges of the world narrowing to a single, suffocating point.
"Stop!" The word tore from his throat, strained and desperate, but it was drowned out by the roaring hum, its insistence drowning out every thought, every plea.
The fire behind his eyes erupted, a blinding, searing pain that left him gasping. His body jerked involuntarily, his back arching briefly before collapsing back against the bed. The hum roared louder, pressing against him from the inside out, suffocating and unbearable.
It wasn't just pain. It was a force—a presence—that refused to let him move forward as if it were sealing him away from the memory he so desperately sought. The harder he pushed, the harder it pushed back, and he could feel himself unravelling beneath its weight.
The world spun violently, the edges of his vision darkening as the pain consumed him. His head snapped back against the pillow, his limbs growing heavy and unresponsive. His breath hitched, then stuttered, his chest trembling as the last threads of consciousness slipped from his grasp.
The darkness crept in slowly at first, then all at once, swallowing him whole. The hum faded into the background, a low, mournful echo as Sirreth's body went limp, leaving the room silent save for the faint, uneven rhythm of his breath.
The next time Sirreth woke, it was to an odd pressure on his face. It came in short, repetitive jabs, like someone persistently prodding him. He didn't react at first, his body heavy with lingering exhaustion, but the poking didn't stop. Eventually, his hand moved on instinct, catching the offender's wrist mid-motion.
A bright giggle followed. "Well, hello there, reflexes!"
His eyelids fluttered open slowly, the room swimming into focus. Alma's grinning face loomed above him, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. It took a moment longer for him to notice the weight on his torso—she was sitting on him, her knees braced on either side of his waist.
Sirreth tilted his head slightly, his pale lashes blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. He didn't speak, his hand still loosely gripping her wrist as he stared at her, his expression unreadable.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," she teased, poking his chest lightly with her free hand. "Missed me?"
Sirreth's voice came out soft and apprehensive. "Why?"
"Why am I here, or why am I sitting on you?" she asked with mock innocence, tilting her head in return. "Both are valid questions, but the answer's the same: to wake you up. You've been out forever, and I missed our games."
Before he could respond, a groan came from the doorway.
"Alma," Aleksandr said flatly, his tone sharp and weary. He stood leaning against the frame, his arms crossed. "Get off him. Now."
Alma huffed dramatically but climbed off, flopping onto the edge of the bed instead. "You're so uptight. He's fine. Look, he's awake."
"He needs rest, not your chaos," Aleksandr muttered, stepping further into the room.
Sirreth's gaze flicked to Aleksandr briefly before returning to Alma, his head tilting again as he watched her dig through her bag. She was undeterred by her brother's disapproval, her energy unrelenting.
"Anyway," she said brightly, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package. "I brought you something. A little peace offering."
Sirreth's fingers twitched slightly, his pale lashes lowering as he stared at the package.
Alma hesitated, her grin faltering slightly. "I, uh... I wanted to say sorry. For everything. And..." Her voice softened, a rare seriousness creeping in. "I thought maybe if I understood better, I could help."
Sirreth tilted his head, his lips parting slightly, but he didn't speak.
"I snooped," she confessed, her green eyes meeting his directly. "Your hospital file. I wanted to know why you were here. Why you've been through... well, this." She gestured vaguely at the bed and the monitors nearby. "I just... I didn't want to keep bothering you with questions when you weren't ready to talk."
Aleksandr let out a sharp breath. "You what? Alma, you can't—"
"Relax," Alma cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not like I hacked into the Pentagon or anything. I just peeked." She turned back to Sirreth, her voice softening again. "I wanted to understand. That's all."
Sirreth's gaze lingered on her, unreadable, before dropping to the package in her hands. He reached for it slowly, his movements conscious, his fingers brushing the edges of the wrapping paper.
"I figured you might need this," she said, her tone lighter but still tinged with sincerity. "Open it."
He peeled back the paper carefully, revealing a simple leather-bound journal. The scent of fresh leather rose faintly, grounding.
"It's for writing stuff down," Alma explained quickly, leaning closer. "Thoughts, feelings, memories, whatever you've got going on in that mysterious head of yours. Or you can doodle stick figures. No judgment."
Sirreth ran his fingers lightly over the smooth cover, his expression unreadable. The hum in his chest stirred faintly, its rhythm steady but subdued, as though it were watching.
"It's probably dumb," Alma added, her voice quieter. "But I thought... maybe it'd help. Give you a way to get things out without having to actually say them. Since, you know, you're not exactly Chatty McChatface."
Aleksandr groaned, rubbing his temples. "Alma, enough—"
"Let me finish," she snapped, her green eyes flashing before softening as she turned back to Sirreth. "I just want you to have something that's yours. That helps. That's all."
Sirreth traced the edges of the journal, his fingers trembling slightly. He didn't speak, didn't offer any clear reaction, but his grip on the journal tightened faintly.
Alma's grin returned, though it was softer this time. "See? Told you he'd like it."
Aleksandr muttered something under his breath but didn't argue further.
"Okay," Alma said, leaning closer with her usual energy. "Here's the deal: I want to see at least one page written by the time I come back. Got it?"
Sirreth blinked at her, his gaze slow and detached, but he gave the faintest of nods.
"I'll take that as a yes," Alma declared triumphantly, hopping off the bed. "Catch you later, Sirree. Don't slack off!"
Her footsteps echoed down the hallway, leaving Aleksandr to glance awkwardly at Sirreth. He opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better of it, turning and leaving without another word.
The room fell silent again. Sirreth stared at the journal in his lap, the hum in his chest vibrating faintly. The blank pages felt heavy with expectation, but for now, he simply held it, tracing the edges with quiet fingers.
—
LAST EDITED:09/12/2024