The warm late-afternoon light streamed through the kitchen window, bathing the room in an amber glow. The scent of dinner still lingered in the air, a comforting blend of spices and something homemade that Thalya had managed to prepare. Seina was drying the last plate, feeling a strange and wonderful sense of normalcy. It was a different kind of silence than any she had known before; it wasn't empty—it was filled with the simple presence of Thalya, who was putting the containers away in the refrigerator.
"That history teacher should get paid to put people to sleep," Thalya commented, breaking the peaceful quiet. "I swear I almost fell off my chair today."
Seina laughed, a genuine, light sound that echoed through the kitchen. "At least you tried. I spent the whole class doodling in my notebook. I think I drew a three-headed monster."
"It's an improved version of him." Thalya closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, watching Seina. There was a sense of peace in her features, something she had rarely seen in Seina before they started living under the same roof—even if only temporarily.
When they were done, they moved to the living room. Thalya turned on the old radio sitting on the shelf, tuning it to some random station playing a soft, old melody. It was a love song from a time that wasn't theirs. Seina let herself fall onto the couch, pulling her feet up and wrapping her arms around them. She looked around at the clean, slightly empty room, and her expression softened with distant nostalgia.
"Sometimes I remember when I was little," she said, her voice low, almost whispering, as if confessing a secret to the twilight. "My parents used to laugh. My dad would lift me up so I could reach the high shelves. My mom baked chocolate cake." She paused, and a sad smile touched her lips. "It feels like someone else's movie."
Thalya didn't respond immediately. She turned off the radio, plunging the room into a sudden, solemn silence. She sat down on the floor in front of Seina, leaning her back against the couch.
"I remember too," Thalya said softly, though her voice carried weight. "Just like that. Like a movie. My mother used to sing. Opera. Even in the kitchen, washing dishes. Her voice filled this whole house." She closed her eyes for a second, as if she could still hear it. "And my dad… he was always getting in her way while she was doing chores, pulling her into some random dance even though he had no rhythm at all. This living room used to be so loud."
Seina stayed silent, allowing Thalya's words to paint the picture of a life that had been torn away from her. It was a different kind of pain from her own, but it echoed the same sense of loss.
"And… after that?" Seina asked, her voice barely above a whisper, careful in a way that almost hurt. "What was it like… having to take care of yourself?"
Thalya opened her eyes and stared at a blank spot on the wall. Her expression wasn't one of sadness, but of deep, weary acceptance.
"At first, it was instinct. I ate whatever was in the fridge and pantry until it ran out." She shrugged, as if she were talking about the weather. "After that… you could say hunger is a fast teacher. The houses nearby… they were all empty. Full of things. Food, clothes… money forgotten in drawers." She paused, and Seina could almost see the frightened child she had been, rummaging through other people's homes. "I went in. Took what I needed. It was scary, but it was that or…"
She didn't need to finish the sentence.
"Over time," Thalya continued, her voice taking on a practical coldness, "I realized I could do more than just take what I needed. Sometimes people would come… distant relatives, curious strangers. I told them my family was traveling… and that I could rent out the neighbors' houses for a good price." She finally looked at Seina, her violet eyes vulnerable but without regret. "I learned how to lie. How to manage the keys. The rent money paid the bills, bought food… kept me invisible. That's how I raised myself. Lying and hiding."
The confession lingered in the air, heavy and raw. It wasn't a story of self-pity; it was a story of survival. Seina didn't see a victim. She saw a warrior. Without thinking, she reached out and gently placed her hand over Thalya's, which rested on the couch.
Thalya looked at Seina's hand over hers, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand and intertwined their fingers in a gesture of silent need.
"You're not hiding anymore," Seina whispered. "And you're not alone."
Thalya didn't respond with words. She simply squeezed Seina's hand a little tighter, her eyes confirming what her voice couldn't say.
They stayed like that for a long moment, until the silence stopped being heavy and became just company. Thalya let go of Seina's hand and stood up.
"I'll make some tea," she said, her voice slightly hoarse. "Chamomile is good for sleeping. Want some?"
Seina simply nodded, watching Thalya return to the kitchen. The living room looked the same, but the air felt different. The painful memories hadn't disappeared, but for the first time, they weren't trapped inside just one person. They had been shared. And Seina realized that sharing that weight was the first real step toward making it lighter.