He sat cross-legged in the grass, picking petals from some nameless flower.
He looked up at me with that same tired smile.
"Cass," he said. "You finally woke up."
I blinked.
My chest ached just seeing him.
But I smiled back—because I had no choice.
He patted the ground next to him. "Come on. Sit with me."
So I did.
For a while, we just watched the clouds.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't died.
Like I wasn't broken.
I leaned my head against his shoulder.
Then he whispered, almost too soft to hear:
"Do you think you'll ever forgive yourself?"
I turned to look at him—
But his smile was wrong now.
Too wide.
Blood at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes had gone glassy.
Unblinking.
The wind picked up. But it wasn't warm anymore.
It howled.
He kept smiling.
Petals fell from his hand—blackened, curling like ash.
"Cass," he said again—
"Wake up."
I snapped awake in a frenzy, eyes darting, chest tight. It was dark—only candlelight.
Two girls stood above me—young, maybe my age.
They looked concerned.
Curious.
Saying something I didn't understand in that foreign, laced tongue.
It was starting to wear on me—I couldn't understand anything anymore.
No control. No voice.
I turned back to the hay and buried my face in it.
I wanted it to be a dream.
But it wasn't.
This was my reality.
And it was still worse than any nightmare.
Then I heard rustling all around me.
People—primarily women—started waking up and moving like clockwork.
Quiet. Focused.
Getting dressed. Brushing straw from their skin.
This was their life.
Wake up. Work. Sleep.
A never-ending cycle of dull torment.
The two girls from before returned to my side.
They tried to lift me, tugging under my arms with all their strength.
I watched them struggle.
And that was enough to make me try.
I pulled myself up—slowly, shaking.
It felt like my legs had never worked before.
Like I'd spent my whole life paralyzed and was only just remembering how to move.
I managed to stand.
Then, I collapsed to my knees again.
The girls looked at me, worried.
Hands fluttering. Words I couldn't understand spilling from their mouths.
Why did they care?
They didn't know me.
To them, I was just another filthy boy with no name and no worth.
Still—
I couldn't let their effort be wasted.
So I tried again.
I pushed with everything I had.
This time, their arms lifted with mine.
Together, we made it to my feet.
They helped me toward the stairs.
My legs were numb. But they moved.
Barely.
Only if I had the strength of Luca.
We took a left up the stairs while everyone else filed right toward the main entrance.
They brought me into a room—it looked like some kind of laundry area.
There were no machines, just water pumps and old metal washboards lined up along wooden basins. A door with a small window led outside, probably to dry the clothes.
They sat me down on one of the many worn wooden stools.
Across from me were two leaning towers: one of folded, sewn clothes—clean—and the other overflowing with dirty rags and sweat-stained fabric.
The girls glanced around, whispering to each other.
Occasionally, one looked at me and said something I didn't understand.
Even if they were talking to me, it didn't matter.
I wouldn't get it anyway.
Then, they tossed two sets of clothes into my lap.
And stared.
Back and forth—my eyes, the clothes, then back again.
Clearly, they wanted me to change.
I scratched my head, confused.
Do they really want me to do it right here?
I pointed at the clothes, then at myself like an idiot caveman.
They nodded.
I sighed. Tried to stand—
Stumbled.
They each grabbed one of my arms and pulled me upright without hesitation.
With the clean clothes still in my hands, I stood there… waiting.
Hoping they'd leave.
They didn't.
They just stood beside me like it was no big deal.
So I started undressing.
I pulled off my shirt, blinking as it passed over my eyes.
When I could see again, they whispered and snickered behind their hands.
Great.
I stood there—bare-chested, nervous, humiliated.
Strangers. Foreigners. Witnesses to what felt like the last shred of dignity I had left.
I didn't want to keep going.
But what choice did I have?
I removed my pants and clumsily stepped into the new ones, wobbling like a half-dead animal.
They held me up the whole time.
No judgment. Just casual care.
Still… it felt like they were my nurses.
Like I was a patient in some war hospital.
And this was just the beginning.
I could only imagine how Luca would've laughed about it for days if he'd seen me—
Wobbling around, half-dressed, with strangers holding me upright.
He would've teased me non-stop.
And I would've let him.
The two girls stayed close, showing me their routine.
They gestured, pointed, and pantomimed tasks until I could mimic them.
It was hard.
I could only learn through movements and trial, like a mute child trying to learn the world.
I caught glimpses—glass reflections, doorways—
Of others watching.
I heard the whispers.
About me.
The Stillkin.
It was constant, like flies buzzing in my ears.
But these two…
They were different.
They treated me like I was real.
Not a freak. Not a burden.
At least around them, I was still human.
I followed the pair around for a few months, learning everything I could.
The nightmares began to fade.
It felt like the past no longer mattered—because no matter how much I replayed it, nothing would ever change.
But the present?
That was still mine to shape.
I clung to the two girls like glue.
They tried to teach me their language.
It wasn't just hard—it was impossible at first.
I couldn't read or write it.
Their script was nothing like anything I'd seen before—primitive and refined all at once, curved and jagged like something grown from the earth.