AELIA REVA
When he finally speaks, his voice is low, thickened by the years he's carried this.
"I was eight," he says slowly, as if pulling the memory from a locked chest. "And you were just four. We were in our room, remember? You had those little wooden blocks you loved stacking, and I was trying to teach you to build a tower taller than you."
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to reach for that image, for the faint scraps of a memory that have blurred with time. My chest aches.
Elias exhales, steadying himself. "That's when I heard it, shouting and screaming. Loud enough to rattle the walls. At first, I thought maybe it was the neighbors arguing again, but then.." He swallows, his jaw tightening. "Then the door burst open, and Mom and Dad came rushing in. Their faces… Aelia, they were scared. I had never seen them like that before."
