The aroma of warm toast and scrambled eggs filled the small kitchen, a comforting scent that slowly, gently, began to replace the lingering metallic tang of fear in Owen's senses. Faith had silently handed him a plate, her movements efficient and unobtrusive.
He ate ravenously, the food a welcome solidity after the chaos of the past days. She sat across from him at a small, cluttered table, sipping from a mug, her gaze calm and steady. The initial awkwardness still hummed in the air, a faint echo, but it was gradually being displaced by something else – a fragile sense of understanding, a quiet invitation to trust.
As he finished the last bite, Owen found himself speaking, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. He told her everything.
He spoke of his nightmares, how they had started as vague, shadowy figures, then sharpened into vivid, terrifying encounters. He described the voices, the relentless whispers and mocking laughter that had plagued him for months, slowly eroding his sanity.
He detailed the growing sense of dread, the feeling of an abyss constantly threatening to swallow him whole. Faith listened, her expression unreadable, yet attentive. She didn't interrupt, didn't offer facile reassurances. She simply listened.
"And then," Owen said, his voice dropping, a shiver running down his spine despite the warmth of the food in his belly, "it wasn't just in my head anymore." He looked at her, his eyes wide and earnest, searching for any sign of disbelief. "I... I actually saw one of them. In my room."
He paused, recalling the horrifying clarity of that night. "It was late, deep in the night. I'd woken up from a particularly bad dream, soaked in sweat. And then, I saw it. Just standing there, in the corner of my room, where the shadows were deepest."
He gestured vaguely, still seeing the image in his mind's eye. "It wasn't... solid. Like a shadow given form. Tall, too tall, with long, thin limbs that seemed to stretch and distort. And its eyes..." He shuddered. "Just black, empty pits. It radiated cold, a terrible, suffocating cold."
Faith leaned forward slightly, her quiet intensity drawing him further into the narrative. "What happened?" she prompted softly.
"It started moving," Owen continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Towards me. Slowly at first, like it was relishing my fear. I couldn't move. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. It just kept coming, closer and closer."
He clenched his fists under the table, the old terror momentarily resurfacing. "It reached out a hand, its fingers long and skeletal, like it was going to grab me. And I thought... that was it. I was going to die."
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. "But then... before it could even touch me, something happened.
From my hand." He held up his right hand, unconsciously repeating the gesture he'd made in the bathroom. "There was this heat, this intense warmth. And then, a flame. Red and black, like nothing I've ever seen. It just... erupted from my palm."
Owen's gaze met Faith's, a silent plea for understanding. "It didn't burn me, though. It just flared up, fiercely. And when it hit the creature... it screamed. Not a human scream, but something... unnatural. Like tearing metal. And it just... burned. Violently.
Like it was made of paper and the flame was pure fire. It didn't even touch me, the creature. It just burned up, disintegrated into smoke, and then it was gone. And the flame in my hand vanished too." He looked down at his empty palm again, a mixture of awe and fear in his expression. "I thought I was going crazy then. I knew I was."
Faith nodded slowly, her eyes thoughtful. She didn't dismiss his experience, didn't try to rationalize it away as a hallucination or a fever dream.
This silent acceptance, this lack of judgment, was a balm to Owen's raw nerves. He had expected ridicule, pity, or alarm. Instead, he found only a quiet understanding.
Emboldened by her composure, he continued to speak, delving deeper into the psychological torment he'd endured. He spoke of his mother, Sophia, not directly accusing her, but recounting instances of her icy disdain, her subtle cruelties, the way she seemed to feed on his misery. He described Michael's obliviousness, Lucy's shift from sweet innocence to a venomous echo of their mother. He painted a picture of a home that was a gilded cage, a place where he was slowly, meticulously, being dismantled from the inside out.
"It felt like they were... dragging me down," Owen confessed, his voice barely audible. "Especially lately. Like they were trying to break me. And the nightmares... they just made it worse. They felt so real, like they were getting ready to cross over. And when that thing appeared in my room, I knew it wasn't just a dream anymore."
He looked away, the humiliation of his breakdown still fresh. "I just... I ran. I had to get away."
Faith listened, her gaze unwavering. She didn't offer advice, didn't preach. She just absorbed his words, her silence more comforting than any platitude. She saw the raw vulnerability in him, the deep scars left by years of subtle abuse. She also saw the flicker of something else – resilience, and an untapped power that he barely understood.
They spoke for hours. The morning light softened into the golden hues of afternoon, then deepened into the long shadows of evening.
Owen found himself talking about things he had never dared to voice, feelings he had buried so deep he'd almost forgotten they existed.
Faith, in turn, offered small, carefully chosen insights, sometimes just a quiet question that prompted him to elaborate, sometimes a statement that showed she had grasped the deeper meaning of his fragmented narratives. She didn't talk much about herself, maintaining her air of quiet mystery, but her presence was a steady, grounding force.
He learned small things about her, deduced from the sparse details of her home: she liked old books, evidenced by the overflowing shelves; she was meticulous with her technology, her laptop a sleek, well-maintained machine; she valued her privacy, the curtains always drawn, the apartment feeling like a hidden sanctuary. She was an anomaly, a calm in his personal storm, and he found himself strangely drawn to her quiet strength.
The sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting the room in deepening twilight. The city lights began to twinkle outside the window, a distant, unfamiliar glitter. Owen realized with a jolt that hours had passed. He had lost track of time, absorbed in the sheer relief of being heard, of not being judged. The sense of being utterly alone, of fighting a battle no one else could see, had finally begun to recede.
"I... I should probably go," Owen said, though the words felt hollow. The thought of returning to his own house, to the suffocating atmosphere and the silent condemnation, filled him with a fresh wave of dread. But he couldn't impose on her indefinitely.
Faith didn't immediately respond.
She looked out the window for a moment, at the deepening purple of the sky, then turned back to him. Her eyes, in the fading light, seemed even more profound, holding a secret knowledge he couldn't fathom.
"It's late," she finally said, her voice a soft murmur. "You can stay here tonight. On the sofa." She gestured to the familiar cushions, the very spot where he had first awakened. "We can talk more in the morning."
Owen stared at her, relief and a potent sense of gratitude washing over him. The offer was simple, unadorned, but it meant everything. It was an acknowledgment that he wasn't okay, that he needed more time, more space, more of this inexplicable sanctuary she offered. He saw no pity in her eyes, only a quiet, firm understanding.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, Faith."
She simply gave him that small, knowing smile again, a subtle curve of her lips that held more than words ever could. The quiet continued, but it was no longer heavy with awkwardness. It was a shared silence, comfortable and full of unspoken possibilities.