That night, Tomas crawled closer in the shack, his thin body trembling, his eyes wide in the dark. He whispered, barely audible: "Why didn't you fight him?"
Kael's chest heaved. Inside, his voice was bitter, raw. "Because I'm a coward. Because fighting would kill us both."
I answered for him, softly but firm: "Because fighting the wrong way means nothing. Endurance is its own fight. Living is defiance."
Tomas blinked, confusion clouding his face. "Living?"
"Yes." I turned his—our—eyes to the cracks in the roof, where faint stars glimmered beyond. "Every breath you take is a rebellion. Every day you survive is another chance to see the world beyond these walls."
The boy's lips parted. For a moment, hope flickered across his face, faint but real.
Kael felt it. The warmth of it. And for the first time, his despair trembled under something else—responsibility.
Tomas whispered again, quieter this time: "Then I'll keep breathing. If you do."
Kael's chest ached. His throat burned. But he nodded, a single tear sliding down his dirt-streaked face.
The rope still waited in the corner. But tonight, it seemed farther away than before.