The absence of her beloved father fell upon Maria like a hammer, and her body gave way. She collapsed, yet her brother darted forward, quick as though driven by some desperate instinct, and caught her before her fragile frame struck the floor. His eyes, wide, red-rimmed, could scarcely comprehend what he was holding: his sister, limp as a broken doll. Only as he staggered back into the hallway did he notice—half-hidden in the corner like a discarded nightmare—the corpse of a shadow, blackened and shriveled.
And then the tears came.
He wept for his father, now swallowed by darkness; for his sister, slipping into silence; and for himself—for in that same instant he knew, or believed, that he had lost them both. His mouth hung half-open, his hair falling over his eyes like a crown of thorns, and his chest shook with sobs.
Their mother, Matilda, entered then—her face a pale mask of horror, of disbelief, but also of something else, something stronger than both their griefs combined. For a mother's love, when wounded, becomes unbearable. And now she had lost not only her lover but also, perhaps, her daughter. She knelt, trembling, pressing trembling hands to Maria's chest—and there, faint but undeniable, the heart still beat. Weakly, hopelessly, but it beat. Maria had not died, but had sunk into the dark waters of coma.
Matilda—doctor, widow, mother—hardened herself at once. She would not lose her daughter too. She would not.
Edward, however, did not share her composure. He collapsed in shame. His mind turned inward, gnawing itself with accusations. His father had gone down with two shadows, savage and glorious, while he… he had run. Coward. Worthless. Worse still, his sister—his gentle sister!—had managed to slay one of those monstrosities herself, a kitchen knife in hand, without hesitation. And he? He had thrown her—thrown her!—the last gift of their father, like some frightened errand-boy.
His thoughts coiled until they strangled him.
And then—
A kick. A sharp smack across his face.
He staggered back, stunned, eyes wild.
"Mom! What's wrong with you? Why are you beating me?"
Matilda stood before him, hands trembling, but her face wore an innocent, almost embarrassed expression—as though she herself could not explain it.
"Sorry, son," she said quietly. "I just… I just missed your father. And I thought of what he would do if he were here."
Edward blinked. "Beat me?"
Matilda gave a strange, fragile laugh. "No… perhaps. Maybe." She paused, then added with an almost tragic smile, "That was his way of comforting people."
Edward stared. He imagined, with a kind of horrified absurdity, his father going to funerals—yes, funerals!—just to "comfort" people with his fists.
"Mom… did he ever comfort you?" he asked.
"Of course," she replied, arching a brow. "I'd have divorced him long ago if he tried."
For the first time since the nightmare began, a chuckle escaped Edward. It was dry, broken, almost insane, but it was laughter. He quickly stopped, however, the weight of his own uselessness pressing him down again.
Matilda looked at him with a glimmer in her eyes—sadness, yes, but also mischief, fleeting as a candle's flicker. She masked it quickly.
"I still remember," she said, almost fondly, "when he beat your Uncle Charles senseless. It was at your grandparents' funeral, God rest their souls. They were such a loving couple, you know. Charles came to me, crying, desperate for comfort. That night he sobbed until he fell asleep hugging me, he was very you g back then . And your father? Oh, he nearly broke him in half."
Edward, half-laughing, half-crying, whispered: "Maybe you should have beaten him too, Mom."
"Yes," she said, suddenly serious, "I should have."
"Thanks, Mom," Edward murmured, feeling—for just a moment—something like warmth.
But then, piercing the fragile absurdity like a dagger—
A scream.
It tore through the house, sharp and terrible.
From Maria's room.