The house sighed again, quieter this time, but the sound pressed against the walls, seeping into corners where light refused to go. Shadows pooled and curled, sticky and silent, stretching like dark water across the worn wooden floor. Olivèr pressed himself closer to his mother, the tremor in his chest a soft, uneven drumbeat. His fingers gripped the fabric of her coat as if it could anchor the walls, the air, the world itself. The cup on the table wobbled, a timid alarm, and he squeaked, flinching, eyes wide.
"Don't touch it," his mother whispered, brushing back his damp hair. Her fingers lingered a moment, gentle and deliberate, a soft shield against the small chaos around them. "It's okay. It's fine."
"I… I just…" His voice broke, swallowed by the tightness in his throat. He tugged at her sleeve, seeking warmth, a certainty he could not name.
"You're okay," she said softly, kneeling to meet his gaze. Her smile was small but steady, an anchor. Her thumb brushed his cheek, grounding him. "You're safe with me. Always."
Olivèr nodded, fighting the tremor in his knees. He tried to straighten, to feel brave, but his body quivered under its own weight.
"I'm going to check the kitchen," she said, voice low and careful, not a command, not a question, only a statement meant to tether him.
He whimpered, tugging again. "Can… can I come?"
"Not yet, sweetheart," she replied, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingers. "Stay here. I'll be back in a tick. I promise."
He slumped on the couch, hugging his knees, eyes fixed on her retreating form. Each careful step she took reminded him of impermanence, absence. His chest tightened.
Minutes stretched, heavy and slow. He bounced one leg, then the other, muttering under his breath. "What if they come back…? What if the paper talks to me again?" His voice cracked, too soft for the room, too loud for his own ears.
When she returned, a folded piece of paper rested in her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly as she crouched beside him, careful not to loom, careful to make him feel small, protected.
"Look what came through," she said, unfolding the paper slowly, letting him see first.
Olivèr's hand hovered, wide-eyed. "It… it's just paper," he whispered, voice shaking. "Right?"
"For now," she said, thumb brushing his hand. "But it's… special. You'll see."
He pressed his palm against it. Cold. Smooth. Ordinary. But a faint tremor beneath his fingers made him pull back, squeaking.
A small, nervous laugh escaped her. "Careful, silly goose. Don't squish it." She leaned closer, whispering into his ear. Heat pooled in his chest, softening fear without erasing it.
The letters wriggled faintly. Olivèr yelped, clutching her arm.
"…Olivèr…" The voice inside his head was soft, coaxing, impossibly small.
"It's okay, little one," she murmured, stroking his hair. "It's just trying to talk. Don't be scared. You're with me."
He peered through his fingers, eyes huge. The letters rearranged themselves: Answer.
"Answer what?" His voice trembled.
She took his hand, pressing it briefly to her cheek. "Not everything can be answered now," she said softly. "But we'll face it together. Always together."
He blinked rapidly, nodded, and hugged her shoulder. "I… I don't like it. It's… too loud in my head," he whispered.
"I know, sweet pea," she whispered, rocking him. "I know. But I'm here. I've got you."
The letters shifted again: Do you remember what is lost?
Olivèr flinched, fingers digging into her coat. "I… I don't…"
"You do," she said firmly, brushing back his hair and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'll help you remember when the time comes. For now, just breathe."
He hiccupped and sniffled, pressing closer. Her heartbeat steadied him.
"We need to go," she murmured, lifting him gently by the waist. His legs dangled, wrapped tight around her neck, arms clinging.
Outside, the gray sky pressed down, curling and heavy. Alleys smelled of wet stone and metal. Shadows leaned, watching. Olivèr clung, eyes darting, lips trembling.
"Mom… are we being followed?" he whispered.
"Maybe," she said softly, kissing the top of his head. "But I've got you. Nothing will happen to you."
A faint vibration ran beneath their feet. He shivered, rigid. She hummed quietly, rocking him, soft lullaby just for him. "Feel that? That's nothing bad. Just… just the world talking. I'm here. Always."
A shadow flickered, fluid. He squeaked, hugged tighter.
"Shh, little one," she whispered. "Step by step. Quiet."
The courtyard loomed: high concrete walls, broken windows like blank eyes. His legs dangled, arms clinging.
"Almost there," she murmured, bending to kiss his hair, whispering nonsense syllables that coaxed a tiny giggle.
Metal clanged behind them. He yelped. "Mom! It's—"
"Shh!" She bolted, holding him as if he weighed nothing. Chest heaving together, he giggled, half-terrified, half-delighted.
They reached the spiral staircase at the alley's end. She led, helped him down, hand clasped tight, legs bouncing.
Inside, damp stone and old wood enveloped them. Darkness was partial, shapes dim—furniture, maps. He released her neck briefly, knelt to hug her knees, peeking cautiously.
A figure emerged: tall, thin, draped in dark fabric. Face hidden. Voice low. Echoing.
Olivèr shrank, arms clinging to her waist. "Mom… it's scary," he whispered.
"I know, sweet pea," she said softly, crouching beside him. "But we're together. Always together. We'll be brave, little one." She stroked his hair, kissed his cheek.
"He remembers," the figure said softly.
Olivèr shook his head. "I… I don't remember… everything."
"You will, little one," she whispered, pressing him closer, rocking him. "Step by step, one step at a time."
The hum returned, faint, pressing into his ears. He whimpered, hugging her, knees bouncing against her stomach.
"Shh… breathe," she murmured. "I've got you. We'll be fine."
The air seemed to twist, walls bending closer. He squeaked, flailing slightly, arms clinging.
Answer, the figure intoned.
Olivèr's legs kicked, frantic, but he felt a pulse beneath his feet—an unfamiliar rhythm, a first beat of something he could not yet name. He looked at his mother, wide-eyed.
"Mom… what is it?"
She hugged him tight, whispering nonsense syllables, kissing his forehead repeatedly. "It's nothing you can't handle, sweet pea. Nothing you can't handle. We're together. Always together."
The first chord sounded. Olivèr, small, trembling, utterly childlike, clung to her. The symphony of despair unfolded around them, shadows echoing, rhythm pulsing, notes whispering in the spaces he could barely feel.
And in that moment, he knew one thing: as long as his mother held him, the music could not break him.
****************
The walls seemed to breathe, the room expanding with each note. His mother shifted slightly, carrying him closer to the far corner where the faintest light bled through cracks in the ceiling. He buried his face in her shoulder, tiny hands clinging as the melody moved through them, shaking the air and their bones alike.
"Mom… is it… alive?" His whisper quivered.
"No," she murmured, rocking him, fingers tracing his back through layers of shirt and coat. "Not alive. Just… waiting. Listening."
He exhaled, trembling, and leaned into her warmth. The sound folded around him like a wave, pressing yet protective. He wanted to cry, laugh, hide, shout—all at once—but the words got caught in his throat.
She hummed under her breath, low and soft, the rhythm syncing with his heartbeat. Her eyes scanned the darkened room, alert, calculating, measuring every shadow.
"Do you feel it?" she whispered, pressing a hand to his chest, letting him feel her pulse. "It's… nothing you need to fight right now."
He nodded, small lips pressing against her sleeve. The letters shifted again, faintly shimmering, rearranging slowly: Listen.
"Listen?" His voice was tiny.
"Yes. Listen," she said. "Just… listen. Nothing more."
He tried. He opened his ears to the subtle vibrations: the scrape of old wood, the faint hum of distant machines, the pulse beneath the floor. Each sound felt alive, threatening, yet curiously comforting in its constancy.
Minutes stretched. Shadows moved, shifted. The figure lingered, silent, observing. Olivèr peeked, curiosity overcoming fear, eyes flicking between his mother and the cloaked presence.
"Who… who is that?" he whispered.
"Someone… who wants answers," she said, soft but firm. "Nothing more."
He wriggled in her arms, small hands clutching hers. "Are… they scary?"
"No," she said, brushing hair from his eyes. "Just… serious. They have work to do. We… have to be patient. Like the music."
The faint tremor in the paper beneath his palm shifted again. Letters spelled: Do you remember the light?
He froze. Small fingers dug into her coat. "I… I don't…"
"You do," she whispered. "I promise. Step by step. One step at a time." She pressed her lips to his forehead again. "I'm here. Always."
He hiccupped, sniffling, leaning further into her warmth. The figure stepped back slightly, almost imperceptibly, letting the space between them breathe.
Outside, rain began to patter, tiny drumming on distant rooftops, distant metal. The sound wove into the symphony, adding another layer of rhythm. Olivèr's small body shivered—not entirely from cold, but from tension, wonder, and fear mingling together.
"Mom…" he whispered. "Will… will it… hurt me?"
"No, sweet pea," she said firmly, holding him close. "Only the world around us. But we… we are safe. Here. Now."
The letters trembled one last time before going still. The figure's presence lingered like a shadow at the edge of vision, patient, waiting, watching.
Olivèr blinked, pressed against his mother's shoulder, breathing in her scent, listening to the faint pulse of her heartbeat. Though the room was fractured by shadows and music, though the world outside pressed with a thousand dangers, he felt a fragile, trembling peace.
And in that broken silence, he learned something new: that even when the world whispered despair, even when fear pressed from all sides, there was a small corner where he could be safe, held, and heard.
The symphony continued—echoing in walls, in shadows, in the pulse beneath their feet—but within that trembling heart, Olivèr discovered that some chords could not reach him, not while his mother held him.
Step by step. One note at a time.
Always together.