Бесплатный фрагмент - Where Broken Seeds Grow

Prologue: Between Worlds

Every ending carries its beginning

Like seeds hidden in winter soil—

Dark, dormant, waiting

For the light that breaks everything open.

Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Breathe.

Daniel carved through the murky lake, pushing ahead through the crush of neoprene-clad bodies. Three-quarters into the swim leg of Victoria IRONMAN, his rhythm remained unbroken — each stroke a testament to the machine he’d built. The world narrowed to the thrum of his heartbeat, the lactic burn in his shoulders, the faint brine of Vaseline mingling with the lake’s decaying silt.

Stroke. Breathe. Stroke—

Pain. White-hot and electric.

It erupted in the center of his chest, a supernova radiating down his left arm, numbing his fingers.

He gasped, swallowing a mouthful of algae and diesel-tainted water. His right arm seized mid-stroke, muscles locking like rusted hinges.

Not now. Not here. Just keep moving.

His body had already begun to sink. The sky above collapsed into pitch darkness. All surface sounds faded. The bubbles carried away his last breath. The cold embraced him.

Then silence. A perfect, crystalline silence that wrapped around him like a blanket.

Time shattered — and in that crystalline stillness, he saw his brother laughing. Sunlight caught in his curly hair as they ran circles around their grandmother’s garden. The smell of fresh-cut soil. Something so simple it hurt.

The memory fractured, splintering into rapid-fire images:

His mother in her faded pink robe, humming tunelessly while sorting bills at the kitchen table, her fingers trembling as she decided which could wait another week.

Financial charts cascaded like toxic waterfalls across his laptop screen — green spikes and red candles — numbers that had once represented salvation now meaningless hieroglyphics.

«You wanted to be a gardener,» Sam whispered from somewhere far away.

The bedroom — dust motes floating in light slanting through a cracked window. A torn poetry journal, pages curling like autumn leaves. Fragile green seedlings stretched timidly toward light on the windowsill.

The sound of a shutter.

The images accelerated, then slowed abruptly, coalescing into a single, vivid memory:

Daniel was twelve, Sam was ten. They knelt beside their grandmother in dark, rich soil. Her arthritis-twisted hands demonstrated honest, decent work.

«Gently,» their grandmother instructed. «Life is fragile at the beginning.»

«Like this?» Sam asked, carefully, his fingernails already black with dirt.

«Perfect,» Grandma said. «They need room to stretch.»

Daniel’s fingers mimicked their movements. The soil was cool and damp, earthy-sweet, alive with promise. He pressed a seed into each hollow, covering it gently.

«Roots grow down before anything grows up,» Sam said, repeating Grandma’s wisdom.

«That’s right, Samuel. Good work!»

Daniel smiled — at peace. He was free.

The garden began to darken. The grass beneath his knees hardened into synthetic turf. Flowers withered, replaced by digital approximations — too perfect, too static. Soil under his fingernails dissolved.

He inhaled the scent of fresh-cut grass, tried to hold its moment, but it slipped away. One final memory of being small. Safe. Whole.

Light bloomed from the center of everything, washing out the colors, the shapes, even the memory itself.

And then darkness.

And then light.

And then, the beginning.

The Noise We Choose Not to Hear

The house breathes with borrowed time,

Each room a chamber of the heart

That forgot how to beat in rhythm

With anything but survival.

The digital clock blinked, «5:17 a.m.» as Daniel slipped out of bed, the familiar weight of fatigue dragging at his limbs. The cold floorboards nipped at his soles like teeth. His bedroom held little more than a single bed, a desk, and a narrow window framing Astoria’s predawn darkness. Outside, the bridge dissolved into the morning mist, an escape route he could see — but never take. Inside, the constant highway hum throbbed through the floorboards — a persistent, maddening drone that nobody else seemed to notice anymore.

Daniel loved mornings like this — when the house hadn’t yet woken into chaos. When he could breathe. The porch light blinked slowly two streets over. The soft pulse of the river brushed against dock pilings. Somewhere in that hush, he sensed the edge of something just out of reach — a peace he could see but never quite hold.

He moved through the dim kitchen with the efficiency of long habit. Oatmeal with apples — cheap but filling. The scent of overcooked oats blurred into the buttery haze of microwave popcorn. A flash — Sam’s laughter, the crunch of cheese puffs, controllers clicking faster than the game could keep up. The hum of the console, the world outside completely forgotten.

The present snapped back when the spoon’s clatter rang too loud. He paused, listening. A faucet dripped. Sam’s snores rumbled. A neighbor’s dog barked. He glanced at the mail hidden behind the flour canister — three red «FINAL NOTICE» envelopes his mother couldn’t see. Not yet. Not today. One envelope had nearly slipped into the trash last week — a university letter. His mother claimed she’d thought it was a scam. «They trick people with fake scholarships now,» she’d said, eyes too wide. Daniel didn’t press. He never did.

International Women’s Day. He’d seen it on the calendar at the library yesterday. The thought sparked an idea, and he surveyed the living room with its accumulation of dirty dishes, scattered newspapers, and the residue of his brother’s late-night cereal binge. A clean house — that was something he could give her. Something to lift the perpetual cloud that hung over her face these days.

As Daniel wiped down counters and gathered stray socks, the highway’s drone seemed to intensify with the lightening sky. Funny how you could live with a sound so long you stopped hearing it — until suddenly it vibrated in your bones. Like arguments that shook these walls. Like Sam’s episodes. Like Mom’s crying, muffled behind doors.

As he worked, he spotted Sam’s poetry journal peeking out from under the table — its cover worn, pages dog-eared. His brother’s one outlet, filled with verses nobody was allowed to read. For a heartbeat, he smelled artificial cheese dust and saw the controller’s cracked buttons.

He was arranging the last of the clean dishes when he heard the bathroom door close. His mother’s shuffling steps moved down the hallway, followed by the sound of running water.

«Danny?» Her voice, sleep-thickened, carried surprise. «What are you doing up so early?»

Dolores Mercer stood in the doorway in her faded pink bathrobe, hair uncombed, eyes puffy. At fifty-three, she looked a decade older — life had etched itself into the corners of her mouth, the furrows of her brow.

«Happy Women’s Day, Mom.» He gestured to the cleaned kitchen, feeling suddenly foolish.

«I thought I’d… you know.»

Something flickered across her face — a ghost of the smile she used to wear when Daniel was small, before the endless struggle with bills and medications and keeping it all together.

She moved to the coffee maker, hands trembling as she measured out the grounds.

«You didn’t need to do this, you know?»

Daniel kept silent, watching her closely, searching for signs of a good day or a bad one.

«How did you sleep?»

She shrugged, her back to him. «The usual. That highway keeps getting louder, I swear.» She turned, coffee mug clutched between both hands.

«Did you remember to put Sam’s prescription refill on the list? We’ll need it by Friday.»

And there it was — the instant pivot to worry, to the next problem that needed solving. Daniel nodded, swallowing his disappointment.

«Already called it in. You can pick it up this afternoon.»

«He has that lady now, right? At the clinic.» Dolores flapped a hand vaguely, then began wiping down the counter with unnecessary vigor. «They’re working on his moods. Coping skills. Or whatever they call it. But they don’t say ’crazy’ anymore — it’s all «behavioral regulation’ now.»

Her voice carried an edge of sarcasm, but her eyes didn’t meet his.

Daniel hesitated. «Is she a doctor?»

«I don’t know. Maybe. She’s got a clipboard and a soft voice. That’s enough for some people.»

She sipped her coffee, gaze drifting to the window where morning fog receded, revealing the harbor’s gray-blue glint between houses. But Daniel knew she wasn’t seeing the view — she was calculating costs, counting days until the next check, mapping out the endless logistics of survival.

«I hope you find it someday.» Daniel paused.

«Find what?»

«Someone who makes you happy. A partner. Love.»

She barked a laugh — sharp, humorless. «At my age? With this baggage?» She waved vaguely toward Sam’s door. «I’m not holding my breath, Danny.»

Before Daniel could respond, a crash from the bathroom spun them both toward the sound. The medicine cabinet door hung from one hinge, toiletries scattered across the tile floor. Sam stood frozen amid the chaos, toothbrush in hand, his expression a mixture of confusion and defiance.

«It wouldn’t close right,» he said, as if that explained everything.

At twenty-two, Sam was physically imposing — tall and broad-shouldered like their father — but his eyes held the wounded uncertainty of a child. His unwashed hair stuck out at odd angles, and his T-shirt was inside out.

«Jesus Christ, Sam!» Their mother set her coffee down with enough force to slosh liquid over the rim. «That’s the third thing you’ve broken this week!»

Sam’s face darkened. «It was already broken. I just finished the job.»

«Do you have any idea how much these things cost to replace? Any idea at all what I have to do to keep this roof over your head?»

Daniel stepped between them, a familiar position. «I’ll fix it, Mom. The hinge is just loose. I can pick up some screws…»

«That’s not the point! He needs to learn — »

«You’re going to be late for Aunt Marge’s if you don’t start getting ready,» Daniel interrupted, desperate to defuse the situation. «Remember? The Women’s Day supper?»

His mother’s anger seemed to deflate slightly, replaced by a new anxiety.

«Oh God, that’s today? What time is it now?»

«Almost seven. Plenty of time.»

She nodded, rubbing her forehead. «Right. Okay. Sam, please just… just clean up that mess and get dressed. Something nice — not those torn jeans.»

As Dolores retreated to her bedroom, Daniel knelt to help Sam gather the fallen items.

«You don’t have to defend me,» Sam muttered, picking up a bottle of antacids from the floor. «I’m not a child.»

«I know that.»

«No, you don’t. None of you do.» Sam’s fingers closed around a small metal object — the cabinet’s broken hinge pin. He studied it with unexpected focus. «You know what’s funny about hinges, Danny? They’re the weakest point of any door, but without them, the door is useless. Just a slab of wood.»

Daniel paused, struck by the observation.

«People are like that too.» Sam placed the pin carefully on the sink’s edge. «We break at our connection points. But those are also the only places where we can open up.» He looked directly at Daniel. The striking clarity in his gaze reflected a sadness too old for his years.

Daniel busied himself with the fallen toothpaste tubes, offering a faint smile.

By noon, the house had transformed from morning quiet to a hurricane of activity. His mother’s nervous energy had become frantic as she searched for her good earrings, then her phone, then the dessert she’d promised to bring. The phone rang — Aunt Marge’s impatient shrill slicing through the chaos — Dolores snatched it, breathlessly apologizing.

«Danny, can you check if we have enough cash for the bus?» Dolores asked, entering the kitchen clutching an overflowing folder — documents spilling from every pocket. She spread them across the table — bills marked with urgent red stamps, lottery tickets, coupons expired months ago. «I think I put a twenty in here somewhere.»

Daniel watched as she shuffled through the papers, her fingers jittering anxiously. She’d never trusted using a debit card, insisting on paying everything in cash or by money order — her entire financial life contained in this chaotic folder.

«These are past due,» Daniel said quietly, picking up an electricity bill from two months ago.

«Did you pay this?»

«Of course I did,» she snapped, but her eyes darted away. «They just send them twice sometimes. They’re trying to trick people into paying double.»

Daniel bit back a sigh. She genuinely believed these conspiracies, just as she believed her lottery tickets would someday rescue them from this house.

The fourth call from Aunt Marge remained unanswered. Dolores went to the bathroom. When the phone rang a fifth time, Sam finally picked it up, then immediately held it away from his ear as Marge’s voice blared through the speaker.

«We can bring our own food,» Sam announced when she paused for breath. «We bought extra groceries yesterday.»

Daniel winced, already knowing where this was headed.

«No, you don’t need to buy anything. We already have food,» Sam continued stubbornly. «Actually, you could give back that CD — »

The bathroom door flew open, his mother emerging in a cloud of steam and the scent of drugstore perfume. She snatched the phone from Sam.

«We’re FINE, Marge!» she barked into the phone, then covered the receiver.

«What did you say to her?» she hissed at Sam.

Sam shrugged. «Only that she can get her CD back and — »

The house held its breath. Daniel watched his mother’s face fracture — lips trembling, eyes glazing.

«That was a gift!» Her voice ricocheted off the linoleum.

«A gift! You don’t give gifts back!»

«But if she made it for you to enjoy, and you don’t enjoy it — »

«Mom, your heart!» Daniel warned, glancing at her flushed face.

«Daniel, don’t!»

Sam pressed on, oblivious to the danger signs.

«But you always say we should save money and — »

«You are an asshole!» Dolores screamed, her control finally snapping.

«You ungrateful little — »

She swept her arm across the counter, sending a vase of withered roses crashing to the floor. Water splashed across the linoleum, petals scattered like drops of blood. The shattered glass glittered among the debris — a perfect addition to what Dolores called her Garden of Broken Things. It began after their father died. Instead of pulling weeds, she started collecting broken things — chipped teacups from yard sales, cracked pots left on curbs. She’d glue them back together, sloppy with epoxy, then stick them in the dirt like they belonged there: wind chimes made from shattered plates and fishing line, a birdbath cracked down the middle. Once their grandmother’s beloved garden — now an ugly grave of sorrow and grief.

Sam stared at the broken vase, his face folding under emotions he couldn’t process.

«I’m just slow,» he said, his voice suddenly small. «Time always runs out. It’s not my fault.»

Their mother turned away, speaking in artificial cheer into the phone. «We’ll be there in twenty minutes, I promise.»

Daniel stood amid the wreckage, suddenly seeing their house as if from a great distance. Water stains from last winter’s unfixable leak. No savings. Mismatched furniture from curbsides and yard sales. No car. The wall with pencil marks tracking heights until age seven — when measuring stopped. Even the postal service skipped their street half the time.

«Let me help you get your coat, Sam,» Daniel said finally, picking his way through the glass. «You too, Mom. I’ll clean this up when you get back.»

His mother nodded, suddenly looking exhausted. «Thank you, Daniel. I don’t know what we’d do without you.»

The words should have felt good — validation, appreciation. Instead, they settled like stones. Beneath them, the unspoken truth: Always be here. Always fix. Always mediate.

As they gathered coats and keys, Daniel caught sight of the day’s mail he’d brought in earlier — still unopened on the side table. The top envelope bore a university crest he recognized instantly.

Sam’s gaze followed Daniel’s, lingering there a second too long. For a moment — just a moment — his eyes sharpened, as if he understood what it meant. As if he wanted to say something.

«Mom, I can’t find my other shoe,» he muttered, his voice drifting back to its usual aimlessness.

When they finally left, the highway noise revealed its face in the absence of human voices. A constant reminder of the world moving past them. Through the window, the Astoria-Megler Bridge emerged fully from the fog — clean lines spanning the mighty Columbia. Daniel could only see its beginning, not its end. But it was enough to remind him that bridges existed, that there were ways out, that somewhere beyond the constant noise and chaos, there might be silence — and in that silence, peace.

Daniel stood in the living room, the weight of the house — his mother’s fragile health, his brother’s unpredictable mind — pressing down like hands at his throat.

He moved to the table and picked up the envelope, his name embossed in raised black ink.

It wasn’t just a letter — it was a door.

And he was the hinge.

Behind him, the highway whispered through the walls — steady, endless.

Daniel ran his thumb along the sealed flap.

If he opened it, something would break.

He didn’t know whether it would be the family — or himself.

The Weight of Broken Things

Hope is the cruelest inheritance—

It makes prisoners of the desperate,

Teaching them to count bars

As if they were rungs on a ladder.

Daniel stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, one hand on the countertop, the other clutching the tuition invoice. The knife moved rhythmically against the cutting board, each slice of onion releasing a sharp, invisible cloud that stung his eyes. Chop, slide, gather, repeat. The kitchen window revealed only darkness now, evening having crept in as he prepared dinner — another meal for a family that consumed but rarely nourished.

Three days. Just three days until the payment deadline. The thought pulsed in his mind with each cut of the knife, a metronome of anxiety that had been building since the final notice arrived. Three days until his escape route vanished. Three days until the door to another life slammed shut.

Steam rose from the boiling potatoes, fogging a patch of the window. Daniel wiped it clean with his sleeve, catching a glimpse of his reflection — hollow-cheeked, eyes carrying the burden of unmet dreams.

A university. His name on the list. His mind in motion, not captivity.

He saw it in flashes: whiteboards, team projects, sunlight leaking through tall library windows, people who didn’t know his history, who didn’t whisper behind his back or look at him with tired pity.

For a second, it was so real, he felt his chest physically ache.

«Just one more,» he whispered, scraping the onions into the sizzling pan. «One little chance to prove I’m not just… this.»

From the living room, the television blared suddenly louder. His mother’s voice cut through the walls, sharp as vinegar. «Of course he did it! You don’t wait on men to confess, honey. You watch them. They always show you what they are.»

Daniel’s knife paused mid-slice. The venom in her tone — it wasn’t just directed at the detective show character. She was talking about his father again, the ghost who haunted their conversations without ever being named. His jaw tightened as he resumed chopping, a little harder now, the blade hitting the board with staccato precision.

The family came back earlier than expected — Dolores complaining about the cold meat, Sam whispering scripture — not in prayer, but like he was decoding something only he could hear. Now, the house had resumed its usual rhythm. He’d stepped back into his role without cue — cook, cleaner, ghost.

Daniel glanced toward the living room, where his mother’s television droned — another crime drama, the volume set too high as always. From upstairs came the murmured recitations of his brother’s evening prayers. The low, constant highway hum filtered through the walls like tinnitus — a phantom dragging chains behind drywall. Even during supposed quiet, noise always surrounded him: the television’s static-laced dialogue, Sam’s biblical murmurings upstairs, Dolores humming some ancient commercial jingle as she moved around the living room. Layers of sound wrestling for dominance, never allowing true silence.

With the sauce simmering, Daniel allowed himself ten minutes. Ten precious minutes stolen from his servitude. He slipped his phone from his pocket and leaned against the counter, earbuds in place to create a fragile bubble of privacy.

The YouTube video began with a triumphant finish-line crossing — an IRONMAN triathlete, arms raised in victory, face transformed by exhaustion and excitement.

«I was nobody,» the man said post-race. «Working a dead-end job, drowning in debt, until I decided to change everything. Endurance isn’t just physical,» he said. «It’s about controlling your body when your mind wants to quit.»

Control. The word resonated with Daniel. Control over his body. His future. His mind.

«The discipline of training saved me first,» he continued. «Then came the crypto investments that changed my financial reality forever.»

Daniel’s heart quickened as he scrolled through more stories — ordinary people breaking free — reinventing themselves, creating wealth from nothing but knowledge and courage. Each testimonial felt like a door opening, revealing pathways he’d never considered.

«Not everyone gets lucky,» he muttered, even as hope flickered dangerously in his chest. He checked his bank account again: $1,212.47. The tuition bill: $13,800. The math was as merciless as it had been yesterday, and the day before.

A notification flashed across his screen. An open tab caught his eye — he’d forgotten about it. Some late-night reading rabbit hole. The headline at the top read, «Changes in Sleep and Behavior: When to Pay Attention.»

He hesitated, then thumbed slowly down the page.

«Unusual routines… sleep disturbances… increased isolation… religious or grandiose speech patterns…»

Daniel’s eyes drifted upward. The faintest hum of verses floated down — Sam, again, whispering through walls. He’d been doing it more lately — not just at night, but in the mornings too. Burning candles in his room. Rearranging the furniture. Staring at the hallway crucifix as if it spoke back.

Back to the screen. One line hooked him: «Often subtle at first — easy to mistake for stress or eccentricity.»

He stared at it for a long moment, then quickly shut the phone off, the screen going black in his palm.

Just curiosity, he told himself. Just a late-night article.

The potatoes began to boil over, sending white foam cascading down the sides of the pot. Daniel lunged to adjust the heat, his elbow knocking against a stack of mail. As he gathered the scattered envelopes, a faded photograph slipped from between them — his grandmother standing beside a blooming lilac bush, her photo camera hanging from her neck, her smile gentle but determined.

«Granny,» he whispered. A sudden tightness gripped his throat.

The memory came like a wave — her voice, soft but unwavering: «Son, you have to learn; you have to study!» Her final words to him, from a hospital bed, hand squeezing his with surprising strength.

Daniel’s eyes burned — this time, it wasn’t the onions.

If he left, who would intercept the final notices?

Who would stop Mom from buying another cracked birdbath instead of groceries?

He stirred the sauce mechanically, his grandmother’s face hovering in his mind’s eye.

«I’m trying, Granny,» he said aloud, his voice breaking. «But I don’t know how to make it happen.»

The sauce needed to simmer. Twenty minutes. Enough time to search.

A few cabinets down, he opened the junk drawer to grab a flashlight. Amid rubber bands and orphaned batteries lay a faded blue folder — Mom’s old nursing license, corners curling, dated before Sam was born. He touched it lightly, then let it be.

She never talked about it — not directly. But he’d heard her once, years ago, muttering to herself during an argument with a utilities clerk: «I could’ve been someone. I could’ve made something of myself if I hadn’t met him.» The way she’d said «him» told everything he needed to know.

Daniel moved quietly through the house, stepping over the creaking floorboard outside his mother’s room. In the hallway closet, behind stacks of yellowing newspapers and discarded clothing, sat the old cardboard box where family photographs had been hastily shoved after his grandmother’s death. His mother had been too distraught — or perhaps too indifferent — to organize them.

He pulled the box into the dim hallway light and began to sift through its contents. Photographs taken by his grandmother: landscapes under dramatic skies, children laughing in sunlit gardens. Ordinary moments transformed by her eye.

«You saw beauty everywhere,» Daniel murmured, handling each image like scripture.

At the bottom of the box, wrapped in a faded silk scarf, lay her Leica M3. He lifted it slowly. The weight surprised him — not just physical, but emotional. Heavier than it should’ve been — heavier than any object had a right to be.

The vintage camera was a masterpiece of mid-century craftsmanship. The brass and chrome body had dulled with age. A distinctive scratch ran across the top plate — earned when she protected the lens during a fall on a mountain trail.

The film advance lever resisted — its gears grinding like a clenched jaw — then, with a reluctant shudder, it gave way. A single stiff rotation, just enough to prove the mechanism still lived beneath the dust. The rangefinder window had cracked diagonally, splitting the world in two when he raised it to his eye.

But the lens — the 50mm Summicron — was clear. She used to say, «Keep the eye clean — even when everything else falls apart.»

The cracked leather strap still held the ghost of her touch. Turning the camera over, Daniel discovered a small engraving he’d never noticed before: «To capture life’s beauty — Love, Richard.»

«Grandpa’s gift,» he whispered, piecing together the story.

Daniel sat down on the floor, the camera resting in his lap. That simple act unlocked something else. Not just memory. Something deeper:

He was six. Standing in her garden.

His hands too small to hold the camera steady, so hers covered his like a second skin. She smelled of thyme and chamomile. The sun was bright, and she was explaining something about framing light through the leaves of an apple tree. He hadn’t understood the words, only the wonder in her voice.

She’d been unstoppable — a woman who worked the fields during wartime, then defied all expectations by leaving her simple farm village where many could neither read nor write. She’d traveled all the way to Seattle for college, joining her communications studies with work at the plant.

«You never stopped moving forward,» Daniel whispered, brushing his thumb along the camera. «Even when the world told you to stay put.»

He remembered her stories about working with troubled teenagers, her pride when she spoke of their achievements. The honorary titles she’d earned — best master educator, labor veteran, home front worker — meant less to her than the changes she’d witnessed in young lives.

«You believed in me,» Daniel whispered, a tear landing on the camera’s worn leather. «Even when no one else did.»

The smell of something burning jolted Daniel back to the present. The sauce! He rewrapped the camera in its silk scarf — carefully — and placed it in his backpack instead of the box. He raced downstairs just in time to save dinner, though a scorched layer of tomato clung to the bottom of the pan.

As he stirred and tasted, adjusting seasonings to mask the slight burnt flavor, his mind raced with possibilities. The camera, though broken, was a Leica — valuable even in its current condition. A quick search on his phone confirmed it: vintage Leica M3s in working condition sold for thousands. Even damaged ones fetched respectable sums from collectors and restorers.

His throat tightened. Could he really sell the one tangible connection to his grandmother?

«Son, you have to learn, you have to study!»

Her final command echoed in his memory.

«It’s just a thing,» he told himself, setting plates on the table with mechanical precision. «Maybe she’d understand. Maybe she’d forgive me. But could I forgive myself?»

But even as he rationalized, Daniel felt overwhelmed. The camera was more than metal and glass — it held her perspective, her resilience, her defiance of a world that had tried to keep her small.

Daniel slipped back upstairs as the potatoes finished boiling. Back in his room, he carefully removed the acceptance letter from his desk drawer. The heavy cream-colored paper with the university insignia felt substantial in his hands — a tangible bridge to another world.

He set it on the bed and reached for the Leica. As he lifted the broken camera from its silk scarf, something shifted loose inside. A small cardboard box tucked in the corner — forgotten, dusty. Inside it, a single roll of expired 35mm film, still sealed. His breath caught.

Carefully, reverently, he threaded the film into the spool. Advance. Tension. Click. The satisfying wind of something lost clicking back into motion.

He raised the camera and framed the letter. Through the cracked rangefinder, the letter appeared split — ghosted, doubled. Two futures: one fading behind the other. His fingers hesitated but moved with the familiar rhythm his grandmother had taught him: adjust aperture, focus, breathe, hold steady, press.

The shutter clicked.

The sounds of his mother’s television grew louder as she shuffled toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell of dinner. Upstairs, his brother’s door creaked open. Family dinner would begin soon — their ritual of performance and denial. But for now, alone in his room, Daniel had captured something no one could take from him.

A beginning.

Daniel straightened the silverware, his decision crystallizing with each passing second. Three days until the tuition deadline. Three days to break free or remain trapped. The Leica in his backpack felt like both betrayal and salvation — something broken that might, somehow, make him whole. As he filled water glasses with mechanical precision, Daniel’s heart raced with possibility. For the first time in years, he could see a path forward — narrow and uncertain, but real.

The kitchen, always his prison, suddenly felt temporary. Each chipped plate, each worn countertop, each familiar corner — soon, they’d all be memory instead of reality.

In three days, the weight would shift. In three days, he’d either be free — or still exactly where they left him. He wiped his hands on a towel and turned toward the table.

«Dinner’s ready.»

Shadow on The Floor

The mind breaks like water

Against the rocks of reality,

Each fragment carrying

The whole ocean’s salt.

The strobing fluorescent light threw jagged shadows over Daniel’s trembling hands as he pressed against the chipped porcelain tub. His breath ricocheted off the tile walls. The 911 dispatcher’s voice crackled, tinny and distant:

«Sir? Are you still there?»

Daniel’s grip tightened on the phone. For a moment, he smelled wet asphalt and heard twelve-year-old Sam’s voice, raw and brave: «Touch him again and I’ll break your nose!» A memory flashed — Sam standing between Daniel and three older boys, fists raised, mud streaking his cheeks. The bullies had scattered. Now, Sam’s fists hammered the door — Daniel’s ribs ached where loyalty had once shielded him.

Daniel’s voice cracked. «My brother… he attacked me. Please — »

«You think hiding in your ivory tower makes you CLEAN?!» Sam bellowed.

The light flickered as something heavy crashed against the wall outside.

«Sir, is your brother a danger to himself or others right now?» the dispatcher asked calmly.

«I’m gonna drive the darkness out of you, Danny-boy!» Sam’s voice slid into singsong.

«You’re not leaving until you’re saved!»

«Yes,» Daniel said into the phone, louder now. «Yes. Please hurry.»⁠

* * *

— Twenty minutes earlier—

The kitchen held an unnatural quiet, broken by the clink of Daniel stacking plates — too slow, too deliberate. The university letter glared from the counter, its red-circled deadline bleeding into the table. Sam’s bulk sagged over the chair, fingers shredding a cold fry into greasy confetti. Dimmed light caught the sweat beading at his temples, the tremor in his hands as he reduced the fry to pulp.

The Leica burned in Daniel’s pocket. One shot — just to remember Sam whole.

He angled the camera, framing the slope of Sam’s shoulders, the fry’s carcass crumbling like sacramental bread in his brother’s grip. The shutter snapped — a sound like a wishbone breaking.

Sam froze. For a heartbeat, his face softened — the ghost of the boy who shared cheese puffs and Lego robots. Then his fingers spasmed, smearing fry guts into the woodgrain.

«You’re stealing my soul, Danny?» Sam teetered at the chair’s edge, eyes fixed on him — unnerving. The Bible lay open before him.

Daniel’s throat tightened. «Just… preserving things.»

Sam stabbed a greasy finger toward the Leica.

«You know what Judas did with his thirty pieces of silver, Danny?»

Daniel didn’t look up. «Don’t start, Sam.»

«He hanged himself,» Sam continued as if Daniel hadn’t spoken.

Daniel slammed the plate harder than he intended. It didn’t break, but the noise made him wince.

Sam’s leg began to twitch beneath the table, heel thumping a syncopated rhythm against the linoleum. His fingers drummed on the woodgrain, each tap sharper, more insistent, as if he were trying to summon something from beneath his skin.

«Close the window. They’re listening…» Sam’s voice dropped to something dangerous.

From the bathroom down the hall came the sound of running water. Dolores had retreated there after her outburst at dinner. As Sam also liked to do, she always disappeared when things got tense — as if the bathroom were neutral ground in their family’s war zone.

«It’s not about getting rich…»

«Matthew 6:24,» Sam thundered, rising from his chair. The Bible tumbled to the floor, pages splaying open. «No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.»

«I don’t believe in that stuff, Sam. I don’t believe in your God or your Devil or any of it.»

Something snapped inside him — a wire stretched too long.

Sam’s face contorted, his features shifting from shock to rage. His eyes — normally warm brown, like their father’s — darkened. The pupils expanded unnaturally.

«You’re empty,» Sam whispered, his voice suddenly alien. «A materialistic corpse without a soul. You have NO SOUL! I see darkness in you.»

«Sam, I need you to breathe. Remember what the doctor said — »

«WHAT DID YOU SAY?» Sam bellowed, sending a chair crashing to the floor as he stepped forward. «YOU THINK I CAN’T HEAR YOUR WHISPERS?»

Daniel raised his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. «Nobody’s whispering, Sam. You’re scaring me, brother. Let’s call the doctor, okay?»

«You want to abandon us,» Sam said — «like Dad abandoned me.»

«Dad died,» Daniel snapped.

Sam’s chair screeched backward.

«LIAR!»

Sam’s eyes widened, and Daniel instantly regretted his words. Never tell Sam about their father. It was an unspoken rule, one he’d just broken.

«I’m not like him,» Sam said, his voice tight with rage. «I would never leave. NEVER LEAVE.»

Daniel’s heart hammered in his chest. He had to reach the brother still buried inside.

«You’re right, Sam. You wouldn’t leave. I’m sorry.»

But it was too late. Sam’s breathing had become erratic, his chest heaving. He picked up the Bible from the floor, clutching it to his chest like armor.

Daniel glanced toward the hall. The water still ran.

«Sam, please. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. You’re tired, I’m tired — »

«STOP PATRONIZING ME!» Sam roared, slamming his fist on the table. A water glass toppled, spilling across the surface and dripping onto the floor. «I’m not a child!»

«Then stop acting like one!» Daniel snapped back before he could stop himself.

Outside, the highway groaned — soft at first, like a sleeping beast. But as Sam’s voice rose, so did the drone, building beneath the kitchen’s fragile quiet until it felt like the whole house was being held underwater.

«You think you’re better than us, Danny? You think you can just walk away?»

Daniel swallowed hard, knowing he needed to choose his next words carefully, but it was too late.

«I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID!» Sam roared, suddenly animated again. Sam stepped forward — shoulders hunched, head lowered. Daniel’s alarm spiked.

«Sam, don’t — »

But Sam was already moving, crossing the kitchen with surprising speed for someone his size. Daniel sidestepped, but Sam caught him with his shoulder, driving him back against the refrigerator. Magnets and photos clattered to the floor as Daniel’s breath left him in a painful whoosh.

«I’m not letting you leave us,» Sam growled, his face inches from Daniel’s. His breath smelled of dinner and something medicinal — new pills prescribed?

Daniel pushed back, trying to create space. «Sam, stop! This isn’t you!»

Sam stepped back, but only to gather momentum. With a roar, he lowered his head and charged, catching Daniel in the chest with the crown of his head. Pain exploded through Daniel’s ribs as he was driven backward into the counter.

«Mom!» Daniel called out, desperate now. «Mom, help!»

Sam came at him again, but this time Daniel managed to dodge, sending his brother crashing into the cabinets. Using the moment of confusion, Daniel bolted for the hallway.

«YOU CAN’T RUN FROM GOD’S JUDGMENT!» Sam bellowed behind him.

Daniel sprinted down the hallway toward the bathroom.

«Mom! Let me in! Sam’s in trouble!»

The water shut off abruptly. «Daniel? What’s happening?» Dolores’s voice was muffled through the door.

Before Daniel could answer, he felt rather than heard Sam’s approach — the heavy thud of his brother’s footsteps shaking the floor. Daniel turned, pressing his back against the door just as Sam rounded the corner, his face contorted with rage.

«Mom!» Daniel shouted, pounding on the door. «Please!»

The door opened suddenly, and Daniel fell backward into the bathroom. Dolores stood there in her bathrobe, hair wrapped in a towel, eyes wide with alarm.

«What did you do to him?»

Before Daniel could answer, Sam appeared in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from the hall.

«He’s leaving us, Mom,» Sam said, his voice suddenly childlike. «Abandoning us. Like Dad.»

Dolores gasped and remained silent for a moment. «Daniel, is this true?»

Daniel backed further into the bathroom, putting the sink between himself and the others. «I got accepted. I told you at dinner, remember?»

«With Grandma’s camera,» Sam accused. «He’s selling her blessing for paper and numbers.»

«It’s mine!» Daniel said, feeling cornered by both of them now. «She left it to me.»

«To remember her by,» Dolores corrected, her voice hardening. «Not to sell for your escape plan.»

The familiar pressure squeezed Daniel’s chest, suffocating him. For years, he’d carried them both, his shoulders stooped beneath the weight of utility notices and insurance forms, his fingers perpetually ink-stained from recalculating budgets that never quite stretched far enough. He’d become a curator of Sam’s mistakes — categorizing them, preserving them in memory, learning which ones signaled danger and which were merely the ordinary debris of his brother’s fractured mind. Meanwhile, his own aspirations had become relics, fossilized dreams pressed between the pages of college brochures that arrived with increasing irregularity, as if even the universities sensed he no longer belonged to the future they promised.

Something shifted in Sam’s expression — dark fire kindling behind his eyes, and Daniel felt dread coil in his gut.

«They’re telling me,» Sam whispered, hands pressed to his ears. «They are telling me what you really are.» Sam lunged past Dolores, grabbing at Daniel. Daniel dodged, but in the cramped space, there was nowhere to go. Sam’s fist caught his shoulder, sending him staggering against the shower door.

«Samuel Joseph Mercer!» Dolores screamed, stepping between them.

Sam shoved her aside with frightening ease. «Stay back, Mom! He’s not Daniel anymore!»

Daniel slipped past them both into the hallway. But Sam was fast despite his size. He caught Daniel by the shirt, spinning him around and driving him into the wall. Pictures rattled; drywall yielded beneath his back.

«You’re not leaving,» Sam growled, his face inches from Daniel’s. «Not ever.»

Daniel reflexively drove his knee into Sam’s stomach. Sam grunted. Daniel bolted. He sprinted back toward the bathroom — the only room with a lock strong enough to hold Sam back.

«Daniel!» Dolores wailed behind him. «Don’t hurt your brother!»

Daniel slammed the door and fumbled with the lock. Sam’s weight hit it, rattling the frame.

A moment later, a thin stream of water snaked under the door — clear at first, then tinged with something darker. Blood? No. Holy water. Sam had been splashing it around the house all evening. He slid down to the floor, reaching for his phone in his pocket with trembling hands.

«Help is on the way, sir,» the 911 dispatcher was saying. «Are you in a safe location?»

«I’m locked in the bathroom,» Daniel replied, wincing as Sam slammed his shoulder against the door. «But I don’t know how long the door will hold.»

Daniel pressed his back against the bathtub, knees drawn to his chest. The hum swelled.

«Sir — does your brother have any weapons?» the dispatcher asked.

Daniel closed his eyes, trying to remember if he’d seen anything in Sam’s hands. «I don’t think so. But he’s… he’s very strong.»

More holy water splashed under the door, and Daniel recoiled from the creeping stain.

«Cleansing the path,» Sam murmured outside, his voice closer to the floor now. Daniel imagined him on his knees, performing one of his improvised rituals. «Cleansing the path for your return.»

Through the door, Daniel heard the shuffle of slippers — Dolores lingering in the hallway, her breaths shallow. For three hammering heartbeats, she did nothing. Daniel wanted to scream — Do something! Stop this! Say anything! But all he heard was the trembling intake of her breath, as if she’d seen this play before and already knew how it ended. Then, weakly: «Stop… please…»

«Sir, I’m hearing a disturbance. Is anyone else in danger?» the dispatcher asked.

«My mother,» Daniel said, panic lacing his voice. Sam had never intentionally hurt Dolores before, but he’d never been this far gone either. «She’s out there with him.»

«Officer units are three minutes out,» the dispatcher assured him. «Paramedics have also been dispatched.»

Three minutes. Daniel stared at the door, watching it shake as Sam renewed his assault.

«YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW?» Sam bellowed through the splintering door, his voice cracking with emotion. «YOU THINK I DIDN’T SEE GRANDMA’S CAMERA?»

Daniel’s eyes darted to his backpack, slumped in the corner where he’d dropped it in his rush to lock the door. The worn leather case of his grandmother’s Leica camera was just visible at the top.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing.

«I’m not abandoning you, Sam,» Daniel called back, trying to sound calmer than he felt. «I’m just going to school.»

«LIAR!» There was a splintering sound as Sam’s fist punched through the hollow core of the door. Blood-streaked knuckles appeared through the hole, grasping blindly. «YOU’RE RUNNING AWAY! JUST LIKE DAD!»

Through the widening gap, Daniel caught a glimpse of Sam’s face — flushed crimson, eyes wild, a thin line of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. For a second, their eyes locked. In that moment, Daniel saw something flash across his brother’s expression — not just rage, but profound hurt. Betrayal. «Why won’t you listen to me NOW?» Sam cried. «YOU’RE going to DESTROY everything! WHY IGNORE ME?!»

The raw pain in Sam’s voice made Daniel’s throat tighten.

For a moment, Sam went quiet.

«Why are you leaving me?» Sam asked through the hole, his voice suddenly small and childlike. «Who’s going to help me?»

Daniel closed his eyes, feeling the weight of guilt and responsibility press down on him. «Mom will be here. And your doctor. And you have the support group at church.»

«It’s not the same,» Sam said, sniffling. «You’re my brother.»

Sirens wailed in the distance, slicing through the tense silence before Daniel could answer. Sam’s eyes widened visibly through the hole in the door.

«You called them?» Sam’s voice trembled with betrayal. «You called the police on me?»

«Sam, I had to…»

«JUDAS!» Sam roared, renewing his assault on the door with terrifying force. The frame began to splinter around the hinges. «THIRTY… PIECES… OF… SILVER… AND A KISS ON THE CHEEK!»

Outside, Dolores’s voice rose in alarm. «Samuel, stop! The police are coming!»

Daniel clutched the phone tighter. «They’re almost here,» the dispatcher said. «Stay on the line with me.»

The sound of the front door opening and heavy footsteps filled the house. Authoritative voices called out, «Police! Everyone stay where you are!»

Sam’s attack on the door stopped abruptly.

«Sir — are the officers there?» the dispatcher asked.

«Yes,» Daniel replied, his voice shaking with relief. «They’re here.»

There was a commotion in the hallway — Sam’s voice rising in protest, Dolores pleading with the officers, firm commands to stay back.

Daniel rose on unsteady legs and unlocked the door. Outside, two officers flanked a subdued Sam, kneeling with hands bound behind his back. Tears streamed down his flushed face.

«Traitor.» Sam’s whisper cut deeper than shouts. «My own brother.»

Paramedics took over. One checked Sam, while another examined Daniel’s ribs and shoulder.

A paramedic knelt beside Daniel. «We need to take your brother to the hospital for evaluation. It looks like he’s in the middle of a severe psychotic episode.»

«Yes,» Daniel said, unable to look at Sam.

«Has he ever been this violent?»

Daniel shook his head. «Never.»

His mother hovered in the doorway, her face a mask of anguish and exhaustion.

«Will they take him away?» she asked, her voice small.

Daniel nodded, unable to meet her eyes. «He needs help, Mom. Professional help.»

She turned away, clutching her robe like a shield.

The paramedic handed him a clipboard with forms. «We need consent from next of kin. Your mother seems too distraught.»

Daniel stared at the papers. From the living room, he could hear Dolores sobbing to one of the officers, telling him what a good boy Sam usually was, how he just needed his medication adjusted.

Sam looked up at Daniel from where he sat on the floor, paramedics checking his vitals. The wild rage had receded, leaving behind the familiar, confused child eyes of his brother.

«Don’t send me away, Danny,» he pleaded softly. «I’ll be good. I promise.»

Daniel’s hand trembled as he signed the papers. «It’s just for a few days, Sam. Until you’re feeling better.»

Dolores reappeared in the hallway, clutching a crucifix, whispering prayers under her breath, trying to put the cross on tied-up Sam.

«Let me put the cross on him — don’t take him away without the cross!»

As the paramedics led Sam down the stairs, he paused, looking back at Daniel with unexpected clarity.

«I see them, Danny,» he said, his voice eerily calm. «The angels. They’re watching you. They know what you’re planning.»

The paramedics guided Sam toward the front door. At the threshold, he turned back to look at Daniel one last time.

«You’ll still be here when I get back, right?» he asked, voice small and frightened. «You won’t leave while I’m gone?»

Daniel couldn’t say a word. He looked away, down at the floor where Sam’s holy water had soaked into the carpet, leaving a dark stain that would never quite come out.

When he looked up again, Sam was gone, and Dolores had retreated to her bedroom, leaving Daniel alone in the suddenly quiet house.

Daniel stood in the bathroom, the smell of drained hope and lingering blood in the air. He stared at the cracked mirror, his face split down the middle — bruised, battered, exhausted. Brother. Betrayer. He wasn’t sure which reflection would remain. The camera, a tangible presence in his backpack. His ticket out. His salvation. His betrayal.

Outside, the ambulance pulled away, its lights flashing silently against the darkened windows of the only home he’d ever known.

The Ghosts We Follow

Doors close with the finality

Of seasons changing,

And we walk toward tomorrow

With yesterday’s keys in our pocket.

Sam’s face loomed large in the mirror, but it wasn’t Sam’s eyes looking back — they were Daniel’s, peering out from his brother’s face. The bathroom was both familiar and wrong — the walls seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting with wet, labored sounds. Daniel watched his reflection’s hands tremble, clutching a Bible as its torn pages scattered across the floor like dead leaves.

«We’re the same,» the reflection whispered, pressing bloated palms against the glass until it began to splinter. «We share the same cursed blood.»

Daniel tried to back away, but the bathroom had shrunk, the walls pressing in. Holy water seeped under the door, rising quickly around his ankles.

The water rose faster now, up to his knees, his waist. Daniel hammered at the door, but each strike produced only the soft thud of flesh against wood. His fists had become Sam’s — large, pale, with bitten nails and scabbed knuckles. The water reached his chest, his neck. He gasped, swallowing water.

«Mom!» he tried to scream, but his voice emerged as Sam’s ragged bellow. «Mom, help!» Daniel screamed. «Mom… I’m sor — »

* * *

Daniel jolted awake. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat, sheets twisted around his legs like restraints. He blinked in the pre-dawn light, filtered through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across his bed. His heart pounded against his ribs like something trying to escape.

The house was unnaturally silent, like a held breath. For twenty-four years, it had never been this quiet — even at night, there were always sounds: his mother’s television, Sam’s pacing, the creak of old pipes running through the walls like arteries. Now, the silence pressed against his eardrums.

Daniel swung his legs over the edge of the bed, toes curling against the cold hardwood floor. He placed his hands flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow. His own body, still his own. His own mind. But for how long?

Outside his window, the sky was the muted gray of dishwater. But just above the cracked pane, a sliver of gold pierced the dust — sunrise threading through grime, catching on floating motes. Daniel watched the light stretch across the peeling wallpaper, transforming the ordinary into something almost holy. For a heartbeat, the world felt weightless, the promise of morning glinting through the ruin. He let himself believe, if only for a moment, that there was something waiting for him beyond these walls — a promise he couldn’t yet name.

Everything felt suspended, waiting. His grandmother’s Leica camera sat on his desk, nestled in its worn leather case. The last valuable thing they owned — his ticket out. He ran his fingers over its metal body, cool and solid, the only real thing in this house of shadows and echoes.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he made his way to the bathroom. He avoided the mirror as he splashed cold water on his face — afraid Sam’s eyes might still be waiting in his own. Water dripped from his chin as he finally forced himself to look up. His own face — gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, but undeniably his — stared back. Relief washed over him.

Daniel emerged from the bathroom, pulled on jeans and a clean T-shirt, tucking the camera carefully into his backpack before stepping into the hallway. He found Dolores standing in the kitchen, a slight figure in a faded bathrobe, her hair uncombed. She looked smaller somehow, diminished by Sam’s absence. She poured coffee into a mug. This one was plain white, anonymous. She pushed it across the counter toward him.

«Did you sleep?» she asked, not meeting his eyes.

«Some.» Daniel wrapped his hands around the mug.

«I called the facility this morning. They say he’s stabilized.» She spoke clinically, as if discussing a stranger. «They want to keep him for observation. Seventy-two hours, at least.»

Daniel nodded and sipped the bitter coffee. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence between them. Finally, Dolores looked up at him, her eyes suddenly sharp.

«You’re really doing this?»

No point lying. «Yes.»

«Because of what happened?»

«Because of everything.»

Her face crumpled, then hardened to stone. «So that’s it, huh? You just — what? Running away from your family? Now, when things are hardest?»

«Mom — »

«No.» She slammed her palm against the counter, coffee sloshing in her cup. «You think you’re better than us? Because someone sent you a letter? You think there’s some magical world out there waiting for you?» The words poured out of her, gaining momentum. «You’ll see. The world doesn’t care about people like us. We’re invisible to them. At least here, you’re somebody. At least here — »

«I’m what?» Daniel interrupted, the words escaping before he could stop them. «The one who cleans up vomit? The one who pays bills you forget? The one who calls 911 when Sam tries to kick my head in?»

Dolores flinched as if slapped. «He’s sick,» she whispered. «He can’t help it.»

«Neither can I. I’ve waited, Mom. I’ve waited so long for things to get better, and they never do.» Daniel set down his mug with careful precision.

Her posture softened. She crossed to him and laid a hand on his arm — rare touch. «Danny, please. We can figure this out. We always have.»

For a heartbeat, Daniel wavered. The dream flashed behind his eyes: Sam’s face in the mirror. Rising water. Then he gently removed her hand.

«I have to go.»

Her face transformed in an instant, tenderness hardening to stone. «Fine. Go. But if you’re taking anything from this house, you leave that damn camera. We’ll sell it. That’s the only decent thing you can do now.»

She stepped closer, voice dropping to a trembling whisper. «If you leave now, after everything I did for you — what kind of son are you?» Her words hung in the air, sharp as broken glass. Daniel felt their weight settle on his shoulders, heavier than the backpack he carried.

«It was grandmother’s gift to me…»

«Your grandmother would be ashamed of you,» she hissed, the words precise and venomous. «Abandoning your family when they need you most.»

He didn’t answer. There was nothing to say to that — no defense that wouldn’t sound hollow, even to his own ears. Instead, he turned away, heading back to his room to finish packing.

Daniel moved through the house as if underwater. Each room was a museum of fractured moments — exhibits from a life he was about to leave behind.

In the living room, his father’s chair stood empty, the upholstery worn thin where his hands had rested. Daniel paused, running his fingers over the armrest. He had only the vaguest memories of his father — a tall figure, the smell of aftershave, shouting matches that sent him hiding under his bed. Did he feel this too? This terrible mixture of relief and grief? The man had been gone for seventeen years, but the chair remained, a throne for a ghost who had never really left.

On the windowsill, his mother’s garden of broken things caught the morning light — shards of ceramics, chipped figurines, the pieces of the vase she’d broken yesterday. Daniel touched one of the fragments. Would she add him to this collection once he was gone?

In the hallway, he paused at Sam’s door. It stood slightly ajar, unusual for a room Sam guarded so jealously. Daniel hesitated, then pushed it open. The smell hit him first — unwashed clothes, the sickly sweet odor of the energy drinks Sam consumed by the case. Religious icons covered the walls — saints and saviors watching from every angle. Bible verses taped beneath — Sam’s cramped handwriting, others printed from the internet. «GOD SEES ALL. THE LORD TESTS THE RIGHTEOUS. PURGE ME WITH HYSSOP, AND I SHALL BE CLEAN.»

On the floor lay Sam’s torn poetry notebook, pages scattered like fallen leaves as in a nightmare. Daniel knelt and picked up a page. His brother’s handwriting crawled across it — sometimes neat, sometimes frantic:

Brother who walks with closed eyes

Sees only the ground beneath his feet

Not the sky, nor the blooming tree

Nor the child who reaches for his hand

Brother who counts only silver

Hears only the clinking of coins

Not the bird, nor the rushing water

Nor the voice that calls his name

Near the bed, nestled between a stack of devotionals and a crusted bowl of half-eaten cereal, Daniel spotted a small terracotta pot. Soil crumbled around its base like flaked chocolate. Inside it, a fragile green seedling stretched timidly toward the half-shuttered window. A makeshift tag stuck out, torn from the back of a cereal box. In Sam’s unmistakable scribble:

«For Danny — so you remember what’s real.»

Daniel touched one leaf gently. It quivered, absurdly alive in the otherwise suffocating room. The earth smelled faintly of basil, sun-warmed and honest. It brought him back to their grandmother’s garden — the scent of crushed mint underfoot, Sam’s laughter, the low drone of bees.

He crouched there longer than he meant to. The seedling — a fragile peace offering from someone too broken to say the words aloud. He sat on the edge of the bed, remembering his brother before the delusions took over — Sam playing video games with him, Sam defending him from bullies, Sam reading him stories when their mother worked late shifts.

Daniel’s chest tightened.

A thought surfaced — What if I stay? Just for now. Just until Sam’s better.

«We’re the same, Daniel.»

The longer he stared at the seedling, the harder it became to move.