Too old. Too careful.
And still... fighting.
Not loudly.
But in the way he held himself still, like giving in wasn’t an option he would allow.
I didn’t move any closer at first.
Didn’t reach for him.
Something told me he would run if I did.
So I stayed there, quiet, letting him look at me, letting him decide I wasn’t something else sent to hurt him.
Seconds passed. Maybe longer.
Then, slowly—so slowly it almost didn’t happen—the shaking eased.
The blood and bruises—marks that didn’t look like accidents—covered his body, and something in me ached in a way I didn’t understand.
I tore the hem of my dress and pressed it gently to his skin, wiping away what I could.
My hands shook the entire time, but his didn’t move.
He just watched me—too still, too quiet for a nine-year-old boy.
“Does it hurt?” I remember asking.
He shrugged.
Not no. Not yes. Just... nothing.
Like the answer didn’t matter anymore.
I gave him water.
He hesitated before taking it, like he was waiting for permission that wasn’t there.
Even after the first sip, his eyes kept flicking toward the cave entrance, sharp and alert, like he expected someone to come crashing through at any second.
He never said who did it.
Not when I asked.
Not when I tried again, softer.
His whole body would go tight, his shoulders locking, his gaze dropping somewhere far away from me.
So I stopped asking.
And we talked about other things instead.
Small things at first. Names. How old we were. Nothing that could hurt.
He answered in short pieces, like every word had to be dragged out of him, like speaking too much might cost him something.
But I kept going, filling the quiet when it stretched too long, saying whatever came to mind just to keep him there—with me, not wherever his thoughts kept trying to pull him back to.
