Tender Walks The Demon

Tears, silent assassins of happiness, trickled down Kimberley Wayford's cheek as she folded a short poem, a memento from her late husband. A repetitive beep cut through her sorrow-laced thoughts. The oven timer. She pulled out the gammon, serving it onto plates for herself and Brian. Another plate sat empty at the head of the table.
"Brian!" she called, but no answer came. He was likely lost in his coloring, a world only he could see. Yet, a familiar knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. Every step up the stairs, the feeling intensified. Reaching his room, she pushed open the door, expecting to find him engrossed, as always. Instead, she found him lying face down, surrounded by colored pens.
"Brian," she whispered, stepping closer. No response. A jolt of panic, then she saw the subtle movement of his arm. He was fine. She knelt beside him, brushing his fringe from his eyes. "Brian? Grub up!"
He stirred, his eyes slowly opening. "Hey honey," he said. It wasn't the word that made Kimberley's heart stop, but the voice. It wasn't his. It was older. Much older. She had heard that voice before.
