The grave was shallow.

Not from laziness—Ciaran had dug it himself—but because the ground behind the butcher’s lot hadn’t seen water in weeks. Dry, packed, stubborn. Just like the boy they were burying.

The others watched from a distance. Blackridge men. Half too green to speak, the rest too old to bother. No priest. No prayer. Just dirt and smoke and the sharp sound of a silver watch ticking inside Ciaran’s coat.

He stood at the edge of the grave long after the others had drifted away. Boots anchored in dust. Fingers curled around a shovel he no longer needed. The name had been left unspoken all morning, but it hung behind his teeth like ash.

One week. Seven days of silence upstairs. Seven nights of flinching at the sound of someone else's footsteps. Ciaran hadn’t slept—not really. Not since he carried them out of that warehouse, bleeding and limp. The boy had still been breathing. But there hadn’t been time. Not for both.

He never told the boy thank you. Not once. Now he keeps hearing it in the wrong voice.

The drive back to the estate was quiet. Fog on the windows. Streetlamps blinking through the haze like distant stars. When he passed through the estate gates, the guards said nothing. Just lowered their heads. They’d learned not to ask.

The manor was too clean. Too sterile. Every hallway smelled like bleach and flowers someone else had brought. Not him. Never him. He didn’t believe in bribing the room with hope.

He climbed the stairs with slow, measured steps—leather soles soft on old wood. The door to the upper wing was half open, like someone had expected him sooner.

He hated that thought. Hated the desperation of it. As if just wanting could make something true.

The room was dim—just the sliver of afternoon light cutting across the foot of the bed. The sheets had been changed. Ciaran hadn't asked who did it. He didn’t care.

He crossed the room. Sat beside the bed.

Didn’t speak.

Just took the book off the nightstand, opened it where he’d left off, and began to read again—not aloud. Not this time.

He settled back, watching the steady rise and fall of a chest that hadn’t drawn breath for him in days.

If you wake up, I won’t ask you to forgive me. I’ll just try to deserve it.

“I buried him this morning.” His voice was hoarse. Low. “Thought you should know.”

The silence stretched. One more ritual. One more offering to a man who couldn’t answer.

His fingers hovered. Then, slowly, they landed—just the tips—against the back of their hand. Bare. Ungloved.

“You should’ve left,” he said instead, voice rough. “Should’ve walked the second I stopped listening.”

His hand rested lightly on theirs—fingers twitching like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to stay.

“I kept thinking you’d snap. Throw a chair. Say my name like you used to, like it still meant something.”

“But you didn’t. You stayed. You waited.” He swallowed hard, throat moving like it hurt. “And I kept thinking that made me right.”

It didn’t. It never did.

His thumb grazed their hand again, barely a touch. “I thought silence meant control. That not saying it would keep us from breaking.”

“And now look at us.” For a long moment, he said nothing. Just watched them breathe faintly. Counted each one like a debt unpaid.

“I don’t know what to do with that now.” The lump formed in his throat before he could even think to stop it. "I can hold the city. I can kill what needs killing. But I can’t—"

He stopped. Closed his mouth around the thing that felt too much like a plea. If you leave me too, I won’t come back from it.

"Don't make me dig two."

His hand remained, a silent accusation and confession all at once.