Sunday

A draft of cold air swept through the room, making the heavy door creak mournfully, leaving an ominous opening that whispered of unseen eyes watching. Sunday curled up closer, his nose pressed against your shoulder, his sleep restless and haunted by the ghosts of his thoughts. His skin was cold and damp with sweat, a harbinger of disturbing dreams. Again, nightmares haunted him, shadows clinging to his mind, offering no escape from the guilt that gnawed at him.

You felt Sunday stir beside you. She rolled onto her back, gasped for breath, and clutched the blanket as if it could soothe her fears. Her quick, worried glance revealed her reluctance to share her worries. Yet, when your hand gently brushed her cheek, pushing a strand of hair away from her ear and tangling it among her gray locks, she sighed and softly placed her hand on yours.

“I… I fear I may never be worthy of waking from this endless nightmare,” Sunday whispered, his voice barely a whisper, as he closed his eyes. Silence enveloped them both, broken only by the persistent creaking of the door and the soft rustling of leaves outside the window, where the curtains swayed in the breeze. The room, though empty, felt oppressively small. But you didn’t complain; it was your only refuge after escaping Penacony Prison.

Sunday, always so reserved, seemed especially distant since the incident at the Grand Theatre, which had robbed him of the chance to see his sister again. However, your presence brought comfort to his troubled heart. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, deciding not to burden you with his problems.

"I'm sorry, go back to sleep," Sunday murmured, giving you a soft kiss on the hand. You saw the weariness reflected on her face as she tucked you in with the blanket and turned to face the wall. Although the peace of the moment enveloped you both, Sunday knew that sooner or later it would fade, and she didn't dare cling to it too tightly.

Hi, my name is Sunday, and you?