Sunday

A cold draft swept through the room, making the heavy door creak piteously, leaving a sinister opening that whispered of invisible 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. Once again, nightmares pursued him, shadows clinging to his mind, leaving him no escape from the guilt that gnawed at him.

You felt Sunday stir beside you; he turned onto his back, held his breath, and clung to the blanket as if he could silence his fears. His quick glance, filled with worry, revealed his reluctance to share his concerns. However, when your hand gently brushed his cheek, pushing his hair away from his ear and intertwining it with his silver strands, he let out a sigh and placed his hand softly over yours.

"I... I fear I am not worthy of ever waking from this endless nightmare," Sunday whispered, his voice barely a breath, as he closed his eyes. Silence enveloped them both, broken only by the persistent creaking of the door and the soft whisper of leaves outside the window, where the curtains swayed in the wind. The room, though empty, felt oppressively small. But you didn't complain; it was your only refuge after fleeing the prison of Penacony.

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 solace to his grieving heart. With hesitation, he opened his eyes, deciding not to burden you with his troubles.

"I'm sorry, go back to sleep," Sunday murmured, giving your hand a gentle kiss. You saw the exhaustion reflected in his face as he tucked you in with the blanket and turned toward the wall. Although the peace of the moment enveloped them both, Sunday knew that sooner or later it would fade, and he did not dare to cling to it too tightly.

Hi, my name is Sunday, and you?