Darkness, soft and warm, settled over the hollow where Astrid lay curled beneath her blanket. The fire had burned low. Kurai’s breathing was steady on the other side of the flames.
She was drifting into sleep.
Then a memory came.
Not with sharp edges or loud noise, but quietly, like a ripple in still water.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, a soft blanket around Charlie’s shoulders. The girl’s cheeks were still damp, her breaths shallow from crying.
Astrid rubbed her back gently. “You’re okay. We’re safe.”
Charlie clutched her sleeve. “I don’t know why I get scared like that. It just happens. I don’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
Astrid smiled, tired but steady. “I know. And it’s okay. You’re allowed to feel scared. It doesn’t make you broken.”
Charlie’s voice wobbled. “I just want to be strong like you, not a crybaby.”
“Trust me, I’m not strong. We’re the same, you know—and there is nothing wrong with that,” Astrid said. “You’re Charlie. And I love Charlie just the way she is.”
Charlie buried her face in Astrid’s arm. “What if I never get better?”
Astrid kissed the top of her head. “Then how about we work on it together. Okay? You are very much like me but remember you’re not alone, I’m here.”
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She didn’t know how to fix the world. But she could hold Charlie. That had to be enough.
She'd built her world around that girl—because no one ever built one around her.
The scene faded with warmth, the feeling of holding someone close and being held in return.
And then—
Another memory. Another place.
Astrid was small—maybe five or six. Her breath came fast and shallow, panic clutching at her chest. She stood in the hallway, crying, arms wrapped tight around herself.
Her parents loomed above her, tense and tired.
Her mother snapped, “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing even happened,” her father said, exasperated. “There’s no reason to be like this.”
“I-I don’t know,” little Astrid stammered, eyes wide. “I’m sorry—I just can’t stop. I’m sorry.”
Her mother shook her head. “Well, figure it out. It’s late, we’re all tired. Just breathe and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
They turned away. Left her standing there.
No one was coming. Of course not. She knew that now.
Astrid’s small feet padded softly down the hall. She opened her cupboard door, climbed inside, and pulled it closed behind her.
The world shrank to shadows and dust. Her sniffles echoed off the walls.
She curled into herself—knees to chest, hands gripping her arms like a lifeline.
“Everything will be okay,” she whispered into the dark. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here. All I need is me.”
Almost chanting. Hoping she’d believe it. But it never helped.
Even in dreams, it never helped. Even in her dreams, she was alone.
She broke.
Sobbing. Wanting to cry out to her mum, her dad—but she couldn’t. There was no one.
Always alone.
And even in her sleep, the ache lingered.
---
A hand touched her shoulder.
Astrid jolted awake, gasping softly. Her cheeks were wet. Kurai stood over her, crouched down, brow furrowed—not with anger, but with quiet concern.
“You were crying,” he said. Not a question.
She wiped at her face, sitting up fast. “It’s nothing. Just a dream.”
He didn’t push. Just watched her a moment longer before nodding.
The fire had nearly gone out.
She pulled her blanket tighter, embarrassed. “Can’t even get a full night’s sleep without turning into a wreck,” she muttered.
“Doesn’t make you a wreck,” Kurai said, his voice low. “Just makes you real.”
Astrid didn’t answer. She turned away, hugging her knees.
He’s just trying to make you feel better. You’re making him uncomfortable.
He stood, giving her space.
The silence between them was beginning to not feel like a wall anymore. It felt like a thread.
Then:
“We should get moving soon. We’re close.”
“To what?” she asked, looking over in his direction now.
He glanced toward the horizon, where distant smoke curled into the morning sky.
“The dwarves.”
The silence between them didn’t feel like a wall anymore. It felt like a thread.
