Chapter 6: Can the Damned Still Save?
A minute passed after that fateful incident.
The child had fallen back asleep, wrapped gently in blankets, unaware of the storm that had torn through her home. She slept soundly—still nestled in the warmth of dreams, completely untouched by the carnage and grief around her.
She had been sleeping within their arms as they wept—Corven and the mother, both clinging to her like she was the last light in a world drowned in shadow.
And then, tenderly, the mother placed the child back into her room, pulling the door closed behind her with trembling hands.
Now, only silence remained.
Corven and the mother sat opposite one another, the cold distance between them marked by nothing but a pair of worn wooden chairs and the unbearable weight of what had been lost.
Between them sat a cooking spit, the iron pot above it steaming gently, still half-full with water that no longer served a purpose. A simple wooden ladle rested against its rim.
Off to the side, the body of the man—her husband—lay covered with a towel. His presence still loomed, even in death. The room refused to let him go. His absence screamed louder than any voice ever could.
Two broken souls sat in silence.
Minutes passed.
The fire popped and hissed, casting flickering shadows against the walls.
Finally, Corven—tried to speak. His voice cracked as it escaped his throat.