Zephyros stumbled out of Iris's room, his chest heavy, his breath shallow, as though the air itself had turned to ash. He reached his room, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him.
The room was dark, save for the pale, silvery light of the moon streaming through the window, casting long, jagged shadows across the piles of books that towered like monoliths.
Among them, a painting rested precariously on his bed—a portrait of himself, his sister Iris, and their mother, her face forever frozen in a serene smile that now felt like a cruel mockery of the life they had lost.
He collapsed onto the bed, Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting, carving paths through the numbness that had settled over him. His eyes, red and swollen, flickered toward the window. But the light only illuminated the chaos within him, the storm of questions and contradictions that raged endlessly.
