Eron didn't know when he fell asleep again, only that he woke up with a fright from a knock at his bedroom door. It was measured and precise. Definitely not his parents and not Kai, as he had already gone home. His heart stalled for a moment, uncertainty blooming like a bruise in his chest.

He didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the safety of his bed, but the knocking came again. Louder this time and with an unfamiliar voice. 

“Mr Desrosiers? I’m from the District Court. I’ve been asked to deliver some materials related to your case.”

Acheron blinked. He thought the court proceedings were still weeks away.

He hated how quickly panic surfaced, as if it were always just under his skin, waiting to be triggered. He wasn’t ready to read files or to see his own name next to his attacker’s. To stare at those cold paperwork is to quantify his pain.

He pulled on an oversized sweater with shaking hands and opened the door only halfway. The young man standing outside wore a professional, apologetic expression and held a sealed manila folder.

“These are from your lawyer,” the man said gently, handing them over. “Mr Sauveterre said there’s no rush, but he thought you’d want to see the compiled witness list and initial motion filings.”

Acheron nodded stiffly, offering no words. He had an idea who had let this man into his room, but didn't feel like a confrontation. He simply shut the door. 

The silence returned, but it wasn’t comforting anymore.

He dropped the folder onto the bed. It landed with a heavy thud, sounding like something that had been put to rest, or maybe exhumed.

He sat on the edge of his bed, a damp towel still on the floor. He couldn't help but stare at the folder. It represented the beginning of a legal battle and the thing that would define him for the next few years.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he reached for his sketchpad.

He hadn’t touched a pencil or paintbrush since coming home from the hospital, but for reasons he couldn’t explain, his body craved it. The familiar weight of the wooden pencil pressing into his fingers, the subtle vibration of it scraping against paper, the delicate smears of graphite. It all grounded him, leaving him to feel more real. Forming into something that still made sense. Even the broken pieces of lead that snapped mid-line had meaning. They had left marks.

Acheron emptied his mind completely. He wouldn’t allow thoughts to take shape, not about the past, or the present, or anything at all. He simply let his hand move, dragging lines across the page as if possessed by muscle memory alone.

When he finally blinked out of his trance, the soft gold of late afternoon light was spilling across the floor. The sun had long since risen, and it was now well past noon. He might have continued to refine the sketch, carving out shadow and structure, but a sharp, unmistakable growl erupted from his stomach.

Annoyed, he opened the bedside cabinet in search of snacks he remembered stashing before the hospital. Empty. So was the drawer below. 

His stomach twisted again, loud and insistent.

He sighed, pressing his lips together.

His options were clear: stay and suffer, or go downstairs and find whatever was left from lunch.

It wasn’t a long debate. Hunger always wins.

He carefully closed the sketchbook and, by instinct, slid it beneath his bed—a habit leftover from childhood. The open tin of graphite pencils remained where he’d left it on the bed, their tips dull and scattered.

When he reached for the door, his arm hesitated, just like it had that morning. For a moment, his hand hovered mid-air, unsure. But he had to force himself forward, fingers curling around the handle. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The corridor stretched on, wide and silent.

He thought he would find comfort in the quiet. Instead, it felt like a trap. The silence wasn’t gentle. It was watchful. Like invisible claws were poised just out of sight, waiting for him to let his guard down.

A shiver rolled down his spine.

He moved quickly, bare feet brushing against the polished floors as he approached the grand staircase.

At the landing, he stopped.

He heard a lively conversation and soft bursts of laughter. Somehow, it soothed the frantic pace of his heart. He craved that kind of lightness, longed for the comfort of connection, but lately, it felt nearly impossible to engage. He hated the way these opposing feelings pulled at him: the ache to be part of the world again, and the fear that silenced him. 

He couldn’t trust himself. 

Couldn’t make decisions. 

Couldn’t move without second-guessing every step.

Acheron leaned against the staircase bannister, letting the uplifting atmosphere below settle over him like a warm breeze. It was then that he noticed his third-eldest brother, Ivo, had come home from university. He was sitting with their father, animatedly recounting lectures and projects, his words skipping along, rising and falling in cadence with his easy laughter.

Eron couldn't help but smile.

That was just like Ivo. He was always able to find levity, even in heavy moments. He carried light like it was stitched into his skin. Out of all the Desrosiers siblings, Ivo had the brightest smile, one that often seemed untouched by darkness, but Acheron knew that wasn't entirely true. The only time he'd ever seen Ivo truly break was the night of the attack, when he had cradled Eron in the back of their father's car, trembling with sobs that didn’t stop until they reached the hospital.

Acheron slapped his thigh, sharp and sudden, the pain anchored him back in the present and pulled him out of the memory. He took a shallow breath and continued down the stairs. 

 He found his family in the living room, bathed in warm sunlight pouring through the tall bay windows. The space was alive with green, his mother’s beloved plants filling every open surface. She never cared much for knick-knacks or crowded displays. Instead, her décor was always simple, natural, and alive.

Eron’s eyes drifted over the room, quietly cataloguing. Family portraits in delicate silver frames. Some paintings were store-bought, others clearly his own. A large television sat in the far corner like a forgotten relic. It had always been more ornamental than useful. His family had long preferred their hobbies to mindless background noise. Evenings here were spent sketching, journaling, knitting, or playing the occasional board game. This room had witnessed so many quiet, ordinary moments, and that’s why he had come here.

He didn’t feel like talking, but he also didn’t want to be alone.

He moved quietly, slipping into the room like a shadow and settling onto an empty corner of the couch. Without thinking, he pulled a nearby blanket over his legs. 

Oaklen noticed him immediately. His heart ached at the sight—his youngest, finally joining them without prompting. He hadn’t realised until this moment just how much he had missed this. A simple moment, his son was in the room.

He squeezed his wife’s hand gently and nodded toward Acheron.

Ivy looked over and smiled softly. She said nothing, didn’t reach out. She just let him be. The atmosphere remained light, untouched. It was enough to just sit here and breathe.

A lull fell over the room, and then… ggrrrowl.

Acheron’s stomach betrayed him with a loud protest.

Like a fox hearing the rustle of prey, Ivy perked up and laughed lightly.

“There goes my summoning bell,” she joked as she rose, slipping out of the room, no doubt heading to the kitchen.

Eron flushed, cheeks burning. He buried his chin beneath the blanket, half embarrassed and half amused.

Ivo whipped around, startled. His back had been to the door, and he hadn’t noticed Acheron slip in.

“Jeez—little ninja at it again,” he muttered with a teasing smirk, scooting over to sit beside him on the couch. With no fuss or fanfare, just Ivo being Ivo.

He turned back toward their father and picked up the thread of his story without missing a beat, animatedly recounting some outlandish prank his friend had pulled during a film lecture.

Acheron didn’t speak. He just sat still, the blanket pulled tight around his legs, the corners of his mouth threatening to twitch.

That small, ordinary gesture-no questions, no pressure, just his presence-meant more than anything anyone had done for him since the hospital.

Ivo leaned back on the couch, his arm now casually draped along the backrest. He glanced at Acheron, who still had the blanket pulled over his legs, and smiled.