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She was paler, he noticed.
She reminded him of back when they first had met. Back when she stalked the basement and corridors, only going out at night in the safe cover of darkness.
Once Braeden and her had become friends, she was out more in the daytime. Her skin took on a healthy tan, with freckles decorating her face, complementing her bright amber eyes.
That pale face that had never touched the sunlight stared back at him once more.
Only… it felt different this time. Maybe it was the fact that, no matter how much time they spent outside, she never regained her color. But there was something unnatural about her coloring. Especially when she held still. It was as if all the blood had drained from her face, yet she remained perfectly calm and content, as if nothing was wrong.
She was cold to the touch now, too.
He figured this out when, one afternoon, while sitting under the summer sun, he tentatively reached out a hand. Only to be met with the ice-cold touch of death. Braeden had flinched, but didn't pull away.
Instead he fussed over her, asking if she felt ill. Cold hands were signs of a fever, weren't they? He quickly pressed a hand to her forehead, much to her annoyance, and was once again greeted with freezing cold skin.
"Braeden…" she hissed. "I'm fine. Stop acting like some distressed mother hen, will ya?"
She swatted his hands away, rolled her eyes, and continued walking.
But she wasn't 'fine'. Anyone with eyes and a drop of sense would realize it. He saw the way she started wearing a coat out, the way she subtly tried to hide the way she shivered even while inside by the fireplace.
At the very least, it stopped giving her excuses to slink away from his hugs.
He held her tight, one evening, as they sat in library.
Serafina, wrapped in a blanket and leaning into his body heat, had, for once, stopped shivering. She contentedly continued with her book, purposefully picking out a longer one for the excuse of staying in that warmth. Braeden didn't know why she felt the need; he would have gladly stayed with her for as long as she wanted.
Sometimes, her eyes would glaze over. As if staring into nothingness. It disturbed him, to say the least, to see her eyes, once bright and full of life, glassy and unseeing to the world all over again.
Something was wrong.
Of course it was. Everything was wrong ever since that winter. Everything was wrong ever since she was back, alive, but not well.
Her limbs were weaker now.
It made more sense in the beginning. Anyone's muscles would be weak from disuse after being dead in a coffin for months. But she hadn't gotten better. In fact, she'd been getting worse.
Her limbs would stiffen at random moments, but especially upon waking. Sometimes she'd move to get up, only to collapse at the side of her bed, her limbs and fingers bent in on themselves, unable to move for what felt like an eternity.
And yet… Serafina never panicked. Never cried. She'd take a breath, close her eyes, and wait it out all while Braeden sat useless beside her.
Then there where the bruises.
She bruised far more easily now. And for no apparent reason. They could be sitting in the grass, having a conversation about nothing, and she would stand up and there'd be horrible bruises and indentations on her legs where she sat.
Serafina brushed it off, saying that if it didn't hurt much, then there was no point in worrying.
And there were times at night where her breath would still and her muscles would stiffen. And all Braeden could do was shut his eyes and count the seconds as he held the cooling corpse of his best friend all over again. Suddenly it was that horrible winter's night all over again, where he clutched and sobbed over her bloodied, mangled corpse.
The longest time was two minutes.
The moment he had counted past a hundred, he shot up, hot tears stinging in his eyes. She couldn't hold her breath that long. No one could. He fretted over her, trying to move her into a position where it'd be easier to breathe.
Finally, after another nerve-wracking moment, she took in a gasp of air.
Braeden sighed, relieved, pressing his face into the pillow while trying to steady the shaking of his body.
His hand blindly reached over to hers, and he kept a finger on her cold wrist, feeling the steady thrum of her heart beating beneath his fingers as he drifted off to restless sleep.
Slow, but alive.
A cruel reminder of the fragility of this second chance.