Chapter Text
The first light of morning filtered through the thin curtains, soft and warm, spilling across the small apartment like a promise that the sun would always reach this room, no matter how dark the shadows felt. The air smelled faintly of medicine and antiseptic, a constant reminder of her mother’s illness. Nyx hadn’t slept properly in nights that blurred together, and now every sound seemed louder than it should be: the creak of the floorboards, the rustle of the curtains, even her own heartbeat. Sleep had become a stranger. Vigilance, a necessity.
Her mother had spent the past weeks sleeping in the children’s shared room. She could no longer make it to the toilet alone, could barely eat or drink, and needed to be within reach if help was required. Nyx remembered watching her mother’s frail form curled on the bed with Nat and Nash, the effort of simply breathing like a quiet battle. Even a child could see the end was near.
A prickle of unease ran through Nyx’s stomach. Something was wrong. She moved carefully across the narrow apartment, careful not to wake Nat or Nash. The sunlight still reached them, soft and golden, but it could not warm the chill in her chest.
At her mother’s side, Nyx froze. Nettlise’s hands were cold. Her chest did not rise. A terrible, quiet knowledge pressed against Nyx’s ribs. “Mom…?” The word barely left her lips, trembling but urgent. She shook her gently, checked for a pulse — nothing.
Panic threatened, but Nyx shoved it down. There was no time for tears. Crying would not save her mother. It would not protect Nat and Nash. Her hands pressed to her mother’s chest, counting silently, recalling what she had learned from books and lessons. Nat stirred. Nash whimpered. Responsibility pressed against her like iron: she had to act. She had to move forward.
The creak of the front door made her flinch. Her father entered, eyes narrowing, sharp and unyielding. They landed on her like iron, heavier than grief. No words came. Only silent judgment. Nyx felt it, and she ignored it. Weakness could not exist here. There was no room for it.
Two weeks later, the words still cut: “Did you do CPR correctly?” No comfort. No apology. Only blame. But she did not cry. She could not. There was no time to mourn. Survival had to come first.
Sleep remained fleeting and fractured, haunted by memory and shadow. But it honed her senses: every sound, every movement, every subtle shift in the apartment registered instantly. Hyper-vigilance became her armor. Alertness, her second nature. Every observation was a tool, every detail a weapon.
Alone with Nat and Nash, Nyx understood the truth: she was their protector now. There could be no weakness, no hesitation. Rest could wait, grief could wait. The world was dangerous, and she had to survive — for them.
In the quiet, she listened. Every creak, every sigh, every pulse of air became part of a rhythm she could anticipate, calculate, and control. She would not fail them. She could not. Survival was the only lesson she could afford to teach herself. And she would master it, with every ounce of strength she had left.