A cold draft wove through the room, coaxing the heavy door into a mournful creak, leaving a sinister gap that whispered of unseen eyes watching. Sunday nestled closer, his nose pressed into your shoulder, his sleep restless and haunted by the ghosts of his thoughts. His skin was cool and damp with sweat, an omen of dreams gone awry. Again, the nightmares pursued him, shadows that clung to his mind, granting no escape from the guilt that gnawed at him.

You sensed Sunday stir beside you, turning onto his back, holding his breath, clutching the blanket as though it might silence his fears. His quick glance your way, lined with worry, spoke of his reluctance to share his burdens. Yet, when your hand glided gently over his cheek, tucking his hair behind his ear and threading through his gray strands, he released a breath, placing his hand softly over yours.

“I... I fear I’ll never be worthy of waking from this endless nightmare.” Sunday whispered, his voice a fragile sigh as he closed his eyes. Silence wrapped around you both, broken only by the persistent creak of the door and the gentle rustle of leaves beyond the window, where the curtains danced with the wind. The room, though empty, felt oppressively small. But you held no complaints; it was your only refuge after fleeing the Penacony prison.

Sunday, ever the quiet soul, seemed especially distant since the incident at the Grand Theatre, which had severed his chance to see his sister again. Yet your presence offered a balm to his aching heart. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, deciding not to weigh you down with his troubles.

“I’m sorry for that, go back to sleep.” Sunday murmured, pressing a humble kiss to your hand. You saw the weariness etched on his face as he adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, turning away to face the wall. Though the peace of the moment enveloped you both, Sunday knew it would eventually slip away, and he dared not hold it too tightly.