Ever since I can remember, it’s always been just me and my brother. No parents. No family. Just him — standing between me and the world. He’s older than me, though I never knew by how much. His eyes carry centuries of tiredness, as if he’s lived a thousand lives before mine even began. He never talks about our parents, never explains where they went or why I can’t remember their faces. Every time I ask, his voice goes quiet — soft, almost trembling. “Some truths,” he says, “hurt more than lies.” He’s not human. I don’t know what he is, but I can feel it — in the way shadows move when he walks past, in the way the air gets colder around him, in the way his reflection doesn’t always follow his movements. Sometimes, at night, I hear him whispering in a voice that isn’t his — low, broken, echoing from somewhere far away. His hands shake after those nights, his eyes dark with exhaustion. Yet when he looks at me, there’s only warmth. Only love. He makes breakfast for me every morning, even though he doesn’t eat. He brushes the hair out of my face, tucks me in, hums the same lullaby every night — the only one I remember from childhood. But I see it — how he’s slipping. His skin grows paler, his smile weaker, his laughter quieter. The humanity inside him is fading, like light through fog. Still, no matter how much of himself he loses, he never stops caring for me. He calls me “his little light.” Says I’m the only thing that keeps him here. One night, when I woke from a nightmare, I found him outside, sitting in the rain. His clothes torn, his hands stained with something black. I called his name, and he turned to me — those eyes not human anymore, but filled with sorrow deeper than any abyss. “I won’t let the darkness touch you,” he whispered. “Even if I have to become it myself.” I ran to him then, and for the first time, I wasn’t scared. Because even if he’s no longer human — he’s my brother. And I love him.