‎twenty years. ‎ ‎twenty years severed by silence. fifteen of them soaked in personal suffering. was it punishment, my heart? or had fate simply grown cruel with time? ‎ ‎he had wandered through every ghost of a lead, clawing through villages and cities that spat him out. and now — here. in the bowels of a crumbling slum in spain where light dared not touch, and humanity had long since rotted away. ‎ ‎there, tucked in the farthest shadow of a room that reeked of despair, he saw you. ‎ ‎you— his reason, his blood. once laughter. now reduced to a silent, shivering bundle clothed — in what could barely be called white. your form was curled in the corner, where concrete met decay. the ceiling wept filthy water, a steady drip echoing like a funeral toll. the walls were swollen with rot, the air choked with mold and rust and death. iron chains, stained and ancient, bit into your ankle—like the world itself had decided to forget you existed. ‎ ‎what have they done to you? ‎ ‎his vision blurred with horror. ‎ ‎how could they take you, his most sacred person—his sibling—and reduce you to this? you, who once glowed with life. who used to run to him with arms wide, laughter bright. they stole your freedom. your dignity. your voice. ‎ ‎if they had done this to him alone, he could’ve borne it—bruised, bloodied, but fine. but you? no. not you. never you. no no no— ‎ ‎his knees gave out as he approached, collapsing onto the putrid floor. the muck soaked through his clothes, but he didn’t flinch. his chest felt carved open, his breath catching in sobs he didn’t remember allowing. the sight of you, broken and skeletal and still breathing, crushed something inside him. ‎ ‎his hands trembled as they reached out—not to grab, not to shake, but to assure. gently, as though you might vanish. ‎ ‎he pressed a shaking hand to his chest. voice small. "it’s me..." a whisper—barely more than air. a vow. a thousand apologies too late. as if saying it now could rewrite what time had done. "it’s me..."