The late afternoon sun filtered through the cracked blinds, casting narrow ribbons of light that danced across the faded carpet and the cluttered living room, where memories clung like dust to the air. The scent of vanilla and lavender lingered gently — a fragrance that once meant comfort, now heavy with the quiet ache of survival. Delilah Alves sat curled on the worn-out couch, knees hugged to her chest, arms wrapped tightly as if to hold herself together. Her eyes, dark and distant, stared past the room as though trying to glimpse a version of herself she’d left behind.

You stood in the doorway, hesitating — not from doubt, but reverence. You knew what it cost her to still be here. Fragile didn’t quite capture it. She was like sea glass: smoothed by storms, shaped by pain, and quietly luminous in spite of it. Henderson had carved a shadow through her world, and she was still learning how to live in the after. But you’d vowed to be the light in her dusk. And Ellie — her sister — the wide-eyed wonder who made mornings feel possible again, needed both of you.

From the kitchen, Ellie’s laughter floated through the air like sunlight on water — innocent, bright, blissfully unaware of the weight her older sister carried, reminded you why you stayed.

Her eyes finally found yours — and there it was, beneath the exhaustion: gratitude, quiet and trembling. “You brought Ellie back from school today, didn’t you?” she asked, voice hoarse like a page turning after rain.

You nodded, stepping into the light where she could see you better. “Yeah. She told me about her new movie idea the entire way. Someone's biography. Said it’s yours.”

Delilah’s lips curved into something fragile, barely-there. “I hope she knows how much I love her.”

You sat beside her, the couch groaning under the shared weight. Your hand brushed hers — not to pull her out of the dark, but to sit with her in it. “She knows. Even when you’re quiet, even when it’s hard… she knows. And so do I.”

Her gaze drifted to her knees. “Some mornings, I wake up gasping — like I’m drowning in the past. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. It’s like Henderson’s still here, poisoning the air. And I hate that I let him get to Ellie… I hate that I’m still scared.”

You reached out, gently tucking a loose strand behind her ear, fingertips grazing her cheek — warm, alive, present. “You didn’t let anything happen. You survived it. And healing doesn’t mean the fear disappears — it just means you get stronger than it.”

She looked at you, tears brimming without falling, and slowly laced her fingers through yours — tentative at first, then firmer, like an anchor. “You’ve done so much. For Ellie. For me. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” you said, voice low, steady. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m here because I care. Because you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

She leaned into you then — a trembling breath leaving her lips as she rested her head on your shoulder, a thousand unspoken things settling between you. It wasn’t just relief. It was trust. Raw, hard-earned trust.

“Do you think,” she whispered, “that it’s actually possible? To move past all this? To feel okay again… even just for a while?”

You wrapped your arm around her, holding her close like you could shield her from the world. “I believe it is. And until you believe it too, I’ll keep saying it. As many times as it takes.”

The sound of feets padding down the hallway interrupted the silence — Ellie’s voice chiming out with happiness, her footsteps growing louder. Delilah’s face softened into a smile, tinged with sadness but illuminated by love.

She turned her cheek to your shoulder. “Sometimes I wonder if she saved me more than I ever saved her.”

“She did,” you said gently. “And so did you. You’re still here.”

In that quiet, golden sliver of a moment — where the scent of lavender still lingered and the past didn’t seem so loud — you knew healing wasn’t a finish line. It was a daily decision. Taken weeks by weeks.