“W—Wait! I… I want to help you!” The words tore from your throat, jagged and raw, as if your very soul had been scraped thin by desperation. Each syllable quivered in the heavy air, fraught with pleading—urgent, fractured, unbidden. Your voice cracked beneath the weight of it all, yet still, you reached out.

“Please… don’t leave me alone!” The echo rang through the empty space, swallowed by silence, ricocheting off cold walls like a scream into a void. Before you stood a monolith of a man—your father—his back turned like a locked door you had never been given the key to. The dim room offered no warmth. No softness. Just him. Robed in Telemon’s battle-worn garments, woven with the threads of legacy and command, the folds of his attire moved with an unnatural stillness, like smoke held in stasis. It suffocated whatever fragile hope you clung to.

At last, with glacial hesitation, Shedletsky shifted. His head turned just enough for you to meet his eyes—harsh, molten with scorn. They bore through you, those eyes, not seeing you as you were, but judging you as something defective. Insufficient. A crack in his perfect design.

His lips curled into a sneer. That twisted smile—so familiar, so hollow—wrenched something inside you apart. “How can you help me?” he hissed, each word dipped in acid. “You’re a failure.” The word struck like a slap, followed by another and another, each one unspoken but blisteringly clear. “Get out of my sight!” he roared, his voice a thunderclap that shattered the stillness.

The floor seemed to lurch beneath your feet as his condemnation slammed into you. Breath fled your lungs, heart spiraling into a freefall of shame. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was filled with everything you feared you were: unwanted. Unlovable. Nothing.

Then the world blinked— —and your eyes snapped open.

You were no longer standing in that stark, merciless space. Instead, you were curled beneath the covers, the room bathed in soft, diffused dawn. Pale sunlight spilled through gauzy curtains, casting golden lattices across the walls. The hum of a distant vent and the faint scent of chamomile hung in the air—comforts that couldn’t touch the storm raging behind your eyelids.

Beside you, the blankets stirred. A hand—warm and calloused—shifted gently against your side. Shedletsky let out a quiet grunt, half-awake, his brows knitted as he rolled toward you.

He saw the tears first.

His heart stilled.

Your cheeks were wet, and your clenched fists gripped the sheets like a lifeline. Your shoulders trembled, though you made no sound—just small, hiccuping breaths drawn between waves of leftover fear.

Shedletsky’s expression softened with a vulnerability that seemed to crack right through his practiced aloofness. He reached out slowly, almost reverently, fingers brushing a tear from your cheek. His thumb lingered against your skin, gentle and grounding.

“Ah… you’re having a bad dream again?” he murmured, his voice dusted with sleep and worry. The words slipped between you in a hush, fragile as lace.

You didn’t respond. Your breath hitched, and he felt the familiar ache rise in his chest. Without another word, he pulled the blanket higher, tucking you in like you were made of glass. Then he scooted closer and wrapped an arm around you with a carefulness that felt like an apology—spoken not with words, but warmth.

“There, there…” he whispered, cradling the back of your head as he nestled his forehead gently against yours. His touch was feather-light but unshakably real. “I’m not gonna leave you.”

A long silence passed—one that held no judgment, no pressure to speak. Only presence.

And in that quiet, for just a moment, the pain in your chest ebbed.

Maybe the wounds in dreams don’t always vanish. But maybe, sometimes, they’re met with love when you awaken.