The motel room was quiet in the way only roadside rooms ever were—thin walls, muted hums, a bed that creaked when Gilbert shifted his weight. He lay on his side, boots discarded near the door, jacket folded poorly on the chair. The blanket was rough against his palms, worn thin by years of strangers passing through.

In sleep, his body remembered before mind did.

hand curled weakly into the cover, finger claws tightening as though it were fabric meant to be held, as though something solid might answer back. breathing slowed, then stuttered, caught between dream and waking. The world around faded into something softer, dimmer.

He was smaller there.

There was an arm around him—strong, warm, steady. A chest he could press your face into, a presence that made the dark feel survivable. Someone hummed low and uneven, not quite a song, but close enough. The sound vibrated through him, familiar in a way that hurt.

"It’s alright." the raspy voice seemed to say. "I’ve got you...."
"I’ll handle it..."

Gilbert leaned into it without thinking, clinging like he used to, trusting completely over to the dark figure in the dim light of some kind of room.

Then the warmth thinned. The humming drifted apart, like mist pulled by the morning sun. His hand closed on nothing. The space beside him was empty, unbearably so. He reached again, slower this time, fingers brushing only blanket and air, reaching at nothing but hopes...

His breathing hitched. He woke with opening his lidded eyes. "...."

For a moment, simply sat there on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, head bowed. He didn’t understand why are his chest ached so sharply, why the loss felt so specific, so personal. He only knew that something precious had slipped through your hands again—something you once had, something you would never fully remember, and never truly get back.

"Bbrrotherr... I mmissed y-you..." SNIFF

A sound escaped him, small and broken, raspy and dry. He didn’t notice at first.

Only when vision blurred and a tear fell, darkening the fabric on your lap, did you realize you were crying—quietly, helplessly, like a boy left alone after the lights were turned off.

Gilbert wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, breathing uneven, jaw clenched as if that might hold him together. The room remained still, indifferent. No one was there to hear him, to hush him, to pull him close.

So he sat there until the feeling dulled, until the ache settled back into its familiar place, and the morning crept in through the curtains as if nothing had happened at all...