3

Asaraiah

He didn’t die.

That was the first miracle.

I checked his pulse every hour the first night, half-hoping it would stop just so I could sleep again without one more secret weighing on my chest. But no. He lived.

And worse, he kept living which was very surprising.

He didn’t speak much. Just grunted and watched. His eyes were strange. Gold-rimmed and alert, like a beast trying to decide if it should bite or thank me. I ignored them.

Mostly.

I didn’t ask for a name. He didn’t offer one. That suited me. Names meant attachment, and attachment meant disaster. I already had enough disasters to last a lifetime.

He took up the whole back wall of the shed. When I wasn’t tending to his wounds, I sat across from him, legs folded, biting off pieces of dry bread with my eyes closed. Pretending it tasted like anything other than cardboard and hopelessness.

He didn’t complain. Not about the food, not about the moldy blankets, not about the way I yanked too hard when I wrapped his ribs.

He stared. Even when I snapped at him.

“What?” I muttered once, irritated by the weight of his gaze.

“Nothing,” he said.

Liar.

He watched me too closely. Not like my brothers did, waiting for me to make a mistake so they could punish me. His stare wasn’t cruel. It was curious. Cautious.

Sometimes it scares me more.

“Your eyes, who did you get them from?” He voiced and I shut my eyes closed on instinct. Another reason why my family hated me . They said it looked like a creature unacceptable to the mafia.

“I don't know. I never met my mother but I doubt it's from her either. I believe it's a deficiency.”

Maybe he thought I was soft. Maybe he thought the bruises made me weak.

He hadn’t seen what I was like when I fought back.

I only showed him pieces of myself. Just enough to prove I wasn’t stupid. Just enough to keep him from trying anything. I didn’t tell him how I used to read books I stole from the locked wing of the estate, how I studied the maps carved into the library table, how I memorized the family trade routes out of boredom and hunger for something that wasn’t painful.

I didn’t tell him about the plan I used to have. The plan to run away. The plan I buried.

Or the time where I tried to prove to my father I could be useful to the mafia.

But he made it hard to bury anything.

Especially when I had to feed him half of my own scraps. Especially when I caught myself counting his breaths before I left each night, afraid that if he stopped, it would mean I failed at something else

Especially when I looked at him too long and wondered what kind of life he came from. Who he was before bleeding out on my floor. And how he survived when a normal peros would have died with just the blade in the stomach.

One night, after I’d wrapped his shoulder again and handed him the bread I hadn’t touched, he asked, “Keep the bread, Why are you helping me?”

I flinched.

It was the first time he used his voice properly. Deep. Smooth. Nothing like the men in my house, who only raised their voices to demand or destroy.

“Because you said you’d give me anything,” I said.

His mouth twitched. I thought it might be a smile, but it disappeared before I could be sure.

“I don’t even know your name,” he said.

“You don’t need to.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, he said, “You’re bleeding.”

I froze.

My sleeve had slipped up. A fresh welt peeked out beneath the cloth. Purple. Raised. Ugly.

I tugged the fabric back down.

“Don’t worry about it,” I muttered.

He didn’t speak

.

Instead, he stood. Slowly, painfully, like every step was a negotiation with his ribs. But he stood. And for the first time, I noticed how tall he really was. How broad. How terrifying he could be if he wanted.

But he didn’t touch me. Didn’t raise his voicez

“Let me see,” he said.

“No.”

His jaw clenched. Not angry. Frustrated. As if my silence said more than I ever could.

Then, in a voice lower than before, he said, “I’ve killed for less than what they’ve done to you.”

I should have flinched.

I didn’t

.

Instead, I pulled off my outer shirt.

One scar. Two. Old. New. The room felt colder with them exposed.

He didn’t gasp. Didn’t look away. He stared at them like they were puzzle pieces. Then he stepped forward and pressed his palm flat against the worst one.

I didn’t move.

And when I looked up, I saw it. Something flickering in his eyes.

No pity.

Rage.

He cupped my jaw with his other hand

I couldn’t breathe.

“Now what sin could you have possibly committed to be beaten with such hate?”

“The sin of living.”

Not because I was afraid. But because it had been so long since someone touched me like I was more than damaged.

His head dipped, and I thought he might kiss me. Maybe I wanted him to. But he didn’t. His forehead rested against mine. A slow inhale. The first moment I hadn’t felt alone in years.

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispered, “but I owe you my life.”

I didn’t answer

.

Because if I did, I might cry. And I swore a long time ago I wouldn’t cry for anyone again.

Not even gold-rimmed strangers.