The morning light, pale and uncertain, filtered through Faith's drawn curtains, painting the small living room in muted hues. Owen woke slowly, a heavy lethargy clinging to him, but it was a different kind of exhaustion than the terror-induced kind he was used to.
This was the deep weariness of a mind finally beginning to rest. He lay on the sofa, a soft blanket draped over him, the faint scent of lavender still in the air. For a moment, he simply existed, feeling the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the distant sounds of the city, and a strange, unfamiliar sense of safety.
He remembered everything. The nightmare, the frantic run, the bizarre fire from his hand, and Faith. He turned his head cautiously. She was seated in a worn armchair across the room, illuminated by the soft glow of a laptop screen, a mug clutched in her hands.
She seemed to be intently focused on whatever was on the screen, her dark hair falling forward, obscuring her face.
Embarrassment, that familiar, unwelcome guest, began to creep in. He was still in her house, still a burden. He slowly, quietly, sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around him. The fresh clothes felt better, but his presence here felt like an imposition.
Faith must have sensed his movement. She lowered her laptop, placing it carefully on the small table beside her, and turned her head. Her calm, brown eyes met his, and he felt a flicker of that unsettling serenity he'd noticed yesterday. There was no surprise, no judgment, just a quiet acknowledgment.
"Morning," she said, her voice a soft murmur.
"Sleep well?"
Owen nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Better than I have in a long time, actually. Thanks." He felt a flush creep up his neck. "I, um, I should probably go. I don't want to overstay my welcome."
Faith simply raised an eyebrow, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture. "No rush," she said, her gaze steady. "There's coffee ready. And some toast, if you're hungry."
Her casualness disarmed him. He nodded again, swinging his legs off the sofa. As he moved, a faint, almost subliminal flicker of color caught Faith's eye. She quickly glanced at her pocket, where the necklace rested, then back at Owen. He hadn't noticed anything.
They sat at the small kitchen table again, the silence less awkward than the night before, more companionable. Owen sipped his coffee, its warmth spreading through him. He found himself looking at Faith, trying to decipher her. She was an enigma, a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. She didn't press him with questions, didn't pry into his past beyond what he'd offered. Yet, her presence felt like a silent invitation to speak, to confide.
"About what I told you last night," Owen began, his voice low, picking at a piece of toast. "About the voices... and the fire. You didn't... you didn't think I was crazy." It wasn't a question, more of a desperate need for confirmation.
Faith took a slow sip of her coffee. "The mind is complex, Owen," she finally said, her voice thoughtful. "And emotions can be incredibly powerful. They can shape reality in ways most people don't understand." She looked at him directly. "You're not crazy. You're... reacting to something. Something very real."
Her words were a lifeline, a validation he hadn't known he desperately craved. He felt a profound sense of relief, a loosening of the tight knot that had resided in his chest for so long. "But what was it?" he pressed, compelled by an almost insatiable need to understand. "The thing in my room. The flame."
Faith hesitated, her fingers subtly tracing the rim of her mug. "Some things," she said, her voice softer, "are beyond easy explanation. What you saw, what you felt… it was born from your fear, from your despair. But it was also a reflection of something within you. Something dormant that reacted to extreme pressure."
She stopped short of explaining the necklace, or what she truly understood about his "power." It was too soon. He needed time to process.
Owen mulled over her words. "Something within me?" he repeated, frowning. He thought of Sophia, of the endless, grinding torment. "You mean... like the stress? The abuse?"
Faith's eyes darkened for a brief instant, a flicker of something close to anger passing through them. She didn't say anything explicitly about Sophia, but her silence spoke volumes. "Your experiences have shaped you, Owen," she said, carefully. "They've also awakened something. Something even i cannot describe."
Owen looked down at his right hand again, a sense of unease mixed with a strange, nascent curiosity. The tingling was gone. It felt normal. But he knew, deep down, that it wasn't.
"You said... I'm safe here, for now," Owen said, finally voicing the thought that had lingered since yesterday. "What happens next? I can't go back to... to them."
He couldn't even bring himself to say his parents' names. The thought of that house, that suffocating silence, the constant watchful malice, made his stomach clench.
Faith's expression softened, a rare, almost vulnerable look. "No," she agreed, her voice firm. "You can't. Not yet, anyway." She paused, her gaze distant, as if looking into a future she was already calculating. "For now, you stay. We'll figure things out. You need time to… ground yourself. To understand what happened "
Owen looked at her, truly looked. This girl, barely a stranger, was offering him sanctuary, understanding, and something that felt like a fragile hope. He had glimpsed a deeper knowledge in her eyes, a quiet power that resonated with the chaos he had experienced.
She saw him, truly saw him, beyond the broken shell he'd become.
As the morning continued, they fell into a comfortable rhythm. Faith worked quietly on her laptop, occasionally offering him cryptic insights or observations about the world that made him see things in a new light. He, in turn, found himself drawn to her quiet intensity, her unwavering composure. He realized he had never truly experienced a connection like this – one built on honesty, however partial, and an unspoken understanding that transcended mere words. The world outside, the one he had just escaped, felt distant, almost unreal. For the first time in his life.