Caelen didn't know her name, but her pain was his now.
He sat by the bed, watching the girl's chest rise and fall, her face pale as bone. He'd cleaned her wounds—shallow cuts, nothing fatal—but the real hurt was deeper, carved into her soul. Loss. Betrayal. A home turned to ash. He felt it all, a weight that made his hands tremble as he brewed tea over the fire.
Hearthollow's healer, Marta, came at his call. She was a stout woman with eyes like flint, her kindness buried under years of hard choices. She examined the girl, then shook her head.
"She'll live. Body's fine. Mind's another matter."
"Can you help her?" Caelen asked, though he knew the answer.
Marta's lips thinned. "Not my trade, boy. I mend flesh, not hearts. You're the one who plays at miracles."
He flinched. Miracles. That's what they called it when he took their pain, when he carried their burdens. But miracles didn't leave you hollow, did they?
"I can't," he said, voice low. "Not this. It's too much."
Marta snorted. "Always is with you. Yet you keep trying." She packed her bag, pausing at the door. "Don't let her drag you down with her, Caelen. Some wounds don't heal."
When she was gone, Caelen sat by the girl again, the fire crackling low. Her pain was quieter now, but it still hummed, a song of sorrow he couldn't unhear. He wanted to help, wanted to fix her, but Marta was right. Some wounds were too deep, and his curse only let him share them, not erase them.
The girl stirred at dusk, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, green as spring, but haunted. She saw Caelen and tensed, scrambling back against the wall.
"Who… where am I?"
"You're safe," he said again, hands raised. "I'm Caelen. This is Hearthollow. I found you in the woods."
Her gaze darted around the room, a trapped animal's panic. "I… I can't stay. They're coming. They'll find me."
"Who?" he asked, but her fear spiked, a blade in his chest, and he winced.
"Easy. You're hurt. Rest. No one's here but us."
She didn't relax, but she didn't bolt either. Her hands clutched the blanket, knuckles white.
"You don't understand. It's not safe. Not for me. Not for anyone."
Caelen leaned forward, keeping his voice soft. "Then tell me. Let me help."
Her laugh was bitter, a sound too old for her years. "Help? You can't help. No one can."
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, her pain eased, as if seeing him—really seeing him—shifted something.
"Why are you doing this? You don't know me."
He could've lied, could've said it was just kindness. But the truth slipped out, raw and heavy.
"Because I feel it. Your pain. I can't stop it, but I can't ignore it either."
Her brow furrowed, confusion mixing with her fear. "You… feel it?"
He nodded, throat tight. "Always have. Everyone's pain. Yours, too."
She stared, and for the first time, someone didn't look away.
"That's a cruel gift," she whispered.
He smiled, sad and small. "Yeah. It is."
And somehow, in that moment, the silence between them hurt a little less.