he forest wept. Rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming on the canopy above and splattering into the dark, sodden earth below. Each droplet seemed heavy, as if carrying the grief of the world itself.
Shadows clung to the twisted trunks and tangled undergrowth, making the path nearly invisible. Yet through the storm, a boy stumbled forward, his small frame bent under the weight of his burden.
Kaelthar was no more than twelve, but the wet strands of hair plastered to his forehead and the dirt smearing his cheeks made him look older.
On his back, clinging tightly with a mix of fear and desperation, was Lyssara, a girl of about nine. Her clothes were torn, and blood streaked her pale skin, a vivid contrast against the mud and rain.
"Huff… huff…" Kaelthar gasped, his legs burning with exhaustion. The forest seemed endless, a maze of dripping branches and shadows that reached out like skeletal hands.
"Just a little more, and we'll get you to a hospital, Lyssara," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Every word was a battle, each breath a labor.
Lyssara coughed violently, a spray of blood staining the front of Kaelthar's worn jacket. Her small hand clutched at his shoulder, weak but determined to comfort him even in the chaos of pain.
"Nnngh… broth— cough… cough…"
Kaelthar's chest tightened. Seeing her struggle, he pushed himself harder, moving faster, ignoring the scream of his aching muscles. The mud sucked at his shoes, his legs trembling from exhaustion, but he ran anyway.
"We're nearly there, Lyssara. Hold on… please… don't die on me. I can't lose anyone else—not you too."
Despite the agony and fear, Lyssara managed a small, fragile smile. There was an unnatural maturity in her gaze, a clarity beyond her years. She whispered between coughs:
"B-brother… I will… cough… always be with you. Watching you… so don't give up on living… and… please… be… nice to yourself."
Kaelthar's hands clenched around her small frame. "Stop talking," he panted. "I will get you to the hospital, alright? Don't… don't give up now."
But the cold was already creeping into Lyssara's body. Her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if the life inside her was being quietly stolen away. Kaelthar didn't notice at first, focused solely on the road ahead, the hospital, salvation.
His legs failed him suddenly, the slick mud and endless strain finally breaking his resistance. He fell to his knees, then collapsed fully onto the sodden ground.
And in that instant, he knew. Lyssara's small body was limp against his back. She was gone.
"No… no… no!" His voice cracked, echoing through the empty forest. Tears streamed freely, blurring the world into a haze of gray rain and shadow.
His thoughts twisted with guilt and rage. I should have moved closer to the city… I should have left this village…
But then he remembered her words, soft and deliberate, echoing in the hollow chambers of his mind: Don't… give up… please… be nice to… yourself.
The storm roared around him, a chaotic symphony to match the chaos within. His sobs slowed, the fire of despair settling into a dull, aching sorrow.
"I'm… sorry, Lyssara," he whispered, voice cracking. The world felt hollow, every sound distant, every shadow menacing. And yet, beneath it all, a small ember of resolve remained. He would bury her. He would honor her memory.
Kaelthar dragged himself through the mud, feet cut and bruised, hands raw from the effort. Each step was agony, but he carried her body to a clearing near the heart of the forest.
There, he dug with trembling arms, the earth cold and unyielding. Rain fell on his hair, washing away the blood and mingling with his tears. The hole was shallow, rough, but it would serve.
As he lowered her into the grave, he pressed his forehead against her damp hair. "I failed you… but I will not fail anyone else. Not now."
Above, the storm continued without mercy. The forest seemed to watch, silent and eternal, as if marking the passage of a child through grief into something darker, something harder.
And in that rain-soaked silence, Kaelthar made a promise—one that would shape the rest of his life.
Kaelthar left the forest behind, every step heavier than the last. His shoes were shredded from the constant running through mud and roots, his feet a raw mosaic of blood and bruises.
The rain had turned to a steady drizzle, leaving the world damp and muted, as if the very life had been drained from the village he returned to.
The houses stood abandoned, doors swinging open in the wind, windows shattered or smeared with grime.
A thin mist clung to the ground, curling around broken fences and overgrown paths, giving the village the appearance of a place forgotten by the sun.
Two weeks had passed since the plague had struck, and its mark was evident everywhere. Families had fled in terror, leaving behind scraps of lives and belongings, unwilling or unable to witness the slow, inevitable decay of their neighbors.
Kaelthar moved silently through the empty streets, his mind numb with grief. He had returned not to save anyone, not to rebuild, but to die—to join Lyssara in the silence of death. Yet fate, cruel and unpredictable, had other plans.
Despite his months alone, scavenging the abandoned farms and avoiding the taint of sickness, Kaelthar had remained untouched by the plague.
Not a fever, not a cough, not even a shiver. It was as if the disease, which had stolen so many lives, had no claim on him. And in that strange survival, he felt a bitter, hollow anger.
"This disease…" he whispered, voice rough and ragged, "the thing that took my everything from me… it can't even take me."
He paused in the village square, hands trembling at the realization of his endurance. His sister, his family… all gone. And yet he lived. Survival felt meaningless, a cruel joke played by the universe.
Kaelthar returned to the small clearing where Lyssara lay. The rain had softened the earth, and the fresh grave bore witness to his anguish.
He knelt beside it, placing a trembling hand over the wooden markers he had carved. He spoke aloud, the words almost a chant, a way to keep the silence at bay.
"I survived… months alone… and still, nothing touched me. But… it changes nothing. It can't bring you back, Lyssara. Not even this."
He stayed there for hours, speaking to her as if she could hear him, recounting every moment of solitude, every struggle with hunger, every night of cold and fear.
He spoke of his helplessness, his grief, his anger at a world that demanded life but offered nothing in return.
Then, after a long silence, he made a decision. "I will come back… as a doctor," he said, voice steady but low. "Maybe this way… maybe I can save people who die before their time… maybe I can stop others from feeling the same pain I feel now."
The rain began to ease, the clouds parting just enough to allow thin streaks of sunlight to pierce the gloom. Kaelthar looked down at the grave and bowed his head. The world around him seemed to hold its breath, the wind quiet, the forest at the edge of the clearing watching with an eerie stillness.
Leaving Lyssara behind, Kaelthar made his way to the nearest city, a place of stone streets and crowded markets, so different from the silence of his village.
He found work, studied, learned the language of medicine and healing, dedicating every ounce of his energy to a goal that once would have been impossible for a child of his age and rural origin.
Years passed in a blur of study, labor, and determination. Kaelthar became stronger, not just in body, but in mind.
He endured bullying, scorn, and the isolation of being different, yet he pressed forward, always carrying Lyssara's memory as both burden and guide.
The sorrow he had buried in the forest now tempered his resolve, shaping him into someone meticulous, controlled, and unyielding in his purpose.
The day finally came when he stood before the mirror in his small apartment, clad in the formal attire of a doctor, certificate in hand. Paul, his housemate, leaned against the doorway, shaking his head with a wry smile.
"Kaelthar, you're still looking as gloomy as yesterday and the day before. You should cheer a little—it's the day you get your graduate certificate."
Kaelthar's eyes did not leave the reflection of himself. "It doesn't matter if I'm gloomy or not. I will just get it and come back," he said quietly, almost as if speaking to someone else entirely.
Paul laughed softly. "What a hard person you are. I wonder how you were as a child…"
Kaelthar said nothing, slipping past him and into the bustling streets outside. The city was alive with noise, movement, and possibility, yet he felt apart from it all.
Though he had changed in so many ways, the sorrow in his heart had not diminished—it had only grown quieter, more internalized, a shadow that would always follow him.
And as he walked, the past came rushing back unexpectedly. A loose tile fell from a rooftop, striking him on the head, and his vision blurred.
Memories flooded his mind like a torrent: his father leaving, his mother indifferent, the countless days of struggle and loss, and above all, Lyssara—the sister he had failed to protect.
The grief surged, but now it was tempered by something darker: a stillness, a control forged in the fires of despair. His mind, though shaken by the memory, did not falter.
Instead, he remembered the promise he had made beside her grave: a vow to survive, to endure, to carry the weight of what had been lost into every life he could touch.