I remained silent for a few seconds, time to gather my thoughts. The boy looked at me with that fragile hope that always precedes collapse.
I finally spoke.
— The woman you're looking for… I said softly, the one who gave you the potion that day… it was me.
His eyes widened immediately.
He sat up abruptly, as if his body had forgotten fatigue.
— It's… it's you?!
He almost jumped to his feet.
— I knew it! I knew she really existed!
He approached, hands trembling, his voice already charged with an almost painful fervor.
— So you can save my mother too, right?
— You've done it once, you can do it again!
I slowly raised my hand.
— Sit down, I said calmly.
He hesitated, then obeyed, his gaze fixed on me as if I were the only real thing left in this world.
I took a breath.
— I'm going to be honest with you.
My voice didn't tremble.
— I can heal diseases. I can cure the body, sometimes even the mind. But I can't heal death.
His eyebrows furrowed.
— But… but you use potions, right?
— So why not?
I slowly shook my head.
— Because death isn't a wound. It's not an infection. It's not a poison.
— It's an end.
He stood up again, anger taking over incomprehension.
— You're lying!
— You're saying that because you don't want to try!
I let him shout.
When he finally fell silent, out of breath, I continued:
— If I could bring back the dead, do you really think I'd live alone here?
— Do you think I'd let children cry for their parents?
He clenched his fists. His eyes filled with tears he first refused to let fall.
— So… all that… he murmured. All that was for nothing…
I approached and crouched in front of him, at his level.
— That's not true.
He raised his eyes to me.
— Your mother is dead, I said bluntly, but what attacked you is still there.
His face tightened.
— The spirit…
I nodded.
— I can't bring your mother back.
— But I can keep you from joining her.
He shivered.
— I can protect you from that spirit.
— I can repel it, seal it, or teach you to never be prey to it again.
The boy remained silent for a long moment.
— And if I refuse? he asked finally. If I just want… to join her?
I looked him straight in the eyes.
— Then it will be your choice.
— But as long as you're under my roof, I won't let you die.
His shoulders slumped. The tears he held back finally flowed, silent, without cries.
— I was so scared… he murmured. I was sure it was my fault.
I gently placed a hand on his head.
— It's never the child's fault.
He nodded weakly.
— You're really going to help me?
— Yes.
I stood up.
— But not with lies.
— With the truth… and with what I know how to do.
In the silence that followed, something changed.
It wasn't blind hope.
It was a decision.
I kept the child.
Not out of desire.
Not out of heroism.
I, a twenty-three-year-old girl, used to silence, trees, and vials, found myself with a boy scared of something he didn't even understand. Something that I, on the contrary, knew too well.
He slept that night on the couch, wrapped in the blanket I had given him. His breathing was irregular, as if he still feared the spirit would come for him in his sleep. I stayed a long time sitting on a chair, watching him, arms crossed, unable to find rest.
I had never planned this.
I had never wanted this.
And yet… I didn't open the door to make him leave.
____
Days passed.
At first, he barely spoke. He got up early, sat outside, stared at the trees as if they could give him answers. I told him where to wash, what to eat, without particular warmth. He obeyed without arguing. Too well. Like someone who had already learned that arguing was pointless.
One morning, I headed to the forest to gather plants. He jumped up.
— Can I come?
I looked at him, surprised.
I wasn't used to people asking me that.
— It's not a walk, I replied. It's dangerous.
He nodded.
— I'll be careful.
He said it without assurance, without bravado. Just as an obvious fact. So I sighed and finally agreed.
The forest was dense, humid, full of murmurs. I explained to him how to recognize certain plants: those that soothe the body, those that calm the mind, those that can kill if confused. He listened with an almost painful concentration, as if every word mattered.
— How do you know all that? he asked.
— I learned alone. Then with a shaman. And above all… by surviving.
He asked no more questions.
Little by little, he started helping me.
He held the baskets while I cut the roots. He noted the times, conditions, temperature. He watched me prepare my potions with silent fascination. One day, as I was mixing a decoction, I caught him mimicking my gestures in the air.
— Want to try? I asked.
His eyes lit up.
I taught him to crush leaves, respect dosages, feel when magic needed to be infused. He had no particular gift, but rare patience. And sincere attention.
— Do you want to become a healer? I asked him with a slight smile.
He shrugged.
— I just want… no one to die without me trying.
That sentence struck me harder than I would have thought.
Meals became strange moments.
We ate together, in silence at first. Then he started talking.
He talked about his mother. Her voice. The way she sang off-key but didn't care. His dream of becoming a cartographer. He wanted to draw maps to never get lost again.
— And you? he asked one evening. What did you dream of when you were little?
I froze for a moment.
— I didn't dream, I finally replied. I survived.
He didn't reply. He just lowered his head.
Sometimes, at night, he had nightmares. He woke up in sweat, convinced the spirit was there. I then placed a light barrier around the house, a discreet spiritual protection. I told him everything was fine. And, without realizing it, I stayed by his side until he fell asleep again.
One evening, he said to me:
— You know… when I'm here, I'm less scared.
I didn't reply.
But that sentence stayed engraved in me.
Weeks passed.
I caught myself adjusting my schedule for him. Cooking a bit more. Preparing less dangerous potions when he was near me. Worrying when he stayed too quiet.
I hated that.
I hated this attachment that was born without my consent.
And yet… when I saw him smile succeeding an infusion, when I heard him laugh at something stupid, something cracked in me.
One evening, he asked me:
— Ravena… do you think I could stay here? Not forever… but a little longer.
I looked at him for a long time.
— This place isn't safe, I said. And I'm not the right person to raise someone.
He smiled weakly.
— Maybe. But you're the only one who hasn't lied to me.
I looked away.
I understood then what truly terrified me.
It wasn't the spirit.
It wasn't Ryan.
It wasn't the danger.
It was this absurd possibility that, without wanting it, I was becoming something for someone.
Something that dangerously resembled a refuge.
And in a world like mine…
that's often what attracts the worst catastrophes.
I knew it.
But for the first time in a long time…
I decided to stay anyway.