In his bed, he stared at the darkness with wide eyes, feeling the stiffness in his rigid back, the blood in his veins slowing along with time. There was an alarming way the shadows stared at him, the dark waiting for his feet to meet the creaking floor to let him fall down into the unknown. And Rey felt the anticipation, so strong and desired it was, that it left him immobile. But it wasn’t just his room in which he felt this wrongness, and that only intesified his unsteadiness.

He shut his eyes, his lashes enterlacing and his hands gripping on each other and the sheet around him. Forcing himself to say something, call his father, to not give into fear, to speak, to leave. But it was as if his heart was elevating to his ears, for though it thundered against him, the only noise Rey's body unwillingly gave away. And so he sat with the covers around him, the wrongness lying stiff in the air, his body capturing the tension and yet, eveything perfectly still.

With a gulp, Rey held onto his fingers and croaked, ″Papa?″

It was like a stroke of a feather on the ground, gentle and unnoticed. There was no reply, no sound of his father nearby, nor the feeling. Rey’s eyes split, letting the darkness in again, his hands gripping the sheet only harder. His hands feeling the rapid pulse that navigated through his whole body, and it only got faster, like a clock whose seconds had been altered.

He didn't let himself wait for the heavy footsteps stopping outside his door, or the husked, gentle voice that so belonged to only one person. And Rey ached to find him. In his mind, he could hear the kind way his father had chuckled the previous morning when Rey walked into the kitchen. The wooden drawers shining with the daylight and shut they were, obscuring the delicate glassed-potions that filed in rows in most of the room.

That morning, his father had given him his first cooking lesson. Grabbing Rey by the wrist and carefully placing the big, rusted spatula in the palm of Rey's hand. In the darkness, he still recalled how big and misplaced it felt in his hands, his small fingers barely being able to grab it completely. But Rey had wanted to learn. Not just cooking, anything, in general, he wanted to learn how his father made any task appear flawless and flexible under his hand. So that morning, he was willing to learn any lesson given to him, any task, anything. And if it started with learning the basics of scrambled eggs, at least it started.

With his back to his father, the pan lied with shivering raw eggs waiting for the spatula that was tight in Rey's fist.

"Now Rey," the scratchy whisper of his father prickled his ears, "those eggs are not going to stirr themselves."

Rey had wanted to look at his father, gain the reassurance that anything he does, no matter how, will be done right. But instead, his eyes remained focused and he moved the spatula across the pan. His father gave a low laugh behind him, the vibrations warmed Rey and continued him on.

"Thatta boy,'' he said, and softly he grabbed Rey's loose hand and placed it on the handle of the pan. "You got to hold it in place while you're stirring or else."

Rey frowned at the hand loosely holding the handle, "What happens if I don't hold it, Papa?"

"What do you mean 'what happens'?", his father laughed. "It runs away with all your food, that's what happens."

Rey felt his back tense, his grip on both the stirring spatula and the handle strengthening and with a whisper he asked, "It can do that?"

His father leaned in even more, holding Rey's torso with one hand and his other hand, traveling to Rey's closed fist on the spatula.

"With what you can do," he whispered, "a pan running away is nothing."

The memory vanished like a whisper, and the daylight in a kitchen was replaced by the darkness in his room. Rey's eyes were open, facing the darkness again, but this time, with a steadier rythm beating in his chest. Letting go of the sheets which were damp with sweat where he gripped them, Rey slipped out of the bed, his feet making contact with the cold of the floorboards.

Slowly, he walked blind, aware of every step he took and where his hands told him to go further or change to another direction. It went on like this until his hand rested on the knob, metal and cool. His senses remained highly strained over the stiffness in the air, so when he twisted the knob and the door creaked open, it felt like he entered an unwelcoming part of fear, and this was simply because Rey had never made it this far.

With a packed swallow, he stepped into the hallway, and at the end, he noticed a small yellow light peeking at a corner, lighting a small part of the living room. Quietly, Rey traveled, the fear stuck in his throat and his nervousness reflcting through his knotted fingers.

"Papa?" he croaked.

For a few seconds there was no sound, only a faint humming of the city, but as abrupt as a blink of an eye, there was a hitch, a small hint of struggle coming from the living room and immediately, Rey flinched. Without much control, he had taken a step back, his body freezing in place. His eyes were fixated on the yellow light at the end of the hallway, focusing for any movement or sound. More than ever, he felt the door of his room behind him, still open, welcoming untrusted safety, but safety.

Rey shook the thought off and took a tentitive step.

"Papa?" his voice grew louder. And as much as he wanted an answer, he didn't know if he'd like it.

With no reply, he took in a deep, short breath and walked quicker to the end of the hallway. His heart speeding as he approached the faint light, and his eyes aching to close and run and hide. But he remained them open. And at last, at the end of the hallway, the faint light was in front of him, coming from a small flashlight his father always used for small tasks. And next to it was his father.

A body who was capable of great strength lied stiff on the ground with a pool of crimson expanding beneath him. There was blood coming out of multiple tears in his chest, the slashes in the shirts pointing out how the harm was done.

"Papa?" It was hardly a whisper or anything at all.

Rey collapsed next to his father, on top of the whirl of blood, and tried to put his hand around him. But it felt unnatural. It felt wrong to try to comfort anything that was lying stiff, unresponsive, dead.

Those eggs are not going to stir themselves.

Rey took in a deep breath, remembering the closed drawers and cabinets, remembering what they hid inside,

With what you can do.

Rey looked at his father's closed eyes and then down at his chest that went up and down in varying paces, he felt the blood sticking to his knees and staining the ends of his toes. It wasn't time to think, so with all the strength he had, his hands pressed on the slashes of his father's chest. Soaking his hands bright red and feeling the holes which were dug with a knife. Rey pressed and closed his eyes.

All of a sudden, the world was spinning. The strength in his arms that squeezed the injury felt as if it were cramping up, but with deeper concentration, Rey focused. And the freezing and numbing feel in his fingertips submerged, as if he were squeezing on ice. The powers on the palm of his hand were moving through Rey, like if blood were being drained from him. Making him more exhausted.

"Please," Rey groaned, his back clenching, his eyes shutting out the tears that swelled in his chest. "Please!"

His fingertips were growing colder as his attempts to heal his father grew. Beads of cold sweat were enveloping Rey's body as he pressed harder and harder. He remembered the potions his father gave him so he could acquire his gift quicker and the practices he'd do by healing small injuries, but never had he done them when they were this grave.

You got to hold it in place or else.

Or else it leaves you.

"But you can't," Rey croaked, feeling the loosening in his hands. "you can't leave me."

His eyes began opening and he saw the red flame sinking in his father's body. But no more was there a fall or a rise to his chest. The dread in Rey clawed him, yanking his heart with pain that only sunk like a body in the ocean.

"You can't!" Rey shouted, tears trailing down his cheeks, his hands steadying on his chest getting ready to try again. "Please, you can't!"

And with all the force packed, he squeezed and forced the power to come back. Forced himself to give it his all, forced himself to feel the cramping in his arms, forced himself to feel the healing working. But just like a fire can't start under water, neither can a man be healed when already dead.

And Rey collapsed. His body shrinking on his father's wounded chest. His suplications increasing. His weakness growing.

"Please." Rey cried, but his begging, his gifts, his efforts were now only useless.