Chapter 3 – A Fragile Beginning

Adrian’s eyes fluttered open, met with the dim glow of a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. The room was small, warm, and unfamiliar. A wooden shelf lined with old books and handmade trinkets rested against the far wall, and the scent of herbs and freshly cut wood lingered in the air. A soft blanket was draped over him, the fabric rough but comforting. For a moment, he panicked, his mind racing to remember where he was.

Then it hit him—he had collapsed, and she had brought him here.

His fingers curled into the blanket as he sat up, his body aching with resistance. He was still weak, the fever from his worsening condition making his limbs feel like lead. His gaze shifted toward the small window, where faint morning light streamed in. Outside, he saw her—the girl who had taken him in—moving about in the yard, tending to the animals. She didn’t glance his way, didn’t hover like others might have.

He should leave. He needed to leave.

But his body wasn’t ready.

Adrian clenched his jaw in frustration. He had spent so long enduring alone, untouched by kindness, that he had forgotten what it felt like. And yet, here he was, wrapped in warmth, in a place that didn’t reek of rejection. It was unsettling.

His fingers ran over the scars on his arms, a reminder of what he had become. No matter where he went, people would always look at him with disgust. He had no illusions about that.

Still, something about this place, about her, felt different.

But he refused to believe in hope. Not yet.

The wooden door creaked softly as she stepped inside, carrying a small tray in her hands. The smell of warm broth filled the air, making Adrian’s stomach twist with hunger despite himself. He kept his expression blank as she approached, setting the tray on the small nightstand beside him.

“I made some soup,” she said quietly, her voice calm but not demanding. “It’s not much, but it’ll help.”

Adrian stared at the bowl, his pride and stubbornness warring against the gnawing hunger in his belly.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, looking away.

She didn’t argue. Instead, she turned her attention to the injured rabbit resting in a wooden crate nearby. With careful hands, she lifted the small creature, checking the bandages on its tiny leg. Adrian watched her in silence, noting the tenderness in her touch, the patience in her movements.

She didn’t push. She didn’t plead.

She simply let the food sit there, waiting for him to make the choice.

Minutes passed, and the warmth of the soup continued to fill the air. His body betrayed him before his pride could stop it. He reached for the spoon with shaky fingers and took a sip, the warmth soothing his throat.

She didn’t comment when she noticed, simply continuing to care for the rabbit.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Adrian wasn’t met with fear, pity, or cruelty.

And for a fleeting moment, it made him wonder—was kindness really possible, or was this just another illusion waiting to shatter?

That night, Adrian lay awake, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. The small cottage was quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fireplace. He had almost drifted into sleep when he heard something—her voice.

Faint murmurs. Pained whispers.

He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he listened.

“…I’m sorry… I tried…”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, broken and raw.

Adrian shifted, trying to see her through the dim light. She was curled up on a small cot across the room, her face partially hidden by a thin blanket. Her fingers clutched at the fabric as if she were holding on to something—someone—who was no longer there.

A pang of something unfamiliar twisted in his chest.

In the morning, as sunlight filtered through the curtains, Adrian noticed something new—a small wooden shelf against the wall, lined with simple trinkets and a framed photograph. It was old, faded at the edges, but he could make out the faces of people—her family.

She had lost them.

When she caught him looking, she didn’t snatch the photo away or scold him. She only met his gaze and said softly, “You’re not the only one who’s been left behind.”

For the first time, Adrian didn’t look away.

The realization unsettled him. It made something inside him feel seen, and he hated it.

By the afternoon, his restlessness had become unbearable. He forced himself to stand, ignoring the weakness in his limbs, and made his way toward the door.

“I need to go,” he muttered.

She turned from where she was feeding the goats, watching him with a calm expression. “You can’t even walk properly.”

“I don’t need your help,” he snapped.

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Not because they were harsh, but because they were untrue.

His body betrayed him again, his legs buckling beneath him before he reached the doorway. He braced himself for impact, but before he hit the ground, gentle hands caught him.

She didn’t lecture him. Didn’t scold him.

She simply helped him back onto the bed, her touch firm yet careful.

Frustration burned in his throat. “Why are you helping me?” he rasped.

She met his gaze without hesitation. “Because no one helped me when I needed it.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken pain.

And for the first time, Adrian didn’t fight it.

By evening, Adrian had stopped resisting—at least in small ways. He still didn’t trust her, but he let her place a warm cup of tea on his nightstand without protest. He let her adjust his blanket without flinching. And when she sat quietly across from him, tending to her knitting, he didn’t tell her to leave.

He watched her instead, studying the way she worked, the way she hummed softly under her breath.

She treated him the same way she treated the wounded animals—patiently, without judgment.

It unsettled him.

And yet, it also made something inside him ache.

Before the night ended, he did something he hadn’t done in a long time.

He whispered, “Thank you.”

The small smile she gave him in return was the first warmth he had felt in years.

And for the first time, he let himself believe—maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be alone anymore.