The dawn of light

(A week later)

In the flipping days of falling March, under a cavernous night heavy with glum air, the windy road of Vernilla churns with cars rushing to outrun the storm murmuring close—solemnly spiraling from the west to drown the capital city of Erriador in angst.

On the top floor of a low-rise apartment building of four combined levels, a dimly lit room glows with the pale wash of computer screens.

An array of monitors lines the desk, their light casting the lone silhouette into partial view—carving the features of Rhett in ghostly strokes.

A muffled thunderclap slashes the sky. Gusts of storm-wind slam the window.

Rhett's right index finger clicks steadily on the mouse, his left hand lifting a beer can in lazy sips—each motion a quiet testimony of his haunted, enduring presence.

Then his eyes dull.

He crushes the can in his fist, splattering the last drops, and hurls it across the room.

It hits the wall with a clattering clang.

He exhales—shaky, cornered.

It's always the same.

The same futile forage of four long years.

Each day leaves him more hollow, more fractured than the last. Rotten. Forfeited. Caged in the harrowing Pandemonium of night terrors.

Rain pours in torrents, thunder rumbling like a beast clawing the sky apart. The wind howls to uproot trees and tear roofs as hail batters everything in its path. Through the uncurtained, bleary window, Rhett watches nature's wrath cascade in vertical streaks.

A strange satisfaction stirs in his chest. Fingers calmly steepled on his thighs, he lets the storm consume his senses.

He relishes this storm—the clone of his soul.

If the world must be torn asunder—let it be tonight.

If he still had her, he would've been safe in her arms. Warm. Whole. If Neva were here—if his Angel were here.

Her smiling face flashes behind his eyes.

And then—

A roll. A crack. A burned scent.

The room in turmoil.

The ravaged sheets.

The bed they'd made love in… the bed—

Agony drills into his chest. He stiffens. So cold it feels like combustion. He rubs his face hard with calloused palms. He swallows. His dark pupils tremble, echoing the scalped ruin of his soul.

He's falling off the cliff again.

She was his mercy.

The only one who held his hand when he nearly pulled the trigger.

It's fate that haunts him.

The way of the world killing him.

But she's alive.

He knows it.

He feels it.

He'll find her. He'll bring her home.

That belief is what jerks him back from the abyss of the hollow shell he lives in.

"Dada?" comes a small, dulcet voice through the storm's rumble.

Rhett slowly turns.

Rhean toddles toward him, eyes sleepy and fingers wrapped around a soft white lamb—his mother's handmade gift.

"I can't sleep, Dada," he murmurs, arms outstretched to be lifted.

"Afraid of the thunder?" Rhett asks, voice dulled with fatigue, but he lifts him onto his lap.

Settled in his father's chest, Rhean shakes his head. "I miss Mama," he whispers, clutching the lamb tighter.

A pang shoots through Rhett's heart. A sweet sting at her spell.

"Me too," he whispers back.

"Can we watch her, Dada? Please?" Rhean's eyes shimmer—doe-like and pleading.

Some days, when a fleeting clue, an illusive thread, promises a chance to find her, Rhett gathers the courage to watch the footages. He breaks out of his paralysis to look at the film of her—of them together.

But not always. Not every day.

And he doesn't know if it is today.

"Please…" Rhean trails off.

His teary eyes. His trembling lips.

They strip Rhett's emptiness into something living again.

Humans are confusing creatures. One moment draws you into light, into the bliss of hope—a wish to live. And the next—

Dread. A formless demon with no flesh or features, crawling from your grave with dripping claws, scratching the wood of your coffin to devour what's left of your soul.

Feelings are distraught—

A grave of sorrow, a cocoon of joy. They cannot be explained.

The scenes stirring the soul cannot be grasped.

They are easy vulnerable to manipulation—the devil's to rule them.

But for now, a soft breeze of mirth cools the soreness in his chest.

A blessing before the curse before his eyes.

Neva appears onscreen.

Radiant, beautiful, eight months pregnant, posing for the camera.

She shifts clumsily, flashing a peace sign and a pout. Then, more graceful, she angles her face in a charming side-profile, arms clasped behind her back.

Behind the camera, Rhett barely stifles a laugh before he finally bursts.

He's filming her, not taking pictures—though she doesn't yet know.

"Why are you laughing?" she yells, brows scrunched, butterfly lashes fluttering in a glare.

He laughs harder.

"Rhett!" she shrieks, kitten-like. "Let me see! Do I look bad?" She lunges for the camera.

He lets her have it easily.

"You can never look bad, Angel," he teases, planting a kiss on her flushed cheek like a hopelessly lovesick teenager.

Neva narrows her eyes. Her big, round, deer-like eyes close to the camera.

Then she vanishes from the frame.

A gasp. Then a dramatic shout.

"It's a video! You tricked me!"

She glares daggers and punches his chest.

He just giggles more and steals another kiss from her lips.

"You just troubled a poor pregnant woman for nothing!" she grumbles, pushing him away as she waddles toward the door, hand on her back, the other cradling her belly.

"I'm sorry, Angel. I love you," Rhett calls, filming still.

"I hate you! Off with the camera!" she yells.

"It's for our baby, Angel," Rhett says, turning the lens on himself. "Gotta make it up to my darling wife."

He waves at the camera.

The recording ends. Silence.

Rhett floats on the memory… and then sinks again.

He decays in the darkness once again.

The storm has softened.

He shuts down his private laptop. The screen fades to black, matching the other three on his five-foot glass desk.

He glances down.

Rhean is fast asleep in his lap, cheek on his chest, fingers curled around the lamb Neva had stitched when he was only five months old.

On rare nights like this, when the ache for his mother overwhelms him, Rhean asks to see her.

Sometimes, that's all it takes to feel alive.

Sometimes, it's a whisper that keeps you breathing.

A stone's throw from destroying the world—or exorcising the ghost from your bones.

Rhett lets the shadow of death linger often, lets hopelessness strangle the last of his resolve.

But always—always—there's a spark in his chest.

A spark that survives.

Because their bond is of the spirit.

And the spirit never lies.

It cries out to him—

She's alive.

Waiting for him.

Yearning for him.

He chooses to believe that voice.

Believe in her.

Believe in himself.

She is never far too gone.

He never truly believed in the Almighty. But she did. Her faith softened him.

Even when she fell, her belief didn't.

He's done drowning.

For Neva. For Rhean. For the future they dreamed—

He will walk toward the dawn.

And so, he bows his head. Eyes closed. Tears streaming down his cheeks.

He whispers a prayer, soft and trembling, into the storm's dying breath.

"Please... I'm sorry," he murmurs, lips trembling.

"Please let me find her. Take me to her."

Because now he knows,

As long as God walks with him through the whirlwind until it fades,

The light will always rise over the valley of shadows.