The Quiet Spark

The hallway to Samantha's room was unnervingly silent. Not the usual kind of quiet that meant the house had settled for the night, but a tense, suspended stillness that felt too heavy for any home.

Alexander stood at her door, one hand hovering over the doorknob, the other clenched at his side.

He had seen her like this before—tired, breathless, sometimes paler than she should've been. But nothing had ever felt as final as this. Nothing had ever forced him to imagine a world where she wasn't part of it.

The door creaked open.

The light in Samantha's room was dim, and the pale gold of late afternoon sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains. It diffused across the floor in a hazy glow, pooling like liquid warmth at the foot of the bed. The glare of winter was kept at bay, softening the contrast of cold outside and the still warmth within.

A small humidifier hummed quietly in the corner, casting delicate steam clouds into the air. The scent of chamomile hung around like a ghost—faint, soothing, almost medicinal. It mingled with the sterile tang of antiseptic, a constant reminder of her earlier collapse.

The bed itself looked too big for her.

The covers were pulled up neatly to her chest, tucked in by the careful hands of someone who hadn't stopped worrying. Maybe Michelle. Maybe one of the nurses.

Samantha lay there still, her face turned slightly toward the window. Her breathing was steady now, a rhythmic rise and fall beneath the duvet. But she looked… too still. Too quiet. Her golden hair was fanned out across the pillow, shimmering like spilled sunlight against the snow-white fabric.

Alexander stood in the doorway for a long time, unmoving.

She looked so small.

So fragile.

The cool edge of panic lingered in his chest like a shadow that refused to be chased away. He couldn't shake the image of her slumped in the hallway, her face white as the snow falling outside. Of Michelle's cry. Of the way time had slowed, like the world itself had gone underwater, dragging him down with it.

And then—her eyelids fluttered.

A small sound, breathy and delicate.

"Alex," she whispered, a sleepy smile curling at the corners of her lips.

That was all it took.

He exhaled shakily, the breath escaping like it had been caged inside him for hours. He closed the door softly behind him and stepped forward, his legs carrying him as if on autopilot.

"Hey, Sam."

His voice cracked around the edges. It wasn't like him. But nothing about this moment was like him. Not the lingering fear, not the tears he'd already cried, not the way he sat—almost collapsed—into the chair beside her bed.

Samantha shifted, her fingers curling slightly in invitation. He took her hand, careful, gentle, like she might dissolve into mist if he held on too tight.

"I had a weird dream," she murmured, voice slow and faint.

He adjusted in the chair, wrapping both hands around hers like a lifeline. "Yeah? What kind?"

"You were a giant marshmallow," she said, fighting the tug of sleep with that familiar smirk he knew so well. "Trying to fight off evil gummy bears. Very dramatic."

Alexander blinked, then let out a small, choked laugh. He rubbed at his face, smearing the faint remnants of dried tears. "You've got the strangest imagination."

"You love it," she replied with half-lidded eyes.

"I do," he said softly, the smile faltering as his gaze rested on her too-pale face. "I really do."

Her brows tugged faintly as her gaze sharpened, focusing on him. "You've been crying."

"Yeah." There was no point in pretending. No mask, no deflection. Just truth. "I thought I lost you."

Samantha exhaled slowly, and her fingers gave his hand the smallest squeeze. "I'm not going anywhere. It was just… a bad episode. The doctors explained everything. I pushed myself too hard again." Her lips tilted in a tired frown. "You know I hate staying still."

"I know," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "But Sam… you scared me. I don't think I've ever been that scared in my life."

She closed her eyes for a beat, then reopened them. Her voice dropped, tender and warm. "You're always the strong one. You never let anything show."

Alexander's throat worked around a knot he couldn't quite swallow. "I broke down," he said, almost like a confession. "I cried. In front of Mom. And… Dad."

Samantha didn't laugh this time. Instead, her expression softened with something deeper. "Good," she said quietly. "Maybe now they'll believe you're actually human."

He huffed a breath through his nose, but his smile was shaky. "I should've made you rest. I should've said something. Pushed harder."

"You're always there, Alex," she said, her voice drifting like snow on the wind. "Even when you don't speak. Even when you act like you don't care. I always know you're watching."

He leaned forward then, unable to help it, his forehead resting against their clasped hands. "You're all I've got, Sam. If something ever happened to you... I wouldn't know who to be without you."

Samantha's thumb brushed over his knuckles. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. "Don't say that. You're more than just my brother. You're your own person, too."

Alexander didn't answer right away. The silence stretched, not awkward—but heavy with things unsaid. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked her straight in the eye.

"You're the reason I try to be better."

And that was the truth.

He didn't care about expectations, image, or family reputation the way Reginald did. His motivation had always been simple, always rooted in the one person who made the world worth trying for.

She smiled then—tired but real. "You already are better."

The snow outside fell in slow motion, the wind muffled by thick walls and thicker curtains. The room was wrapped in quiet, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heater humming beneath the floorboards.

Then, of course, Samantha broke the silence in true Samantha fashion.

"Hey, Alex?"

He blinked, startled. "Yeah?"

"When I get better, do you think Mom will let me dye my hair blue?"

He stared at her. Blinked again. "Absolutely not."

She grinned. "But you'll help me convince her, right?"

"No chance," he said, but his voice carried the lightness she was searching for.

Samantha laughed—weakly, but it was a real laugh. And at that moment, he knew she would be okay. She was still his sister. Still sarcastic. Still too stubborn for her own good.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, standing. He leaned over and gently tucked the blanket closer to her shoulders. "I'll be right outside the door."

Her eyes were already fluttering shut. "Thanks, Alex."

He bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His voice dropped into something that barely qualified as sound.

"No," he whispered. "Thank you, Sam."