The silence between thunder

Chapter Three: The Silence Between Thunder

"Truth hides in broken pages and the space between footsteps."

It began with a storm.

Not the kind that merely scattered leaves or whispered against windows. This storm howled. It screamed. It tore at the shutters and rattled the bones of the cottage. Lyra sat curled by the hearth, a blanket over her knees and a journal in her lap.

Not hers.

She had found it that morning in the attic, tucked behind a rotting trunk filled with mold-eaten clothes and war medals that had lost their shine. The journal's cover was cracked leather, brittle, and the pages smelled of old ash and seawater. Her father's name was etched faintly on the first page—Jonah Vale—but the words that followed weren't his voice.

They were someone else's.

 "October 3rd — She was just a child. No older than Lyra is now. I remember the scream. The fire. The smoke was thick, like breathing through grief. I pulled the boy from the wreckage, but it was too late for the girl."

Lyra's fingers trembled. Her heart pounded harder than the rain on the roof.

The boy.

Corin.

Could it be?

She turned the pages, careful not to tear the aged paper. More entries spoke of nightmares. Guilt. A promise broken.

 "The boy keeps returning to the ruins. He thinks if he waits long enough, the dead will come back. I tried to tell him that some ghosts aren't meant to return—but he looked at me like I'd stolen her from him."

Lyra shut the book, cold rising in her chest like a tide.

Was that what Corin carried? A sister lost to flame and smoke? A memory so painful it bent his shadow?

The candle beside her guttered as the wind howled down the chimney. She stood quickly, grabbing her coat, her boots, her resolve.

She knew where he would be.

The cliffs were a battlefield of wind and water. Rain sliced sideways, drenching her coat within moments. But there—by the twisted tree, half-bent by storms—stood Corin.

He didn't move as she approached. Only when she was near enough to touch him did he turn his head slightly.

"You came," he said, as though he had called her with thought alone.

"I read it," she said breathlessly. "The journal. My father's. About the fire. Your sister."

His jaw tensed, his breath sharp.

"You shouldn't have."

"But I did. And now I know."

Corin's voice dropped, hoarse. "Do you? Do you know what it's like to watch the only person who ever understood you vanish in smoke—because you told her to hide in that cursed house? Do you know what it's like to live, when you were the one who should've died?"

The words struck like thunder.

Lyra didn't flinch.

"No. But I know what it's like to be alone. To pretend you're fine when you're breaking. To carry ghosts in your chest."

He looked at her—really looked at her. And his eyes… for once, they weren't stormy. They were just tired.

"I was ten," he whispered. "She was eight. Her name was Elowen. I see her sometimes. In dreams. And when it rains."

"I think," Lyra said softly, "you see her in me."

Corin's breath caught.

"I'm not her," she added gently. "But I'm here. And I'm not afraid of your past."

Silence. Then, slowly, his hand lifted—and for the first time, he let it rest in hers.

Not as a warning. Not as a goodbye.

But as a beginning.

Back at the cottage, when the storm died down, Lyra returned to her journal.

 "Tonight, the rain didn't feel as cold. And his eyes… they remembered the sun."