When the Heat Speaks

Chapter Six

He had always wondered what it felt like to die. Not the dying part—the before. The slow one. The one no one saw.

Now he knew.

The room was small—smaller than he remembered. The air had stopped moving. The walls sweated. The stone floor steamed, and the shaft of light bleeding through the cracked window cut through the shadows like a blade.

He had wedged himself behind a half-fallen cabinet, crouched low, knees to chest. His bare back pressed against the wall, blistering against the stone that once felt cool, now hot as coals. He'd taken off his shirt hours ago—he thought it was hours, but time was already beginning to lie—and wrung it over his mouth, the sour, salty sting of sweat all he had to drink.

His breathing was shallow. Forced. He felt the air enter his lungs and burn him from the inside. His mouth was dry—his tongue, leather. His skin tight over his bones. His vision, blurry.

He had tucked his knees in tighter. He'd learned this helped when the wind turned to fire. When he thought it would pass.

It never passed.

Not today.

"Just a little longer," he whispered. His voice cracked. "Just a little."

But it wasn't just a little.

The heat spoke. It whispered in his bones. It gnawed at his thoughts. It melted everything—reason, memory, time.

And then, somewhere between two blinks...

---

She was standing there. In the doorway. His grandmother.

Her eyes were hollow. Her mouth thin and hard.

Her hair—the way it looked the last day he saw her—twisted into a scarf, hiding the sickness. She stepped forward.

"Is this it?" she asked.

Ádin flinched. "Wh… what?"

"This is how far you've come?"

He blinked hard, breath catching. "You… you left me—"

"You were supposed to survive. You were supposed to listen."

"I did! I did listen! I kept the relics, I followed the marks, I did everything you asked... but you...you left me—"

"You've been nothing but useless." Her voice dropped. "Look at yourself."

Tears welled in his eyes. "I've tried," he croaked. "I've tried so hard…"

"You let Fletcher starve. Even if by some miracle, you survive, you let them see your marks. You were seen. You're weak, Ádin. And you're alone."

He screamed. Loud. Wordless. His hands balled into fists, slammed against the wall.

"I'M STILL ALIVE!"

But she was gone.

And in her place—the room again.

Just heat. And stone. And silence.

---

He curled tighter. His body was shaking. He tried to vomit—nothing came. Just dry heaves and bile that never arrived. His stomach, hollow. His head, spinning.

The shadows had shrunk. The light cut deeper into the room. His arm had blistered. He could see it. Red. Angry. Swollen.

His body swayed. He leaned his forehead against his knees.

"Wake up," he muttered.

His eyelids dropped.

---

Darkness.

Then the sound of humming. His lullaby.

Then burning.

He gasped awake.

Sweat drenched his chest. The room shimmered. The floor rippled like waves of fire.

He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

But he had to.

"Just stay alive. Just… keep breathing."

He clawed at the stone. He rubbed his face. He slapped himself to stay awake.

Then the room went dark again.

---

At some point, he heard nothing. No heat. No light. No breath.

And then—a breeze.

Cool. Silent. Tender as a whisper.

He opened his eyes.

The window's edge had dimmed. The sun was gone. The mirage was fading.

He didn't believe it at first.

Then the air shifted again, and the cold kissed his skin.

He was free.

He stumbled out.

The door gave way with a rusted groan.

The outside world smelled like soot and ash and sweat and waste, but it was air, and it was night.

His legs barely obeyed. His head throbbed. The sweat had dried to salt along his jaw. His shirt was clutched in his hand, limp.

He looked like a corpse walking.

The market had returned.

Vendors were already setting up. Lights flickered from torchglass jars. Cracked speakers buzzed with religious chants. Children ran barefoot across the broken stone paths.

And when they saw him—they stared.

Some paused mid-step. A few pointed. A woman whispered. A man dropped a wooden crate, he heard it all, but he kept walking.

One foot in front of the other.

Like a ghost.

He walked through their gasps, their stares, their frightened eyes. He didn't care. Not anymore.

He just wanted home.

Slowly but surely, he found it.

The slab of concrete that concealed his hatch.

He pressed his palm to the scanner.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

He looked down at his fingers—blistered, Raw. The scanner didn't recognize him anymore.

"Please," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Please."

He banged his fist on it. Again. And again.

"LET ME IN!"

He collapsed onto it.

And then—it clicked.

The hatch slid open with a soft hiss.

A soft whine echoed up.

Fletcher.

Ádin half-fell down the ladder, his grip weak, arms trembling.

Fletcher didn't wait.

The golden retriever launched himself upward, nearly knocking Ádin over, licking his face, whining with that pitiful raspy sound that was more breath than voice.

Ádin sank to his knees.

"I'm okay," he whispered. "I'm okay."

Fletcher didn't stop whining.

Ádin wrapped his arms around him, buried his face into his fur.

"I made it, boy, I'm here now" he said, eyes shut. "I made it."

And in that dim bunker, with scarred walls and scorched memories, with a broken boy and his broken dog clinging to each other in the cold—

The silence finally felt like home.