The cold night air felt sharp against Baal's cheeks and nose as he approached the Community Clinic, a lantern flickering dimly above its wooden sign. He halted in his tracks when he saw Sirdona leaning against the front porch post, a cigarette between her fingers.

As soon as she saw Baal, her hand moved reflexively to hide the cigarette behind her back, but it was an abortive gesture.

"Stop judging me!" Sirdona's voice shouted, cutting through the air before he could even form a sentence.

"Do you have another one?" Baal asked, surprising himself more than her.

"You smoke?"

"Do you?" he shot back.

Sirdona paused for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. Then, she shrugged and rummaged through the large pocket of her worn coat. She pulled out a crumpled pack and extended a cigarette towards him. Striking a match, she helped Baal light it.

He took a deep drag, let the smoke fill his lungs and then exhaled, turning to her, "I never saw you smoke, and you never saw me smoke. Deal?"

"Deal," she nodded. "Does your wife forbid it?"

"No, she used to smoke too. Now that she's forgotten about it, let's keep it that way," he said, half chuckling, his eyes avoiding hers. "How's the kid?"

Sirdona took another pull from her cigarette, exhaling a long, shaky line of smoke. "Unresponsive. To be honest, I'm more concerned about his mother. Hasn't eaten or slept since he was admitted. She's like a ghost hovering in the hallway, ready to collapse any moment. Can you get her back to the Morningstar? For her own sake?"

Baal shook his head, his voice tinged with a hitch of regret. "No can do. If something happens to the kid… if he... she'd never forgive herself for not being here."

"We both know what the outcome is likely to be," Sirdona said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "God, I hate my job sometimes. He's just a kid!"

"Yeah," Baal nodded, staring at the ground, "I know."

"A fucking kid," she paused, taking another deep puff. "I became a doctor to help people, to heal them—not to stand around, waiting for them to—"

Baal shrugged, searching for words, "Maybe—"

"Oh, not you, too!" Sirdona cut him off. "That old wizard is already filling Perdita's head with talk of miracles and bullshit. I don't need it from you."

Their cigarettes had burnt down to stubs, and Sirdona crushed hers beneath her heel. Baal did the same, pushing the spent filter into the ground with his boot. For a moment, they just stood there, two weary souls in the biting cold, wrestling with things they could not change.

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The hospital corridors felt like tunnels saturated with clinical sterility that invaded Baal's senses. The harsh odour of bleach and sanitiser seemed to strip away layers of his own soul, leaving him raw and exposed. As he moved through the antiseptic gloom, he saw Merlin sitting on a bench with his forehead pressed against the wooden top of his staff, his whole posture resembling a figure in prayer. What else was there left to do but pray?

Baal sat down next to Merlin, his eyes following the old man's lips as they moved in a whispered litany. "It's going to work, it worked once, it's going to work," Merlin murmured, almost to himself.

"Shouldn't you go home and rest, old man?" Baal asked softly, placing a reassuring hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"No, I can rest when I'm dead. Now, I witness," Merlin replied, his voice tinged with an edge of irritation.

Slumping against the bench, Baal sighed. "You shouldn't talk like that. We need to prepare Perdita for—"

"You speak as if you're already dead from the neck up," Merlin snapped, turning his head to glare at Baal.

"That was mean, even for you, you old rag," Baal retorted, giving Merlin a sidelong glance before standing up.

A deep breath steadied him as he pushed open the door to the room where Perdita was with her son.

Perdita was huddled beside Bram's bed, holding him as if she could will him back to health through sheer maternal warmth. At a casual glance, Bram could have been mistaken for a child merely sleeping.

"Hey," Baal said softly.

Perdita turned toward him. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair fell in a dishevelled tangle around her face. She looked vulnerable and younger than Baal had ever realised. "Mister Berith, you should be home," she managed, sniffing.

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Baal stepped further into the room, treading lightly as if the floor were strewn with eggshells. "Did you eat?"

She nodded. "Mr. Merlin made sure of it. I ate something."

"Good," Baal sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. They were all grasping at straws here, but sometimes straws were all you had. "That's good."

"I should never have come to Ravendrift," Perdita's voice quivered, her eyes brimming with tears. "I should never have left my husband. If I hadn't been so selfish, Bram wouldn't be here. He wouldn't..." The tears broke free, cascading down her cheeks, each droplet an indictment against her choices. She looked like a fragile bird with broken wings struggling against an invisible storm.

Baal sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress yield under his weight. "It's not your fault," he said, his voice gentle yet firm.

"I am his mother. I should have known better. But I was scared, so I ran away. I didn't want to be a punching bag anymore... and Bram, he couldn't stop talking about the Morningstar, as if he were possessed or something," she choked out, a sob catching in her throat.

A heavy silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the sounds of Perdita's stifled weeping. Baal found himself unable to speak, his mouth dry and words eluding him. Guilt began to roil in his stomach, a rising tide that he couldn't hold back. The headache that had been lurking in the corners of his consciousness flared up again, embedding itself like a thorn in his skull. It was his fault, wasn't it?

He had been the one to concede a wish to Bram. He was the one to think that the Morningstar was the best place for Perdita and Bram, a sanctuary overseen by Nord, who was better than Nord to harbour people in need.

But now, here they were: a dying child, a distraught mother, and an overwhelming sense of culpability. As he sat there, he rifled through his mind, scrambling for any clue as to how he could have done things differently, how he could undo what had been set into motion. Was Merlin right? Had he truly become dead from the neck up, paralyzed by the weight of his own failings?

The room felt like it was closing in on him, the walls inching closer and the air growing thick. As he looked at Perdita, her eyes red-rimmed and desperate, he knew that platitudes would do nothing here. What was needed was something intangible, something neither of them possessed at the moment: the strength to carry on despite life's crushing injustices.

A miracle.

And so, they sat there in silence, two souls bound by circumstance and weighed down by guilt, each lost in their own labyrinth of regret. Until the boy finally spoke.

"Mummy?"

Perdita's eyes were like pools about to spill over as she clutched Bram, rocking him gently in her arms. "Oh, by Atua, Bram! I thought I'd lose you! Thank you, thank you, my little boy," she sobbed, her voice tinged with a desperation that had found an outlet in overwhelming relief.

"Mummy?" Bram's voice was a whisper, yet it filled the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Perdita looked down at her son, her eyes meeting his. A faint smile was on his face. "Thank you for everything."

"What are you talking about, my little lucky charm?" Perdita's hands caressed his pallid cheeks, each stroke an affirmation of life.

"For everything. I have so many happy memories," Bram said, "So, many..." Then he turned his gaze towards Baal. "Thank you, Master of the Memory Tower, for giving me the chance to make friends, best friends. Tell Kirara I really liked playing with her."

Baal was taken aback. How could Bram see him again? "Hey, little buddy, you're going to be okay. In no time, you'll be in your bed and playing with..."

"I'm very tired. I need a nap," Bram whispered, his eyelids fluttering as though he were struggling to keep them open. "Don't be sad, Mummy."

"Bram? What—"

"Promise... don't be sad," his voice was barely audible, a fading echo in the room.

"Bram?"

"I'm the luckiest boy in the whole world!" And with that, his eyes closed, his features settling into an expression of serene tranquillity.

For a moment, the room was suffused with an almost palpable stillness, as if time itself had halted its relentless march. Baal felt a lump in his throat, a complex knot of emotions he couldn't untangle. He looked at Perdita, her face etched with a blend of profound sorrow and a mother's unyielding love.

In that instant, they both understood. No words were needed.

As she clung to her son, her tears and cries momentarily suspended in a cruel tableau of love and loss, something extraordinary happened. Bram's body began disintegrating, transforming into a fine mist of glittering particles. It was as if he had become a cloud made of stardust, suspended for a heartbeat before dissipating into the air.

Bram was gone.

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The sky overhead was a sombre tapestry of greys, reflecting the heaviness that weighed on their hearts. Mulan, the mule, dragged along at a slow pace as if sensing the grief that enveloped its passengers.

Merlin remained silent, his thoughts inscrutable behind his wrinkled face.

Perdita, her eyes drained of tears, looked like a person running on fumes—running on an emptiness that paradoxically weighed a ton.

As they finally reached the Morningstar, Baal caught sight of Nord waiting at the entrance. One look at Baal's face, and she knew. No words were necessary. She stood there, wrapped in her nightgown and his long cardigan, an embodiment of home and comfort, and all Baal wanted was to collapse into her embrace.

Dismounting the mule, Baal helped Perdita and the old wizard out. But Merlin's behaviour took a sudden and strange turn; he hurried towards the kitchen, returning moments later carrying two wooden stools which he placed near the entrance. He gestured for Perdita to sit and took the other stool for himself.

"Now, we wait!" Merlin announced, settling into his seat, "We wait."

"What are you doing?" Baal questioned, weariness tinting his voice with irritation.

"We wait," Merlin repeated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Merlin..." Baal sighed. He was drained, emotionally and physically, and the last thing he wanted was another of Merlin's cryptic undertakings.

"Nord, sweetheart, could you bring us some black tea and biscuits? We need to be prepared," Merlin requested, his eyes fixed on some unseen point in the distance, "We need to be prepared."

Nord glanced towards Baal, who could only offer a resigned shrug in response.

"I'll bring blankets as well. It's freezing this morning," Nord said, disappearing into the interior of the house.

Baal took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as he felt the cold air fill his lungs and then escape as if he could expel some of the morning's emotional toxins. He cast a sideways glance at Merlin and Perdita, their faces both masks of anticipation and fatigue, while all Merlin could murmur was, "It worked once. It will work again."

It will work again.