Darkness had a way of seeping into everything. It wasn’t just the absence of light—it was the absence of hope, of warmth, of anything that made life feel alive. Here, the world wasn’t just dark; it was empty, drained of color. Only endless shades of black and grey that blurred together, swallowing everything.

Ronan stood there, trying to remember the last time he saw a color that wasn’t fading into the void. Was there ever a time? The thought tugged at him, distant and unreachable, like something lost long before he knew how to hold onto it. He searched his mind, grasping for even the faintest flicker of warmth, of life.

But there was nothing. There’s always been nothing.

The slums were death in itself, stretched out over miles and miles of filth and broken lives. The sky hung low, a thick, oppressive shadow that hadn’t seen the sun in days. Ronan stumbled through the narrow alleyways, his breath shallow, cold cutting through his thin clothes like blades. He dragged through the mud, every step a battle to keep moving, to keep searching.

He had to find something. Anything.

He could barely feel his toes anymore. His shoes—if they could even be called that—were nothing more than tattered remnants of leather, holes worn through the soles so his skin pressed into the freezing ground with every step. The mud clung to his bare toes, seeping through the cracks in the shoes, sticking like sludge. His feet were raw, torn from the sharp stones and jagged debris that littered the alley. He winced with each step, but the pain had dulled long ago, replaced by a numbness that crept up his legs.

The streets were empty except for the occasional flicker of movement in the distance. People like him—desperate, starving, hunting for whatever scraps might have been left behind. Ronan kept his head down, hands trembling as he scanned the debris lining the cracked stone walls. The structures around him had never been homes, not really—just makeshift shelters thrown together with whatever could be scavenged, housing dying people or dead people. Crumbling stones, rotted beams, and broken planks leaned haphazardly against one another, forming crooked walls that barely held out the wind. Doors were nothing more than slabs of warped wood, while gaps where windows should have been were covered in tattered rags or nothing at all.

There was nothing here. Nothing but the stench of rot and decay.

His stomach growled, sharp and violent, twisting inside him like a monster. He’d gone too long without food, but it wasn’t for him. No, this wasn’t for him. His mother was waiting. His sister was waiting. They needed him to bring something home.

A flash of movement caught his eye. Ahead, near the base of an old stone wall, a pile of rags twitched. Despite his brain telling him not to, Ronan crouched low, his body tense, eyes narrowing to pierce through the dim light. Approaching anything in these streets was dangerous. People fought like rabid dogs for the smallest scrap of food, willing to kill over the filthiest crumb. And those rags gave no sign of what or who it was. But hunger gnawed at him, sharper than fear. He had no choice.

He moved forward, his heart pounding in his chest, each beat louder than the next. The rags stirred again, and he held his breath. His muscles coiled, ready to run. But then a rat, bloated and filthy, wriggled out from underneath, its beady eyes catching his for a brief second before it scurried into the darkness, dragging something limp in its mouth.

Ronan exhaled, his breath shaky.

He edged closer, the foul stench of decay hanging heavy in the air. His fingers dug into the rags, and the damp fabric clung to his arms as he pulled them aside. Beneath the heap, hidden among the refuse and grime, he found it—a half-eaten loaf of bread. He held his breath again, this time in disbelief.

It was crusted with dirt, covered in a thin film of grime, but it was whole enough to eat. His fingers closed around it, and he yanked it free. The bread was hard, almost like stone, but his stomach didn’t care. His mouth watered at the sight.

Desperation had taught him long ago that food was food. Whether fresh or rotting, it kept you alive.

Looking around that no one saw him, he stuffed the bread under his shirt, glancing around to make sure no one had seen him. The streets were empty, but that didn’t mean he was alone.

His body ached, his muscles screaming for rest, but he had no time. His mother and sister needed him. He had to get back.

Ronan broke into a run, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he weaved through the labyrinth of alleys. His feet slipped on the wet stones, but he pushed forward, ignoring the sting of cold air on his skin. The loaf of bread pressed against his chest as he held it tight, as if letting go for even a second would mean losing everything.

The shelters blurred together, nothing but walls of shadows and ruin. His vision swam, his mind drifting in and out of focus. He hadn’t slept in days, barely ate himself, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting this bread back to them.

His house was close now. Just around the corner. The small, broken-down shack at the edge of the slums, where the walls leaned inward as if ready to collapse and the roof sagged under the weight of its own decay. It barely kept out the wind, the cold slipping through every crack and crevice, but it was home. It was where they were.

Ronan stumbled up to the door, feet dragging through the muck, and shoved it open, nearly falling inside. He kicked it shut behind him, the wood groaning under the pressure. The room was dim, barely lit by the last sliver of night light filtering through the gaps in the walls. It was colder than it should have been, the air thick and stale, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. His breath hung in the air, the white cloud of it the only sign of life.

“I found something,” he whispered, his voice barely holding together as he pulled the hard, dirt-crusted loaf of bread from his coat. “I… I found food.”

The words felt strange, hollow in the quiet room. His voice echoed off the walls, returning to him unanswered. But he ignored it. He had to. He looked around, eyes darting to the corners of the room where they always sat—where they were waiting.

His mother sat in her usual spot by the small, rusted stove. Her frail body wrapped in a tattered, threadbare blanket that barely covered her shoulders. His sister was curled up beside her, knees pulled to her chest, shivering under a thin sheet. They looked exactly as he had left them, unmoving, quiet, waiting for him.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Ronan continued, his voice trembling as he took a step closer. The bread shook in his hands as he held it out toward them, an offering. “But I got it. We’ll be okay now. We’ll eat.”

He moved toward them, each step heavy, as if the floor was dragging him down. His chest was tight with a painful knot of relief. He could almost feel the warmth of the room returning, the flicker of life he had been clinging to. They were here. He had done it.

He had done it, right?

But something was wrong. The room felt colder. Darker.

Why was it colder? Darker?

Ronan blinked, his steps faltering. His mother didn’t move. His sister didn’t lift her head. The faint smiles he had imagined on their faces wavered, flickering like the dying embers in a campfire that’s been put out.

“No...” he whispered, his voice breaking, barely audible.

He dropped the bread. It hit the floor with a dull thud, rolling away as his hands fell limp to his sides. His eyes darted back to his mother, then to his sister. His breath caught in his throat as the truth crashed over him, heavy and merciless.

They didn’t move because they couldn’t. They hadn’t moved in weeks.

The room was empty. It had always been empty.

They were gone. They had been gone for so long. The cold, empty shell of the house had whispered it to him every day, but he had ignored it. Clung to the memory, the illusion, because he couldn’t bear the alternative.

Ronan’s knees buckled, his body crumpling to the floor. The cold stone bit into his skin, sending sharp jolts of pain through his legs, but it was nothing compared to the void tearing open inside him. His hands shook violently as he reached out toward them, as if he could still touch them, still save them.

His breath came in shallow, broken gasps, his chest heaving, but no sound escaped him. The silence of the room pressed down on him, suffocating. His fingers scraped against the cold stone floor, searching for something, anything to hold onto, but there was nothing. Just the biting chill and the crushing weight of loss.

He saw the loaf of bread lying beside him as his vision dimmed.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

***

It was cold that night, too. The wind howled against the flimsy walls of their shack, seeping through the cracks and stealing whatever warmth was left inside. He sat by his mother’s bed, his sister huddled close to him, her small body trembling beneath the thin blanket they shared. His mother’s breaths were shallow, each one weaker than the last, barely audible over the wind’s relentless assault.

"Mama..." his sister whispered, her voice fragile, filled with the kind of hope that only a child could still hold onto, even if that child belonged to slums. "Mama, please wake up."

But their mother didn’t stir. Her face, once full of warmth and life, at least for her kids, was pale, her skin stretched tight over her bones. She hadn’t opened her eyes in days. Ronan sat there, watching her chest rise and fall, each breath slower, more labored than the one before. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t leave. His heart ached, the weight of it almost unbearable, but he stayed there because he had to. Because he couldn’t imagine what would happen if he wasn’t there when she stopped.

His sister clung to him, her small hands gripping his arm, her sobs quiet but steady. “She’ll wake up, right?” she asked, her voice breaking. "Ronan... she'll wake up, won't she?"

Ronan swallowed hard, his throat tight, the words trapped inside him. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to believe it. But he couldn’t lie to her. Not anymore. All he could do was hold her closer, hoping she wouldn’t notice the tears that slipped silently down his cheeks.

The wind outside seemed to scream, as if the world itself knew what was about to happen.

Then her breath stopped. Just like that. One moment she was there, the next she was gone.

His sister whimpered beside him, her head buried in his chest as if she could block out the truth. But Ronan just sat there, frozen, staring at their mother’s still form. He had known this was coming. He had known for days. But nothing could have prepared him for the silence that followed. The crushing, deafening silence.

"Mama..." his sister whispered again, her voice barely a breath.

But there was no answer.

***

Ronan woke slowly, his eyes fluttering open as a dull ache settled over his body. The room was still, the cold air pressing down on him. He tried to move, to get up, but his body refused to obey. His limbs felt weak, heavy, as if someone had injected the densest metal found in this world.

He lay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling above him at the warped wooden beams, covered in the grime of years spent under neglect. He could see small cracks where the wind whistled through, looking like the mouths of monsters laughing down at him.

He wanted to sit up, to force himself to move, but his muscles were numb, unresponsive. His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling as his vision began to blur, the edges darkening as exhaustion pulled him down once more. The faint light in the room flickered, dimming.

His eyes grew heavier. His mind drifted. And then, everything went black again.

***

The wind roared that day, its icy fingers clawing at their clothes, tugging at their hair as if the very sky wanted to rip them away from their bodies. The cliffs loomed high above the valley, jagged rocks stretching down into the abyss below. Ronan stood back, his heart racing, watching as his younger sister skipped dangerously close to the edge, her shoes skimming the crumbling soil beneath her.

"Stay back!" Ronan shouted, his voice almost lost in the howling wind. The fear coiled in his chest, tightening with every step she took toward the cliff’s lip. She was always so fearless, so reckless.

A complete opposite of him, a dark, scaredy cat.

She turned to him, her smile wide, full of innocence. "It’s fine, Ronan!" she called back, laughing, her voice light as if the world around them wasn’t threatening to swallow her whole. Her hair whipped around her face as she leaned closer, staring down at the swirling river far below.

Ronan’s stomach twisted in knots. His feet moved, pulling him closer, but the ground felt heavy beneath him, every step filled with dread. "Don’t—" He could barely get the words out before it happened.

The ground beneath her shifted.

Her foot slipped on the loose gravel. The smile vanished from her face, replaced with a look of terror as she scrambled to regain her balance. Her arms shot out, hands grabbing at the empty air, but there was nothing to hold onto. The world seemed to slow as her eyes locked with Ronan’s, wide with panic.

"Ronan!" she screamed, her voice high-pitched, desperate.

He lunged forward, his fingers reaching out, stretching toward her, but he was too far. Just a few feet too far. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched her tumble backward, her small body flipping over the edge, her scream piercing the air as she disappeared from sight.

"No!" Ronan yelled, his voice raw, breaking as he sprinted toward the cliff’s edge. His feet slipped on the loose dirt, and he fell to his knees, his hands scraping against the jagged rocks as he reached out, as if he could somehow pull her back from the void.

He looked over the edge, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes darted frantically along the sheer drop, searching for her, hoping against hope that she had caught onto something, anything. But all he saw were the jagged rocks below, sharp as knives, and the violent river crashing against them.

His chest tightened, the air catching in his throat.

She was gone.

***

Ronan jolted awake, the world around him a blur of darkness and cold. His heart slammed against his chest, each beat faster than the last as his breath came in short, panicked gasps. His lungs strained, pulling in air that never seemed to fill them. His body trembled, the familiar grip of fear tightening around him, suffocating him as if the room itself had turned hostile.

He tried to sit up, his limbs weak and unresponsive. His muscles ached, as if the weight of everything was pressing down, refusing to let him rise. His hands scraped against the rough stone floor, pushing, but his body betrayed him. He collapsed back onto the ground, wheezing, his chest heaving. The ceiling above him blurred in and out of focus, blackness threatening to close in around him.

The bread...

His eyes flickered to the loaf lying beside him, a dirty, half-eaten thing that suddenly seemed like the only lifeline he had left.

Ronan curled into himself, clutching his chest as if trying to hold the pieces of his shattered mind together. The silence of the room pressed in on him, suffocating, crushing.

There was no one left to feed.

He needed to move, needed to get to it. His fingers clawed at the floor, pulling him forward inch by agonizing inch. The cold stone scraped against his hands and knees, but he ignored it. His stomach twisted, the gnawing hunger inside a sharp, hollow ache that refused to be ignored. The bread was all he had.

Finally, his hand closed around it. The crust was hard, rough against his palm, but he didn’t care. He tore into it with shaking hands, shoving chunks into his mouth, barely chewing before forcing it down his dry throat. His body screamed for food, but it rebelled at the same time. He choked as the dry bread stuck in his throat, his chest convulsing as he coughed and gasped for air.

He coughed harder, his body shuddering violently. His eyes watered as the crumbs caught in his throat, scraping against the rawness of his food pipe. His hand reached for his throat, clawing at it as if he could somehow force the air back in. His body heaved, desperate for water, but there was none. His chest burned, his breath coming in desperate, shallow gasps between the fits of coughing.

He felt tears, but the dehydration had made sure there was nothing coming out of his eyes. He coughed again, harder this time, and the bread finally dislodged, his throat raw and burning. But the relief was short-lived. His body was spent, exhausted from the struggle. He couldn’t stop the sobs rising up uncontrollably as the weight of it all crashed down on him.

There was no water. There was no relief. The bread he had fought for now lay scattered around him, and his chest shook with sobs as his body broke down. He buried his face in his hands, the cold, filthy stone pressing against his knees as he curled inward. The hollow ache inside him was no longer just hunger—it was everything. Everything he had lost, everything he would never get back.

He crawled, dragging himself slowly, painfully, toward the corner of the room. His body was a shell, empty, lifeless. He pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he sat, his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them as if he could somehow hold himself together. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Time ceased to exist. The cold, the hunger, the darkness—it all blended into a dull, endless haze. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there. Minutes, hours, days—what did it matter? His mind was numb, his body even more so. He stared ahead, into the nothingness, his eyes unfocused, his breathing shallow. The world had shrunk to this single, empty moment, and there was nothing left to hold onto.

He just waited to dissolve into nothing.

And then, something changed.

At first, it was so small, so faint, he thought it was his imagination. A flicker of light, no bigger than a speck, appeared in the darkness. He blinked, his vision blurry, not trusting what he saw. But it was there. Slowly, the light grew, just enough to catch his attention, a soft, pale glow cutting through the blackness that surrounded him.

The glow began to pulse, faint at first, but steady. It hovered in front of him, spinning gently in place, the light swirling like the softest mist. It was small, no bigger than his fist, but its light was warm, soft, and strangely beautiful. The room around him seemed to melt away, his vision consumed by this delicate ball of light. It glowed like a distant star, casting faint golden hues along the walls, tiny sparks dancing on its surface like fireflies in the night.

Ronan’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His mind raced, a flood of thoughts crashing into him all at once. Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Or was this something else? The light grew brighter, the soft glow washing over him, and for a brief moment, he felt warmth again—real warmth. The kind he hadn’t felt in so long. It wasn’t just the warmth of the light; it was something deeper. Comfort. Safety.

He felt tears in his eyes. He stared at the light, transfixed, and a strange thought crept into his mind. Maybe this was it. Maybe he was dying. Maybe this light was here to carry him away, to take him somewhere better. Maybe he would finally see his mother and sister again. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him, a small, fragile smile pulling at his lips as the light grew stronger, closer. He was ready. He wanted it to take him.

Just as he braced himself for the end, the light did something he didn’t expect. It surged forward, not outward into the dark void of the room, but directly toward him. His eyes flew open in shock, just as the ball of light collided with his chest in a blinding flash.

The warmth filled him all at once, overwhelming, consuming. The light sank into him, disappearing inside, and Ronan gasped as the sensation flooded his entire being. It didn’t feel like death. It felt like something alive.

He thought about living. Some called it magic, others called it life itself. He called it a curse. He had felt it—twisting reality, bending truth, making him see what isn’t there. Or maybe it's just his grief.

And maybe, his grief was over in death.

That death was beautiful.