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ADELINE
The room was bathed in a warm, golden glow from the bedside lamp, casting soft shadows across the walls. It was quiet—so quiet that I could hear the soft ticking of the antique clock in the corner and the rhythmic breathing of my brother.
Vladimir laid curled up against me, his head resting on my lap, his fingers weakly holding onto mine as if afraid I would slip away. Even in sleep, his grip was uncertain—hesitant, as if he had spent too long without knowing the safety of family.
I stared down at him, my heart aching.
He looked so small.
Despite the hints of maturity that life had forced upon him—the sharp angles of his face, the scars, the pain buried deep within his unconscious form—he was still just a boy.
Sixteen years old. A child who had never been given the
