CHAPTER FOUR — RETENTION

  The name hit the air sharply.

  His body reacted before his face did.

  He stepped forward automatically. One foot, then another. The white-haired girl’s hand twitched at her side, fingers curling as if they meant to grab something and had forgotten how.

  Keil stopped.

  The guard frowned, checked the clipboard.

  “…Correction.”

  A pause. Too long.

  “Remain.”

  Keil didn’t move at first.

  Then the breath left him all at once—too fast, not steady at all. Relief cracked through him, ugly and uncontrolled, and he had to swallow hard before stepping back into place.

  He didn’t look at her.

  But his hand dropped, close enough that if she moved even a little, she’d feel it.

  She stayed.

  The line shifted again.

  “Rin.”

  Rin froze.

  Just for a second. Then she turned, eyes flicking back once—fast, searching. Not scared. Not crying. Just checking.

  “I’ll be back,” she said, like it was something you could promise.

  She stepped out.

  “Leaf.”

  No hesitation.

  Leaf moved immediately, shoulders already tight, jaw set. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t look at the white-haired girl. Didn’t look at Keil. He walked like he knew better than to expect anything else.

  They were gone.

  The space they left behind felt wrong. Too wide. Too empty.

  The white-haired girl stood very still.

  She had learned something now.

  Staying was survival.

  A hand rested gently against her back.

  Keil.

  “We’re going,” he said quietly. Not comforting. Just factual. “Room.”

  The guards guided the remaining children forward. Fewer footsteps now. Fewer echoes. The hum swallowed the spaces where Rin and Leaf had been.

  The white-haired girl walked when Keil walked.

  The doors to their section opened.

  Behind them, somewhere deeper in the facility, other doors closed.

  …

  The door slid shut behind them with a soft hiss.

  The room looked the same.

  Same beds. Same light that never decided what time it was. Same walls that didn’t remember anything. It was the place where the white-haired girl had opened her eyes for the first time—where everything had started.

  But it wasn’t the same.

  Two beds were empty.

  She noticed it immediately.

  Her gaze moved—one, then the other—like she was counting without knowing why. Rin’s spot. Leaf’s. Clean. Untouched. Too still. Her chest felt… strange again. Not tight like fear. Not sharp like pain. Just wrong. Hollow in a way she didn’t have words for.

  She stood there, unmoving.

  Waiting.

  For footsteps that didn’t come.

  Keil watched her from the corner of his eye as he sat down on the edge of his bed. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak right away. He’d learned that quiet wasn’t always bad—it just needed someone inside it.

  “They do that,” he said eventually, his voice low and careful. “Sometimes they take people for a while. Blood checks. Tests. Stuff that’s… not forever.”

  He paused, then added, softer, “Most of the time.”

  The white-haired girl didn’t look at him. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve again, twisting, twisting, like if she kept doing it, the room might change back.

  Keil stood up.

  Slow steps. Measured. He stopped a short distance away—close enough to be there, far enough not to trap her.

  “They’ll come back,” he said. Not like a promise. Like a truth he needed to believe too. “Rin always does. And Leaf… he’s tougher than he looks.”

  He scratched the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “You don’t have to figure it out right now.”

  The white-haired girl’s shoulders trembled—just barely. She didn’t cry. Didn’t make a sound. But something in her face shifted, as the feeling had finally found somewhere to sit.

  Keil noticed.

  He lowered himself to the floor instead, sitting cross-legged so he wasn’t towering over her. “You’re safe right now,” he said quietly. “We’re here. That counts.”

  He glanced at the empty beds again, then back at her. “When they get back, we’ll tell them about the yard. And the flower. And how you didn’t run.”

  A small smile tugged at his mouth. “They’ll be mad they missed it.”

  The room hummed around them.

  The white-haired girl stayed where she was—but she didn’t curl in on herself this time.

  She didn’t stay standing.

  After a moment, the white-haired girl moved—quiet, hesitant—and lowered herself beside Keil on the floor. Not touching at first. Just close enough that the space between them felt smaller. Then she leaned, only slightly, shoulder tilting toward his arm like she was testing whether the world would let her.

  It did.

  Her fingers reached out, slow and unsure, and brushed the fabric of his sleeve. She froze immediately, breath caught, eyes lifting to his face as if waiting for something bad to happen.

  Nothing did.

  So she stayed there.

  She shifted again, copying him—legs folded the same way, hands resting where his did. It wasn’t perfect. One knee stuck up higher. Her balance wobbled for half a second before she steadied herself. But she figured it out.

  Her attention dropped to her own hand.

  She stared at it like it didn’t belong to her. Fingers opening. Closing. Watching the way they moved when she told them to. Like she was meeting them for the first time.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Then—

  She reached out.

  One finger. Careful. Testing.

  She poked Keil’s cheek.

  It was so light it barely registered—but her eyes went wide immediately, body tensing like she’d just crossed a line she didn’t know existed.

  Keil blinked.

  Then he laughed. A short, surprised sound, more breath than noise.

  “Hey,” he said, amused, lifting a hand to his cheek. “Guess that answers that.”

  He didn’t move away. Didn’t scold. Just smiled at her, warm and a little crooked. “You’re allowed to do that, you know.”

  The white-haired girl stared at him.

  Her hand hovered in the air between them, trembling just a little.

  But she didn’t pull it back.

  Keil hesitated.

  Then, slowly—like he was asking permission without words—he reached out his hand.

  Palm open. Fingers relaxed. Not grabbing. Just… there.

  The white-haired girl looked at it. Then at his face. Then back at his hand again, studying it the way she studied everything new, like it might disappear if she blinked.

  She lifted her own.

  Their fingers touched first. Just the tips.

  Keil adjusted without thinking, curling his hand gently around hers so their palms met properly. It fit—small, warm, real. He squeezed once, light, like he was showing her how much pressure was okay.

  “Like this,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to hold tight. Just enough so you know it’s there.”

  She copied him immediately.

  Her grip wasn’t perfect—too loose at first, then a little too firm—but she figured it out fast. Her eyes dropped to where their hands met, watching closely, memorizing.

  Then Keil realized what he was doing.

  Oh.

  His ears went red first. Then his cheeks.

  He cleared his throat and let go a little too quickly, pulling his hand back like it had suddenly burned him. “Uh— I mean— not just me,” he added fast, words tumbling over each other. “You can do that with Rin, too. And Leaf. It’s— it’s just a thing. People do it.”

  Sure.

  He scratched the side of his face, still flustered. “Helps when it’s loud. Or when you’re… You know. Not sure.”

  The white-haired girl looked at her empty hand.

  Then back at him.

  She didn’t seem upset. Just thoughtful. Like she was cataloguing the feeling the same way she’d catalogued the yard, the hum, the counting.

  Keil shifted beside her, trying very hard to look normal. “Anyway,” he said, softer now, “they’ll be back later. We’ll show them.”

  He glanced at her, checking.

  She didn’t move away.

  She stayed sitting beside him, close enough that their shoulders still almost touched.

  And the room kept humming, indifferent—but for once, it didn’t feel like it was swallowing them whole.

  The white-haired girl’s gaze drifted around the room.

  It still felt small. Still felt sealed.

  But… not empty.

  There was a low drawer against the wall—edges worn smooth from being opened too many times. And beside it, a narrow bookshelf bolted in place, like it might try to escape otherwise. Only a few books sat there. Four. Maybe 6. Their spines bent, covers soft and tired.

  Enough to keep someone from losing their mind, maybe.

  She stared at them for a long moment.

  Then, slowly, she moved.

  She dropped to all fours—not clumsy, just instinctive—and crawled toward the shelf. Her fingers reached out and poked the books one by one, testing them like they might bite. The paper made a soft, dry sound.

  Keil watched from where he sat, his expression easing into something warm without him even noticing. Not amused. Not sad. Just… gentle.

  “It’s called a book,” he said, voice low, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away. “Do you want me to show you?”

  The white-haired girl paused.

  She looked back at him, hair falling into her face, eyes searching his like she was checking if this was another rule she hadn’t learned yet.

  Then she nodded.

  Slow. Careful. Certain.

  Keil’s smile widened just a little as he shifted closer, reaching for the nearest book—not opening it yet. Just holding it between them, like an offering.

  …

  Rin’s voice came out small, almost swallowed by the sound of boots ahead of them.

  “H-hey, Leaf… is your bandage doing okay?”

  The guard didn’t turn. Didn’t slow. The corridor stretched on—too long, too white, the lights humming with that same low, constant pressure that made Rin’s ears feel tight. She clasped her hands together in front of her chest, fingers worrying at each other as she waited for an answer.

  Leaf didn’t give one.

  He kept walking.

  Not fast enough to be called running—never that—but just fast enough that the space between them widened by a step. Then another.

  Rin noticed immediately.

  She always did.

  “H-hey! Leaf—” She hurried her pace, nearly tripping over her own shoes. “Don’t… don’t leave me behind…”

  Her words echoed faintly off the walls. No response.

  Leaf’s shoulders were tense beneath the thin fabric of the facility uniform. The bandage at his side was clean, freshly replaced, wrapped too tightly. He could feel it with every breath, a reminder he didn’t need. Talking about it would make it real. Make it hurt.

  So he stayed quiet.

  Rin fell back into step beside him, breathing a little faster now. She tilted her head, trying to catch his eyes from the side, searching his face the way she always did—like if she looked hard enough, she could fix whatever was wrong.

  “I—I’m just asking,” she said softly. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Her kindness was gentle. Persistent. The kind that didn’t know when to stop.

  Leaf’s jaw tightened.

  “…It’s fine,” he muttered at last. The word was clipped, rough, like it had scraped its way out. He didn’t look at her. “Stop worrying.”

  Rin flinched—just a little—but she nodded anyway, fast, like agreeing might keep him from pulling away again.

  “O-okay. I’m sorry.”

  They walked in silence after that.

  Ahead of them, the guard’s boots kept their steady rhythm. Behind them, the corridor swallowed sound. Rin stayed close now, careful not to lag, careful not to push. Leaf stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the line of light at the end of the hall.

  Neither of them noticed how their hands drifted closer as they walked.

  Neither of them let themselves reach out.

  Finally, they reached their sector.

  The guard’s presence announced itself before the door ever opened—key card scanning noises, then a soft mechanical click. Rin and Leaf were guided inside without ceremony. The guard didn’t speak. He never did. He only ushered them forward, waited until they were fully inside the room, then stepped back.

  The door slid shut with a sharp hss, metal sealing against metal.

  Locks engaged.

  Rin barely noticed at first.

  Her attention drifted immediately to the corner of the room—

  to where Keil had been sitting.

  Where he still was.

  And beside him, the white-haired girl.

  Keil had a book open in his hands, angled slightly so she could see the pages. He wasn’t really reading aloud now—just murmuring softly, pointing at pictures, letting the words exist without pressure.

  Rin’s face lit up.

  She turned toward the white-haired girl with a small, relieved smile.

  “See? I told you,” she said, voice bright but gentle. “I promised I’d come back…!”

  The white-haired girl glanced at the door first—then back at Rin.

  Leaf didn’t say anything.

  He walked past them without a word, climbed onto his bed, and leaned back against the wall. His knees came up, arms wrapping around them automatically, like muscle memory. He stared at nothing in particular.

  Keil smiled at Rin—then his eyes caught something that made the smile falter.

  Leaf’s arm.

  There was a bandage there now.

  Fresh. Clean. Too deliberate to miss.

  Keil didn’t comment. He never did. He only looked away a second later, jaw tightening just slightly before he smoothed his expression back into place.

  That was when the white-haired girl stood.

  She crossed the small distance between herself and Rin—steps quiet, deliberate. She stopped in front of her, hesitated… then slowly opened her hand.

  Palm up.

  Waiting.

  Rin blinked, confused at first. Her head tilted. “Huh…?”

  Keil looked up, realization clicking into place. His ears went red almost instantly.

  “Oh— um,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “She— I mean, I was just… showing her how people do it. Holding hands. Sometimes. Like when you want someone to stay.”

  The white-haired girl didn’t move.

  Her hand stayed there.

  Rin’s confusion softened into something warm.

  “Oh,” she said quietly.

  After a moment, she placed her hand into the white-haired girl’s—careful, gentle, like she was afraid of doing it wrong.

  The white-haired girl’s fingers curled just a little.

  Keil looked away, pretending very hard to focus on the book again.

  Leaf stayed silent on his bed, eyes half-lidded, watching from the corner of his vision—pretending not to see, pretending it didn’t matter.

  The room felt… different now. Still Small, still sealed. But not empty.

  Rin was smiling—genuinely, openly—until the white-haired girl gently pulled her hand away.

  “Aww…” Rin murmured, a little dramatic but not upset.

  Her attention shifted almost immediately.

  The white-haired girl had already moved.

  She padded across the room toward Leaf’s bed, steps careful, almost hesitant. Leaf noticed too late—his shoulders tensed, eyes snapping up as she stopped right in front of him.

  She lifted her hand.

  Palm open.

  Waiting.

  Leaf startled—not violently, not angrily—but enough that his back pressed harder into the wall. His arms tightened around his knees for half a second before he realized what she was doing.

  “W—what do you want…?!” he blurted out.

  The sharpness in his voice surprised even him.

  The room froze.

  Rin reacted instantly. “Hey! Don’t shout at her!” she snapped, stepping forward. “She’s trying, okay?”

  Leaf flinched at that, jaw tightening. “I—I didn’t mean—”

  Before it could spiral—

  Keil moved.

  “Hey,” he said quickly, voice calm but firm enough to cut through the tension. He stood up and stepped closer—not between them, but beside the white-haired girl. Close enough that she could feel it.

  “She’s not asking for anything,” Keil added, softer now. “She’s just… showing what she learned.”

  The white-haired girl didn’t look at Leaf.

  She didn’t look at Rin either.

  Her hand stayed open.

  Still.

  Waiting.

  Leaf swallowed.

  He stared at her palm like it was something dangerous. Something fragile. Something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

  His voice came out quieter this time. “…You don’t have to do that.”

  She tilted her head—just a little.

  Then, slowly, she nudged her hand closer. Not touching. Just enough to say this is okay.

  Leaf hesitated.

  Then—awkwardly, stiffly—he lifted his own hand and placed it in hers.

  It wasn’t gentle.

  It wasn’t confident.

  But it was there.

  The white-haired girl’s fingers curled instinctively, just like before.

  Leaf stiffened again, breath hitching—then… relaxed. Just barely.

  Rin beamed like she’d just witnessed a miracle.

  Keil let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  For a moment, nobody spoke.

  The hum of the facility filled the space where words weren’t needed.

  And for the first time since they’d been brought back—

  Leaf didn’t feel quite so alone on his bed.

  Leaf let go almost immediately, pulling his hand back and hugging his knees again. His ears had gone faintly red, and he refused to look at any of them.