CHAPTER 8: FRAIL THREAD

  Helel stood in the middle of the dark— The kind of dark where all light goes when it has not yet decided whether to return.

  It was not empty.

  It waited.

  The darkness bent subtly around him, not recoiling, not welcoming— Just adjusting, as if reality itself had learned long ago that resisting him was a waste of effort.

  Beneath his bare feet, there was no floor.

  No sky.

  No direction.

  Only suspension.

  A held breath stretched between endings and continuations, between almost and not yet.

  In his hands lay a quivering line of light.

  It trembled like a living thing.

  Not violently— No panic, no thrashing.

  Just a thin, exhausted vibration, like a pulse that had learned how to be quiet.

  Helel held it far more carefully than he ever had before.

  That alone should have been alarming.

  The thread was weightless, yet impossibly heavy.

  It pooled softly across his palms, dim and slack, as though tired of holding itself together.

  Its glow faltered unevenly, brightening and dimming in small, irregular breaths.

  He felt it tug faintly against his grip— Not away, not toward.

  Just enough to remind him that it was still attached to someone who mattered.

  Someone alive.

  He had touched this thread countless times before.

  He had looped it around his arm like ribbon, let it trail behind him through realms as if it were nothing more than a toy.

  Plucked at it like an overcaffeinated pianist when he wanted her attention.

  He had yanked on it in the waking world.

  Tugged it through dreams.

  Pulled just hard enough to provoke.

  To see if she would notice.

  If she would swear.

  Laugh.

  Punch him again.

  But now, he cradled it as though every reckless belief he had ever carried was bound inside its thinning glow.

  As though the line itself were holding him accountable.

  He swallowed.

  “She’s breathing.” Helel muttered, the words escaping him before he realized he was afraid enough to say them aloud.

  The sound of his own voice startled him.

  Relief flickered across his face— Quick, sharp— Gone just as fast, as if he did not trust it to stay.

  He shifted his stance, bouncing once on the balls of his feet, restless energy bleeding through despite his restraint.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied the thread more closely.

  It lay pooled and slack between his hands, unlike before.

  No tension.

  No pull.

  It did not resist him.

  That scared him more than if it had.

  It had fallen into the place of waiting.

  The In-Between Realm.

  He felt it then— The slow dissipation.

  The line was still fading, thinning at the edges like embers losing their heat after a fire has already decided to go out.

  His jaw tightened.

  “How could someone as bright as you let yourself dim like this?”

  Helel snapped, irritation flaring on instinct—anger arriving first, because fear always arrived second with him.

  He gave the thread a light shake, not enough to hurt, just enough to demand attention.

  “You better wake up and take care of yourself.”

  The line hummed faintly in response.

  Not an answer.

  Not reassurance.

  Just dull presence.

  “Don’t make me drag you out of whatever dreamscape you’re hiding in,”

  He continued, voice dropping into a darker register, edges sharpening.

  “Not even Yael would be able to save you when I spank you.”

  The threat rang hollow almost immediately.

  He paused, scowling at the light.

  “Wow, huh. The audacity,” He added, bitterness creeping in, softer now.

  “After you punched me? After all that fight?” Then his voice faltered.

  “You dare to be this weak?” The words came out quieter than he intended.

  “Hey,” Helel said, barely louder than a breath. “Suryel…”

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  The thread trembled again.

  “Wake up?” The last word barely carried. “Why won’t you wake up?”

  He did not seem to realize when his grip loosened.

  Or when he drew the thread closer to his chest, curling instinctively around it as though proximity alone might anchor it.

  The sharpness drained from his posture.

  Irritation collapsed inward, folding into something unguarded and raw.

  He clicked his tongue and glared at the light.

  Then— Like a cat owner who immediately regretted the word no— He exhaled, shoulders sagging just a fraction, and drew it into his arms again.

  “She is not safe yet.”

  Azriel’s voice entered the space without disturbing it.

  Not loud.

  Not echoing.

  Simply there.

  He stepped out of the shadows, movement precise and unhurried, as if the darkness itself had parted to make room for him.

  Helel stiffened instantly.

  His body reacted before his expression did.

  The thread vanished behind his back as he turned, tracking Azriel’s every step with sharpened focus, muscles coiling despite the stillness of the realm.

  “You should not be here.” Helel said, tone flat and territorial, like he was attempting to evict Death from a place that technically belonged to no one.

  Azriel did not stop his approach.

  He was still required to perform his duty.

  He never appeared before a human soul unless attendance was required— To guide them onward, or return them.

  The former was far more common.

  Helel’s silence sharpened.

  His expression accused without words, carrying a clear message: If you want her, you go through me.

  Azriel smiled faintly.

  Not amusement.

  Resignation.

  “I didn’t want to be,” He said evenly, lifting his hands just enough to show they were empty. “But I must be where I am needed.”

  He took one careful step forward.

  Helel stepped back just as deliberately, angling his body so his left side formed a barrier, stance wide and grounded. “I won’t let you.”

  His pupils constricted.

  His gaze locked onto Azriel with a ferocity that did not often surface unless something precious was at risk.

  Then— Abruptly— Helel broke eye contact.

  He looked down at the light curled in his hand.

  He didn’t have to fight Death.

  He just had to support the opposing field.

  Life.

  He lifted the thread to his lips, pressed his mouth gently against it, and closed his eyes.

  The In-Between Realm shifted.

  He emerged through a floor-length mirror plastered with affirmation stickers, half peeling, half earnest— Into a human bedroom.

  The transition carried scent with it.

  Paper. Detergent. Formalin. Stale snacks. Sleep.

  Helel’s eyes flicked around, cataloging instinctively.

  A desk crowded with books and notes full of her thoughts and handwriting.

  A wall layered with photographs— Her with family, pets, friends— Memories pinned up like talismans.

  A suspended frog in formalin stared back at him, mouth gaping, eyes glassy and accusatory.

  Then a chair piled high with clothes, unfolded laundry forming a shrine of procrastination.

  Helel scrunched his nose.

  “Humanity.” He muttered under his breath.

  A sound cut through his assessment.

  His attention snapped toward the bed pushed into the corner, half-framed by shadow and the pale light of early dawn.

  Suryel lay rigid beneath her blankets.

  Her breathing came ragged, uneven, like rabbits racing each other and losing.

  Her pulse flickered faintly, sickly blue at her temple.

  One hand clenched the fabric tight, knuckles pale, while her legs trembled beneath the sheets.

  Sweat beaded along her brow.

  Her eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids, trapped somewhere else.

  “There you are,” Helel whispered. “Suryel…”

  A strand of hair clung to her cheek.

  His hand lifted on instinct.

  Then froze midair.

  Hesitation flickered across his face— Brows furrowed, mouth pressed thin.

  He exhaled sharply and pulled back, fingers curling tight into his palm instead.

  His gaze dropped to the thread.

  It trailed faintly from her navel, slack against the floor, leading back toward the mirror— Toward Azriel’s waiting domain.

  Helel gathered it carefully, coaxing rather than pulling, focusing until the light flared brighter than its surroundings.

  It resisted him.

  Trembled.

  Yielded— Just enough.

  When he had gathered sufficient length, he pressed the coiled light firmly against her navel, palm steady.

  “Suryel,” Helel said aloud, voice even despite the strain in it. “Wake up!”

  —

  She was walking through darkness.

  Each step felt like a release.

  A shedding.

  The air tasted like nothing.

  Silence pressed in gently, the kind that almost felt kind.

  She felt it like a hollowing.

  Lighter.

  Peaceful.

  And unbearably sad— Like something vital had been misplaced.

  Removed and detached.

  Ahead, a figure appeared.

  Waiting.

  Blocking her path.

  She stopped.

  Recognition bloomed slowly.

  “Hello…” Suryel said softly, smiling up at Death.

  Azriel inclined his head, returning her greeting, expression gentle, touched with faint sorrow.

  “Not yet, our little sunbird.”

  He looked past her, as if listening for something else.

  The ground shuddered.

  A force slammed into her senses.

  Dragged her backward as a voice tore through the void—

  SURYEL. WAKE UP.

  —

  She gasped.

  Breath returned hard and deep.

  The ceiling of her room swam into focus.

  Pain followed.

  Cold sweat.

  Fire in her chest.

  Panic clawing its way up her throat.

  A dog barked frantically, scratching at the door.

  She rolled, retching, and hit the floor.

  The tile was icy against her forehead— Solid, real.

  She clutched her abdomen, pain digging deep, hollow and sharp.

  “Kuya,” She choked between heaves. “Kuya— Help.”

  She continued to retch what little remained in her stomach.

  The door burst open.

  Light and warmth flooded in.

  Pajama-clad figures rushed toward her.

  A dog barreled past, tail wagging despite the urgency.

  The room filled— Not with answers, but with motion.

  With hands reaching.

  With voices overlapping.

  With life insisting, loudly, messily, on staying.

  Yael appeared and moved forward instinctively— But Helel caught his arm.

  “No,” Helel said quietly. “Step back into the mirror and watch.”

  He did not look at Yael as he added, “With me.”