Liam Caelan Ward

Liam remembered the way he had run—legs burning, lungs clawing for air, his breaths ragged and uneven, so heavy they felt like chains dragging him down. The fire had been behind him, bright against the night, smoke twisting into the sky like the laughter of devils. The crowd had been there too, their voices thick and cruel, jeering as though it was a festival rather than a slaughter. Their laughter still echoed in his skull, sharp and metallic, when he remembered the moment he broke through them—shoving shoulders, scraping arms, stumbling in his desperation. His pants caught harshly against something, but he hadn't cared. And then— His breath had stopped. The world had slowed into silence as he lifted his eyes to the electricity pole. His best friend—his brother in all but blood—hung there upside down, bound by a long wire, his body nothing more than a broken offering to cruelty. Tortured. Knives had kissed his skin with malice. Blood dripped in a rhythm that would never leave Liam's ears. He remembered screaming, his voice ripping raw from his throat as he clutched his hair with both hands, his whole body shaking. The voices around him had risen higher and higher until they weren't voices anymore, only static, a deafening roar that consumed his mind. He had shut his eyes against it, forcing them closed so hard it hurt. And when he opened them again— He was in his room. The ceiling above him was dim, quiet, indifferent. His chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling gasps. The tears had already escaped him, running silently down the corners of his eyes, cold against his skin. He didn't fight them. He couldn't. He simply lay there until the hollow weight in his chest shifted, urging him forward. With a deep, shaking sigh, he sat up. He washed his face, though the water could not cool the burning ache inside him. He brushed his teeth, dressed in his usual uniform—black shirt, black sweater, black pants. The color had become his shield, the only armor he had left. Another sigh fell from him as he stepped outside, the air cutting fresh into his lungs. For a moment, he let himself breathe. Really breathe. The streets were alive with their ordinary sounds—distant chatter, the rolling hum of cars, the wind carrying with it the scent of bread from a bakery he never entered. He felt a hint of something foreign to him these days—a smile, fragile and fleeting, like a bird perched too lightly on his lips. He walked. Step after step, until he reached the bus stop. And then— His breath stopped again. There, standing with a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, was a boy. He was looking at his phone, unaware of the world, unaware of Liam staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. The hair, the slope of his shoulders, the way his weight leaned slightly to the left… Those eyes—when the boy glanced up—struck him like lightning. Henry. No. Impossible. But— It was Henry. His mind blanked, the world tilting as though the ground itself had vanished beneath his feet. His heart pounded so violently it hurt, like it would crack his ribs open. Every instinct screamed at him, his body moving before his reason could catch up. One step, then another, faster, faster—until he was rushing forward. And before he could think of the stares, the whispers of strangers, the impossibility of what his eyes told him—he wrapped his arms around the boy. Tight. Desperate. It wasn't a careful embrace. It was a collision. Liam crushed him against his chest, burying his face into his shoulder. His fingers clutched at the fabric of the boy's jacket as if letting go would mean losing him all over again. The world around them blurred—murmurs, footsteps, car horns—it all dissolved into silence. There was only the boy in his arms, the ghost made flesh. "Henry…" Liam's voice broke into pieces, half a whisper, half a sob, choked and trembling. His chest ached with the sheer force of it. "I thought—I thought I lost you. I—" Tears blurred his vision as his whole body trembled. The weight of the past, the fire, the laughter, the sight of a lifeless body swinging above the crowd—it all crashed into him at once, and yet here he was, holding him. Real. Alive.