Kai and Soren - Days - Chapter Seven: Before the Air Changes

Kai sleeps through the night now.

He always has.

Soren doesn’t.

He lies still, listening. A quiet sigh slips out of him. The air is cold, and the silence of the house offers no comfort. He curls beneath the blankets—first on one side, then the other.

“Ahh… enough.”

It almost always happens just before dawn.

A moment before the world decides to wake up.

He opens his eyes.

He didn’t dream.

He almost never does.

Beside him, Kai sleeps with his mouth slightly open, one hand clenched in the sheet. His breathing is deep, steady. There is no tension in his body. No waiting.

Soren watches him for a few seconds.

Then looks away.

He sits up without making a sound. His feet meet the cold floor.

Somewhere downstairs, a cup at the edge of the table trembles slightly.

As if it wants to fall.

Soren holds his breath.

Counts under his breath.

One.

Two.

Three.

Nothing.

It doesn’t fall.

Only then does he stand.

As the bedroom door closes softly behind him, Kai shifts in his sleep. Turns onto his other side. Keeps sleeping.

The hallway light is off.

Soren moves barefoot, fingers brushing the wall. He knows every crack in the plaster, every groan of the floorboards. The house isn’t big—but at night, it stretches.

He stops at the first step of the staircase. Tilts his head, as if listening to a distant voice.

For a moment, the air trembles. Not much. Just enough.

The handrail is cold beneath his palm.

Soren tightens his grip and doesn’t turn on the lights.

It won’t happen, he tells himself.

Not today.

He goes down the last steps. The kitchen is dark, lit only by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside the window. The chairs are in place. The table too.

Everything is where it should be.

And yet—

The cup on its saucer is tilted by a few millimeters.

Soren knows it, even though he doesn’t remember leaving it there.

He approaches slowly. Places two fingers on the edge of the ceramic.

Still.

Cold.

He releases the breath he’d been holding.

From upstairs, a sound—a heavier movement. Then another.

Kai has turned in his sleep.

Soren smiles faintly. Not with joy. With relief.

He sits at the table, knees drawn to his chest, and looks out the window. The sky is still dark; the wet asphalt reflects a pale light.

Soren closes his eyes for a second.

Not to sleep.

To remember what the air was like before it changed.

The silence breaks with a familiar sound.

A door opening softly.

Light, uncertain footsteps.

Hannah appears in the kitchen doorway, hair hastily tied back, a robe too thin for the hour. She stops when she sees Soren at the table.

“Awake again?”

Her voice is low, thick with sleep—but not surprised.

Soren shrugs.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Hannah doesn’t ask anything else. She steps in, turning on only the light above the sink. A cone of yellow spills across the counter, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

She fills the kettle. It begins to heat.

Soren watches her movements—precise, automatic.

As if she, too, is listening for something she doesn’t want to hear.

“Did it change?”

she asks, without turning.

Soren hesitates.

“No.”

Hannah nods slowly, as if that answer carries weight. She takes two cups, sets one in front of him.

“If it does,” she says, “wake me.”

Soren wraps his hands around the cup. It’s warm.

“I always do.”

Hannah gives a tired half-smile. She runs a hand through his hair, then leans against the table for a moment, eyes closed.

Upstairs, a louder noise. A dull thump, followed by a mumble.

“Kai,” she murmurs.

“Don’t come down barefoot—wait there,”

Hannah says, already moving.

Soren is alone again.

He listens as the house slowly comes back to life. Footsteps. Drawers. Running water. The world putting itself back in order.

But beneath it all—

the air stays tight. Waiting.

Soren lifts the cup and takes a sip. Grimaces.

Too hot.

As if time itself had squeezed too hard, just for a second.

Hannah comes back down the stairs, slower now.

Kai follows her, dragging his slippers, eyes half-closed. His hair is a mess, his pajamas wrinkled. He yawns without covering his mouth.

“It’s still dark,” he mutters.

“Not for long,” Hannah replies.

Kai stops on the last step, looking into the kitchen.

Soren is still at the table.

“Didn’t sleep?”

he asks, without curiosity. Just stating a fact.

Soren shakes his head.

Kai shrugs. Comes down the last steps and pulls out the chair across from him. He sits crooked, feet hooked around one leg of the table.

“I had a weird dream,” he says.

Hannah freezes for a moment behind him.

“What kind of dream?”

Kai thinks. Squints.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

Soren looks up sharply.

“What do you mean?”

Kai smiles, distracted.

“There were a lot of things. Voices. Like someone left the radio on in every room.”

Soren presses his lips together.

Hannah rests a hand on Kai’s shoulder.

“Don’t think about it too much.”

Kai nods. He takes the cup Hannah left on the table and drinks without hesitation. No reaction.

“It’s good,” he says.

Soren watches the dark liquid ripple inside the cup.

The air around the table seems to ease—just a little.

Outside, the sky begins to lighten.

The distant sound of a car.

A dog barking.

The world restarts.

Soren lets out his breath.

For now, nothing changes.

But as Kai talks about school and Hannah listens with only half her attention, Soren feels something slip away from his chest.

It’s small.

Almost imperceptible.

And yet, once it’s gone,

it will never come back.

The day passes without incident.

That’s what makes it suspicious.

At school, the hallway smells of detergent. Voices bounce off lockers—laughter too loud, running footsteps. Kai walks ahead, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Soren follows a few steps behind.

Not because he wants to lag.

Because from there, he can see better.

A classmate trips. Doesn’t fall.

A door slams too hard. No one flinches.

A teacher says the wrong name, laughs, corrects herself.

Small deviations.

Nothing worth noticing.

Soren stops by the classroom window.

The glass is cold against his forehead. Outside, the courtyard is wet from last night’s rain. A leaf clings to the concrete despite the wind.

He should move.

He doesn’t.

“Soren.”

Kai’s voice.

“You coming?”

Soren nods and takes his seat.

The lesson begins. Words wash over him like lukewarm water. History. Dates. Causes and effects. Everything orderly. Everything explainable.

Soren lowers his gaze to the desk.

For a moment—just one—he sees something else.

A different classroom.

Chairs overturned.

Crying that doesn’t belong to a child.

He blinks.

Gone.

His heart beats faster. No one notices. The teacher keeps talking.

At recess, Kai laughs with the others. Pushes, gets pushed. Light as ever.

Soren stays near the wall. Watching.

A girl approaches Kai, whispers something in his ear. Kai blushes. Scratches the back of his neck.

Soren feels the air shift.

Just a little.

But enough.

Nothing happens.

And yet, when the bell rings, Soren knows that moment—exactly as it is—will never happen again in the same way.

At home that afternoon, Hannah is making dinner. The smell of onions fills the kitchen. The radio is on, volume low.

“…a sudden cardiac arrest—”

Hannah turns it down sharply.

“Homework,” she says. “Go.”

Kai obeys without complaint. Soren lingers a second too long.

“Hungry?”

Hannah asks, without turning.

Soren opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Yeah.”

A small lie.

Not small enough to matter.

That night, Kai falls asleep right away.

Soren doesn’t.

He lies in the dark, eyes open, counting his brother’s breaths. Steady. Certain.

Then he feels something.

Not a sound.

A hollow.

As if one room in the house has suddenly grown larger from the inside.

Soren turns slowly.

And understands.

Not what is going to happen.

But where.

The next day,

there will be a funeral.

ns216.73.216.10da2

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