Death's Echo

Chapter 9: One Last Adventure

The sound that came up from Agatha's throat wasn't human.

It was raw, primal—something between a sob and a scream, torn from the deepest part of her soul. Her body shook with it, her legs giving out completely as the full weight of what Rio had just said slammed into her. Agatha fell forward, her grip on Rio tightening as if she might fall into nothingness if she let go.

Rio held her, arms strong but trembling as she kept Agatha from collapsing completely. Agatha's chest heaved as the inhuman sound continued, echoing off the walls of the small room, filling the space with the kind of grief, shock, and desperate hope that had been buried for centuries.

She couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't process it.

Nicky.

Her body sagged further into Rio's arms, her fingers clutching desperately at Rio's clothes. She buried her face in Rio's shoulder, her tears soaking through the fabric as another guttural, heart-wrenching sound escaped her.

Rio didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her own tears fell silently, her body trembling under the weight of what they were both experiencing. She held Agatha tighter, her hand moving up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair in a gesture so familiar it almost broke Agatha even more.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—locked together in their shared grief, their shared relief, their shared disbelief. The air was thick with emotion, too much to name, too much to understand.

Slowly, painfully, Agatha lifted her head. Her eyes, red and swollen, finally shifted to the bed where Nicky sat, his small body looking so alive, so real, his bright eyes filled with a childlike innocence that had been ripped from their lives so long ago.

"Hi, Mommy."

Nicky's soft voice broke through the thick silence like a fragile thread, and Agatha's heart shattered all over again. It wasn't just the sound of his voice, so innocent and pure—it was the impossible reality of it, the hope she hadn't dared to allow herself.

Her legs nearly gave out again as she pulled away from Rio, her steps faltering, her breath catching in her throat as she moved toward the bed. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her hands shook violently as they hovered just above Nicky's dark hair, her fingers trembling in fear.

What if it wasn't real?

What if she reached out, and her hand just passed through him, like the ghost he was supposed to be?

But Nicky blinked up at her, his wide, innocent eyes shining with a trust so pure it was unbearable. He was so unaware of the storm raging inside her, the agony, the disbelief, the years of grief weighing her down like a chain.

Agatha's breath hitched, her body shaking as her trembling fingers finally made contact with his hair. The sensation was so painfully familiar—soft, like silk, inky black threads slipping through her fingers just as they had so many times before. Her heart thudded in her chest, harder and harder, as the realization sank in.

He was real.

He was really there.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stared down at him, her tears blurring her vision.

Nicky didn't move, just watched her with those wide, curious eyes, unaware of the years of pain, the nights spent screaming for him, or the broken woman standing before him now.

His tiny hand reached for her wrist, clutching her fingers with the gentle touch of a child who trusted without question, who loved without hesitation. His small voice broke through again, so soft, so heartbreakingly worried.