She Was Just A Child (PART 2)

CHAPTER 34: THE WEIGHT OF A NAME

Dian woke slowly, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind strangely quiet. The hum of the machines in the medical bay was rhythmic, almost soothing, but the silence that followed was louder than anything else. For the first time in a long time, the silence wasn't suffocating. It wasn’t empty.

She shifted slightly beneath the blanket, wincing as a dull ache settled in her limbs. The past few days had taken their toll—physically, emotionally, in ways she wasn’t ready to confront yet. But there was one undeniable truth that lingered in her mind.

Papa.

The word still felt foreign, like something borrowed from a life that had never belonged to her. And yet, she had spoken it. She had claimed it.

The thought made her uneasy, her chest tightening with an unfamiliar weight. She wasn’t used to this kind of attachment—this vulnerability. König had always been there, a constant presence, but acknowledging it, putting a name to it, felt like stepping off the edge of something she didn’t understand.

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself upright. Her muscles protested, but she ignored the discomfort. She had spent enough time lying still, drowning in her thoughts. It was time to move.

The room was dim, the overhead light flickering faintly as if struggling to hold on. König wasn’t there, but she knew he wasn’t far. He never was.

As if on cue, the door creaked open, and König stepped inside. He moved carefully, his gaze scanning her like he was assessing her condition.

“You’re awake.” His voice was low and steady, but there was something else beneath it—something close to relief.

Dian nodded. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

A small huff of amusement escaped him, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He walked to the edge of her bed, resting a hand on the metal railing. He was still in his gear, the faint scent of gunpowder and metal clinging to him, a stark contrast to the sterile scent of the medical bay.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

Dian hesitated. Physically? Maybe. Mentally? She wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. It was the most honest answer she could give.

König studied her, his blue eyes unreadable beneath the shadows cast by his hood. She could tell he wanted to say something, to press further, but he held back. He always gave her space when she needed it.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, placing it gently on the table beside her bed.

Dian blinked, tilting her head slightly. It was a small charm—worn, scratched, clearly something that had been through years of wear and tear. She picked it up carefully, turning it over between her fingers.

“A rabbit?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

König nodded. “A lucky charm.”

She scoffed. “I don’t believe in luck.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted, “but I kept that with me for years. And I’m still here.”

Dian stared at the charm, her fingers tightening around it slightly. It was simple, unremarkable, but the fact that he had carried it with him, that he had chosen to give it to her, made her chest ache in a way she didn’t understand.

“I don’t need it,” she muttered, but she didn’t let go of it.

König didn’t argue. He just nodded, like he had expected that answer.

“You don’t have to keep it,” he said. “But I wanted you to have it.”

Dian said nothing. She didn’t trust herself to.

The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was different now—different from the silence she had always known. This wasn’t the suffocating emptiness she was used to. It was something else.

König shifted slightly, his fingers tapping against the railing. “Dian…” He hesitated as if choosing his next words carefully.

She glanced at him, waiting.

“You called me something last night,” he finally said.

Her stomach twisted.

She knew what he was talking about. She had felt it the moment the word had left her lips, the weight of it, the finality. She had expected him to ignore it, to pretend it hadn’t happened.

But König was never one to let things go.

She swallowed hard, her grip on the rabbit charm tightening. “It was nothing,” she muttered, looking away.

“It wasn’t nothing.” His voice was steady, but there was something else beneath it—something quieter, something that almost sounded like hope.

Dian clenched her jaw. She didn’t know how to do this. She didn’t know how to explain the storm inside her, the way she had always kept people at a distance, the way she had never allowed herself to belong to anyone or anything.

König sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dian… you don’t have to be afraid of this.”

She snapped her gaze to him, her fingers digging into the blanket. “I’m not afraid.”

He gave her a look, one that told her he saw straight through her lie.

She exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. “I don’t need a father, König.”

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “Maybe not,” he said, his voice calm. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t have one.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut.

She turned away sharply, her breath unsteady. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “I’ve never had one. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.”

König was silent for a moment. Then, softly, “It means you’re not alone.”

Dian squeezed her eyes shut.

She hated this. She hated how easily he got under her skin, how he saw things in her that she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. She hated that he made her feel safe when she had spent her whole life convincing herself she didn’t need anyone.

But most of all, she hated that a part of her wanted to believe him.

The room was too quiet. Too still.

After a long pause, König sighed. “I won’t push you,” he said. “Not about this. But you don’t have to run from it either.”

Dian said nothing.

König stood up, adjusting his gear. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ll be close.”

She didn’t watch him leave.

Instead, she stared down at the rabbit charm in her hand, her fingers tracing over the worn edges.

She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know if she could accept it.

But for the first time, she didn’t let go.

And that, maybe, was enough.