Foreigner

Chapter 28

The envelope stays buried in my desk drawer, under a mess of notebook pages, blister packs, and that old crumpled sketch Isadora did of me once. But it hums like static. Like it's alive. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the world to fall apart again.

Eventually, I give up.

I climb down from the top bunk as quietly as I can. The floor's cold beneath my feet. I don't bother putting on a hoodie—my skin's already burning. The lamp on the desk flickers once when I twist the switch, casting that small, amber pool of light that makes everything else seem miles away.

The paper's heavier than I remember. It rustles like a whisper as I pull it out.

KOOLIMAJA TULEKAHJU PÕHJUSEKS 9-AASTANE ÕPILANE.

Nine-Year-Old Student Responsible for School Fire.

The headline blares in bold black font. My old school—charred, half-collapsed. A blurred photo of me, nine years old, my small figure led away by two officers. I remember that day. The smell of smoke in my throat. The look on my mother's face, stretched so tight it stopped being a face.

I stare at the headline for so long the letters stop meaning anything.

"You're up."

Christian's voice breaks the silence behind me, rough and low.

I don't turn. "Couldn't sleep."

He doesn't respond right away. I hear him get out of bed, then the soft creak of the floor as he crosses the room. He leans over my shoulder, bracing one arm on the back of the chair and the other on the desk, his presence warm and quiet.

He doesn't ask if he can see. He just does.

I don't stop him. He can't read Estonian anyway.

"That's the fire," he says softly. Not a question.

"Yeah."

I feel his eyes on me more than the paper. "What happened?"

I stare at the headline a little longer. Then I speak.

"There were kids at my old school—wealthy, protected. The kind of protected that meant teachers looked the other way and their parents signed checks big enough to shut up anyone else. They picked on a lot of people, but Märt..." My voice hitches. "He was my friend. And he didn't know how to be quiet. Or invisible. So they made him pay for it."

Christian doesn't interrupt.

"They beat him up. Starved him out. Then took him out into the woods one day and left him there in the snow like trash." I pause. "He didn't come back."

A breath passes between us.

"The police called it an accident. Said he must've slipped on ice and hit his head, passed out, and froze to death. They didn't investigate. No one listened. No one cared." I stare down at the article again. "So I lit the supply closet on fire. Late evening. Barely anyone was inside. But it caught fast. It was... bigger than I meant it to be."

Christian's quiet, but when he speaks, his voice is rougher. "And now the Seven are just more of the same."

I glance up at him. He's already looking at me. When our eyes meet, something settles. Something wordless.

I nod. "Yeah."

He's still so close. Still holding the back of my chair. Then—slowly—he steps around, into my space, crouches down, and pulls me in.

His arms wrap around my shoulders in a firm, steady hug. I don't move at first. But then my hands lift and wrap around his neck. My face fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, and I breathe in his calming scent.