Valerie walked with swift, determined strides, her arm firmly wrapped around her son's shoulder. Damon, though visibly shaken and pale, moved beside her like he was running on instinct. He had come back from death—and now he was just trying to hold himself together, but even that was difficult when the air felt colder, the light sharper, and the whole world unfamiliar.
Jayla trailed just behind, her steps uncertain, her eyes fixed on Damon like she was afraid he might collapse again, or vanish entirely.
They reached the edge of the street where Valerie's dark gray sedan was parked half on the curb. The engine was already idling.
Valerie opened the back door without a word and helped Damon inside gently. She ran a hand over his forehead as he settled in, almost like she was checking for a fever. Her hand lingered a moment longer, then she shut the door and turned to face Jayla.
There was a long pause between them.
Jayla didn't know what to expect. Comfort? Anger? Confusion?
But instead, Valerie looked at her—not with suspicion, but something close to awe.
"You stayed," Valerie said softly. "Even when it got ugly."
Jayla nodded, her voice caught in her throat. "I couldn't leave him."
Valerie studied her for a few seconds longer, then something in her face softened. She stepped forward, arms out slightly, and pulled Jayla into a sudden, unexpected hug. Jayla froze at first, but then slowly returned it.
"You're a good girl," Valerie whispered. "He never talked about anyone. Not a single friend. Not even a name. I didn't think… anyone would be there for him."
Jayla's throat tightened. "I… I didn't know him well. Not really. He always sat at the back in class. Didn't talk. But something about today… I don't know why I ran to him. I just did."
Valerie pulled back and placed both hands on Jayla's shoulders. Her eyes were sharp now, as though measuring something deeper.
"Well… thank you. For not letting him die alone."
Jayla didn't know how to respond, so she just nodded, her lips parting slightly, still stunned by everything she'd seen. Damon… alive? Breathing? Looking around like nothing happened?
It didn't make sense.
Valerie gave her a small smile—tired, but grateful—then turned and got behind the wheel. The car door shut with a heavy thud. The engine purred softly as she shifted into gear.
Jayla took a step back as the car rolled forward.
Damon looked at her through the window. Their eyes met for a second.
He gave her a faint, almost guilty smile, and mouthed: Thank you.
She didn't smile back—but she nodded. That was all she could manage.
The car disappeared down the street, merging into the afternoon traffic like nothing extraordinary had happened. But Jayla stood there, unmoving, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
The car ride was silent at first.
Damon stared out the window, the streets rushing past in a blur. His fingers twitched on his lap, his breathing slow but shaky. He kept glancing at his chest, half-expecting to see blood or feel a wound reopen. But there was nothing. No pain. No weakness. Just… a strange tingling under his skin.
He finally turned to his mother.
"I died," he said quietly.
Valerie's hands tightened on the steering wheel, just a fraction. Her eyes didn't leave the road. "I know."
He frowned. "I'm not saying I passed out. I mean it. I remember it. I remember choking on my blood… feeling it all slipping away."
"I know, Damon," she said again, firmer this time.
He blinked. "Then why are you not… reacting? You're not crying, you're not freaking out—"
She turned sharply down a side street, tires humming low against the pavement.
"You're in danger, Damon," she said, her voice low but sharp with tension. "And I never thought this could happen to you. Not like this."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice rising with the panic that had been threatening to spill over. "What do you mean I'm in danger? What danger? What the hell is going on, Mom?"
She shook her head. "I'll explain everything when we get home."
He stared at her in stunned silence for the rest of the ride. His chest felt tight again, but not from pain—this was something else. Something cold and crawling, like the calm before a storm. His mother wasn't acting like someone whose son had just come back from the dead.
She was acting like someone who had seen this before.
When they finally pulled into the driveway of their modest two-story home, the tires crunched over gravel. Valerie turned off the engine and got out quickly. Damon followed her, still feeling like his body was a borrowed suit—familiar, but… wrong. Different.
Inside, the house was dim. Shadows stretched long across the living room, cast by the evening sun slipping through half-closed blinds.
Valerie led him straight to the worn brown couch, the same one he had curled up on during flu seasons and late movie nights. She placed a hand gently on his shoulder and eased him down.
"Stay," she said.
He didn't argue.
She disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of cupboards opening and a kettle being filled followed her. The comforting clink of porcelain broke through the silence. It was a small thing, but it grounded him, at least a little.
When she returned, she handed him a steaming mug.
He stared down at the tea. Herbal. Earthy. The same one she always gave him when he couldn't sleep. He took a sip without thinking.
"Mom," he said, voice quieter now, more cautious. "What's going on?"
She sat beside him, her body tense, hands clasped tightly between her knees.
"It usually takes a while the first time," she murmured.
Damon slowly lowered the mug. "What does?"
She looked up at him.
"The recovery. The... return."
He blinked. "What are you talking about? What usually takes a while?"
Valerie didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stood up and began walking around the living room. She checked the front door, locking it. She moved to the side windows, peering through the slats in the blinds. Her eyes scanned the street, the trees, the rooftops.
Then she moved to the back of the house.
Damon sat frozen, the tea cooling in his hands.
He could hear her checking the back door now… then the window above the kitchen sink… then the sliding glass door that led to the backyard.
When she returned, she shut the living room door behind her, closing them both in with the thick silence.
She walked slowly across the room and sat down directly in front of him, not beside him this time.
Her eyes met his.
And finally, she looked ready to talk.