CHAPTER TWO: BEFORE HE FORGOT

The house smelled like warmth.

Soap, old wood, something faintly sweet nothing like the rain-soaked street she had just left behind. The boy closed the door quickly, as if the night might slip in if he didn’t, and stood there for a moment with his back against it, breathing hard.

“You can sit,” he said, pointing to a chair that looked too small for her somehow, even though she wasn’t tall. “I’ll get a towel.”

She nodded and did as she was told.

The fabric of her clothes clung to her skin, heavy with rain. Water dripped slowly onto the floor, each sound sharp in the quiet. She watched the room with careful interest the crooked picture on the wall, the shoes by the door, the faint hum of something electrical in the distance. Humans surrounded themselves with evidence of living. She had always found that fascinating.

He returned with a towel that was clearly his worn thin, edges fraying.

“Here,” he said, holding it out like an offering.

“Thank you.”

Her fingers brushed his when she took it. He froze for half a second, eyes flicking up to her face, then away again. Her skin was cool. Not cold enough to frighten him, but enough to register as different.

She pressed the towel gently to her temple. The blood had already slowed, the skin knitting itself together beneath her touch. She could feel his gaze linger, confusion slowly replacing concern.

“That should still hurt,” he said.

“It did,” she replied honestly. “It doesn’t anymore.”

He frowned but didn’t question her further.

“What’s your name?” he asked again, sitting across from her.

“I can’t tell you.”

He accepted that more easily than she expected.

“My mom says names are important,” he said. “But she also says strangers are dangerous.”

“And yet,” she said softly, “you helped me.”

He shrugged, embarrassed. “You looked like you needed it.”

That was all.

She studied him, his untied laces, the faint bruise on his knuckle, the way he kept glancing at the door as if expecting someone else to appear. He was brave in the uncomplicated way only children were, before fear learned how to be specific.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Nine,” he said. “Almost ten.”

She swallowed.

“I won’t hurt you,” she said suddenly.

“I know,” he replied, without hesitation.

The certainty in his voice unsettled her more than any threat could have.

“How?”

He smiled, small and shy. “Bad people don’t look sad like you.”

Silence settled between them, thick and fragile.

Finally, she spoke the truth—the one thing she had never said aloud to a human.

“I’m a vampire.”

The word didn’t echo. It didn’t explode. It simply existed.

He stared at her, eyes wide, then tilted his head.

“Like… really?”

“Yes.”

“Do you drink blood?”

“Yes.”

“Do you drink kids’ blood?”

“No.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

“That’s okay then,” he said, nodding as if he’d reached a reasonable conclusion. “You don’t feel scary.”

She laughed quietly, the sound unfamiliar in her own ears.

Outside, the air shifted.

She stood so suddenly the chair scraped against the floor.

“They’re here,” she said.

His smile vanished. “Already?”

She knelt in front of him, bringing herself down to his level. For the first time, her composure cracked—not fear, but something sharper.

“They’ll block your memory,” she said. “You won’t remember this. You won’t remember me.”

His eyes filled instantly. “I don’t want to forget.”

“I know.”

Her fingers hovered near his forehead, hesitating.

“You were kind to me,” she said. “That matters.”

She touched him gently.

The world seemed to pause.

Outside, the rain stopped completely.

Years later, he would wake with headaches and no reason.

He would dream of a girl with rain in her hair and blood on her skin.

He would feel something missing and never know its name.

And she.....

She would remember him exactly as he was.

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