Genesis. Volume 2

October 12, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Night. Emma couldn't sleep. She lay in Arthur's bed, the blanket pulled up to her chin, staring at the dark ceiling. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness so well that she could make out every crack in the plaster, every yellow stain left by the leak. The Walkers' house was old and talkative: floorboards whispered under someone's footsteps—probably Mark going to the bathroom—pipes hummed when the wind blew through the cracks, and somewhere in the attic a beam creaked steadily. Emma knew all these sounds. She'd stayed here once before, after the first trip to the mansion, and back then every creak had seemed like a portent of disaster. Now it was almost soothing. She sat up, swinging her bare feet to the cold floor. Sleep didn't want to come—fragments of the past day spun through her head: the slime on the stone in the mansion's basement, Jack's empty eyes, the voice that had spoken the dead mentor's phrase. And over all of it—the bowl of soup Sofia had set before her, the steam rising from the broth, the tears she hadn't been able to hold back. Emma wasn't used to crying. She wasn't used to feeling anything but anger and exhaustion. But this house drew out what she'd hidden even from herself. She threw on her jacket over her t-shirt and stepped into the hallway. A floorboard creaked under her bare heel. The door to Lisa's room was slightly ajar—Liam was asleep, turned toward the wall, his breathing even and soft. Moonlight fell on his shoulder; the blanket had bunched up. Emma stood for a second, watching his silhouette, then went downstairs, trying not to make a sound, and stepped out onto the porch. The night was cold and clear. The moon hung low over the trees, flooding the yard with silver light, making the world look as if it had been cut from black cardboard. It smelled of wet earth and the last leaves still clinging to the elms. Emma sat on the steps, wrapping her arms around her knees. The cold immediately seeped through her jeans, sending goosebumps up her thighs, but she didn't care. Behind her, the door creaked. She didn't turn around—she recognized the footsteps. "You're not sleeping," Liam said, his voice hoarse with sleep. "Neither are you." "I heard you leave." He sat down beside her without asking permission and handed her a blanket—must have grabbed it from the living room couch. It smelled of dust and someone else's comfort. "Here. You'll freeze." She took the blanket and draped it over her shoulders. Liam was silent, looking at the moon, and Emma suddenly realized: he was waiting. Not demanding, not pushing—just waiting for her to speak. And from that patient silence, the words came faster than she'd expected. "I'm scared," she said quietly. Liam turned his head but didn't interrupt. "I'm scared all the time." She licked her dry lips. "Not of monsters. Not of Feasters. I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up and won't remember what this house smells like. What Arthur's face looks like when he's angry. How Max sharpens his stupid knife. How Lisa draws her circles. I'm afraid all of it will disappear—like Arthur's father's face, like Jack's memory, like... everything we lose." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "And I'm afraid of you." "Of me?" There was no hurt in his voice, only quiet surprise. "Not of you yourself. Of what will happen if I... get attached." She pulled the red thread from under her sleeve and showed it to him. It glinted faintly in the moonlight. "See? It's not just jewelry. It's a mark. Everyone I get attached to dies. Or disappears. Or forgets me. It's like a curse." Liam looked at the thread for a long time. Then he took her hand—gently, the way you hold a wounded bird. "You already showed me this. On the roof. Remember?" "I remember." "And I said I had one too." He rolled up his sleeve. On his wrist, in the moonlight, the red thread looked almost black. "We're in the same boat, Emma. You're not cursed. You're just... part of something bigger. And so am I." "You don't understand." She pulled her hand away, stood up, took a step back. "You didn't see what happened to Jack. You didn't see Arthur forget his own father's face. It's not just 'part of something bigger.' It's the price we pay. And the people close to us pay it too." Liam rose, standing across from her. Moonlight fell on his face, and the scar on his hand—crossing his life line—looked deeper now. "I know the price. I paid it when I lost my sister. And I decided I'd never let anyone close again. But then you came along." He paused. "I'm not afraid to pay. I'm afraid not to have enough time." Emma looked at him and felt something crack inside her. Not break—crack, like a crust of ice revealing living water underneath. She was angry at him for saying those things. Angry that he didn't walk away, didn't get scared, didn't say "this is too complicated." Angry that he stood here, on this cold porch, looking at her as if she weren't a walking disaster but something precious. "You're an idiot," she said. "I know." "You have no idea what you're getting into." "I already do. And I'm still here." She wanted to say something else—sharp, cutting, to push him away—but she couldn't. Instead, she sat back down on the steps and covered her face with her hands. Liam sat beside her. Not touching her, but close enough for her to feel the warmth of his shoulder. "I can't promise you everything will be okay," he said. "I don't know what tomorrow will bring. But I know that today, I'm here. And tomorrow, if we're both alive, I'll still be here. That's all I have." Emma lowered her hands from her face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks—she hadn't even noticed when she'd started crying. "This is stupid," she whispered. "We're at war. We shouldn't..." "Who says we shouldn't?" He smiled faintly, and that smile held all his simplicity. "We make the rules, Emma. No one else." She sniffled—and suddenly laughed. The laugh was hoarse, fractured, but real. "You're impossible." "I know." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, then pulled the red thread from under her sleeve and held it out to him. The thread trembled in her fingers. "If you really want to be part of this... then take it." Liam looked at the thread, then at her. His brown eyes reflected the moon. "Are you sure?" "No. But I'm tired of being alone." He took the thread—the very one she'd worn since they'd first left the mansion. And slowly, looking into her eyes, he wrapped it around his wrist and tightened the knot. The thread lay next to his own, and now there were two on his arm. "So now we're truly tied," he said. "For real." Emma touched his hand, running her finger along the red thread that now connected them—literally, physically. His skin was warm. "Now you're one of us," she said. "Welcome to the Network." They sat on the porch until the moon climbed high above the trees and the cold seeped into their bones. Then Liam helped her up, wrapped her in the blanket, and they went back inside. In the hallway, he stopped at the door to his room. "Emma." "Yeah?" "Thank you." "For what?" "For letting me in." She didn't answer—just touched his shoulder and walked into Arthur's room. The door closed. Emma lay on the bed, clutching the dog tag in her fist, and for the first time in a long while, she fell asleep without fear.