Genesis. Volume 2

October 21, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Night. Emma couldn't sleep. She lay on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet—only the kitchen clock ticking, and a floorboard creaking somewhere upstairs. Arthur wasn't sleeping. Jenny wasn't sleeping. Max seemed to have dozed off in the armchair, but his hands still gripped the armrests, as if he was afraid of falling in his sleep. Liam was sleeping on the floor in Lisa's room—on an air mattress Sofia had pulled from the closet. Emma could hear his breathing through the wall—steady, calm. Like someone who knew how to switch off when needed. She didn't. She got up, pulled on her jeans, threw on her jacket. Found her sneakers in the dark, laced them quickly. Stepped into the hallway, passed Liam's door, paused for a second. Didn't knock. She went upstairs. The stairs creaked—the third step from the bottom groaned like a wounded animal. Emma knew that creak. She knew all the creaks in this house. She'd spent too much time here, running from monsters that didn't live under the bed but in the mansion on the hill. The attic door was open. She climbed the narrow stairs, pushed open the heavy hatch, and stepped out onto the roof. Cold wind hit her face, tousled her hair. The sky was clear—the moon hung low, yellow as an old circus ticket. Stars burned bright but gave no warmth. They were distant, alien, indifferent. Below, on the street, a single streetlamp burned. Its light picked out the wet asphalt and the trunk of an old maple tree, where a red balloon had once hung. Emma walked to the edge of the roof, leaned on the rusty railing. The wind blew from the west, carrying the smell of rain and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, on the hill, the silhouette of the Genesis mansion stood black against the sky. Its windows were dark. The gray light that used to burn there had gone out. Or maybe it just couldn't be seen from here. She squeezed the dog tag in her pocket—warmed by her fingers, alive. "CROSS. CIRCLE." Letters she could read with her eyes closed. "I knew you'd be here." She didn't turn around. She recognized the footsteps—soft, nearly silent. Liam stepped onto the roof, stopped two paces away. "You're not sleeping," Emma said. "I heard you get up." He moved closer, stood beside her, leaning on the railing. "Do you always get up when you can't sleep?" "Always when I'm thinking." "About what?" She was silent. The wind whipped her hair, and she didn't push it from her face. "About tomorrow," she said at last. "About the day after. About London. About Kane. About the Sleeper. About Lisa not being able to draw with her right hand. About Arthur not remembering his father's face. About Max..." She faltered. "Max stabbed someone and liked it." "And you?" Liam asked. "What do you think about when you're not thinking about them?" "You." The word escaped before she could stop it. Emma froze, gripping the dog tag tighter. Liam was silent. "Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have..." "You should have," he interrupted. "Everything you say, you should. Even if you regret it later." She turned to him. His face was in shadow, but the moon lit his outline—his cheekbones, his jaw, the line of his lips. He was looking at her calmly, without pity, without trying to comfort her. "I'm scared," Emma said. "Of what?" "That you'll leave and not come back. That I'll be alone. That the red thread you tied on my wrist will break, and I won't even feel it." "It won't break." "How do you know?" "Because I won't let it." She wanted to say something sharp, cynical—her usual weapon for keeping the world at a distance. But the words didn't come. Instead, something else did—a lump in her throat, a burning in her eyes, a trembling in her fingers. "You can't promise that," she whispered. "I can." He stepped closer. "I don't promise I'll come back. I don't know what will happen in London. But I promise the thread won't break. Because it's not magic. It's our memory. As long as we remember each other, it holds." "And if I forget?" "You won't forget. You don't know how. You remember everything—every pain, every loss, every mistake. You even remember the things you want to forget. So you won't forget me." Emma looked at him and felt something inside her crack. Not a bone—a barrier. The one she'd built for years, the one that helped her not feel, not cry, not hope. It was cracking, like Arthur's dagger, and from the cracks, everything she'd hidden was spilling out. "I don't want you to leave," she said. Her voice cracked, and she hated herself for that crack. But she couldn't stop. "I know," Liam said. "You don't understand. I don't want you to leave because..." She faltered, swallowed. "Because if you leave, I'll stay with them. With Arthur, who lost his father's face. With Max, who's afraid of himself. With Jenny, who bled out on the stage. With Lisa, who'll never draw with her right hand again. I'll stay with that pain, and you won't be able to share it." "I will," Liam said. "Even if I'm across the ocean." "How?" "The same way you're sharing yours with me right now." She couldn't take it anymore. Emma slammed her fist into his chest. Not hard—more desperately, the way you hit a door you can't open. Liam didn't step back. "You don't understand!" she screamed. "You don't understand what I'm feeling! You're leaving, and I'm staying, and I don't know if I'll ever see you again!" She hit him again. And again. Her fists pounded into his chest, and she didn't care if it hurt him. She wanted it to hurt. She wanted him to feel at least some of what she was feeling. "You can't leave!" Her voice broke into a cry, then a sob. "You can't!" Tears poured from her eyes—hot, angry, uncontrollable. She hadn't cried like this in so long she'd forgotten what it felt like. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the cold wind, and she didn't wipe them away. Let them fall. Let it all come out. Liam didn't defend himself. He stood, arms at his sides, taking her blows. His face was calm—not indifferent, but accepting. As if he knew she needed to do this. As if he'd been waiting for this moment. When her fists weakened, when the blows turned into helpless shoves, he caught her hands. Not roughly—gently, but firmly. He gripped her wrists, pressed them to his chest. "That's enough," he said quietly. "That's enough, Emma. I'm here." She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. Loudly, uncontrollably, like a child who'd lost her parents in a crowd and finally found them. He held her, pulled her close, and she felt the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart—steady, calm, alive. "You're an idiot," she whispered through her tears. "I know." "You shouldn't have fallen in love with me." "I shouldn't have. But I did." "You'll regret it." "I already do." He stroked her hair, and the gesture was so simple, so human, that her chest ached. "But I'm still glad." She lifted her head. Her face was wet, red, swollen. She hated herself for how she looked, but she couldn't stop. The tears kept coming. "What do we do?" she asked. "Right now?" He smiled—faintly, at the corner of his mouth. "Right now, we just stand here. And tomorrow... tomorrow we'll figure it out." "And tonight?" "Tonight—we dance." "What?" She didn't understand. He didn't answer. He just put her hands on his shoulders, wrapped his arms around her waist, and began to sway slowly. Awkwardly, clumsily, without music. Only the wind whistling through the wires, and somewhere below, from someone's window, the hiss of a broken radio—white noise that sounded almost like a melody. Emma didn't know how to dance. She didn't know how to do anything like this—gentle, meaningless, beautiful. Her life was war, survival, constant flight. But now, on this cold roof, under indifferent stars, she let herself simply move in time with his steps. They circled slowly, barely moving. Liam held her as if she might fall apart, as if he needed to gather her pieces. She clung to his shoulders, afraid to let go. Afraid he'd disappear, like everything else. "I don't know how to dance," she whispered. "Neither do I," he said. "But it doesn't matter." "What does?" "That we're here. Together." They danced to the hiss of broken radio, to the whistle of the wind, to the creak of the rusty railing. It was the strangest dance of her life. And the most right. Ten minutes later—or an hour; she didn't know—they stopped. Liam still held her waist. She still gripped his shoulders. "Cold?" he asked. "No." "Liar." "Liar." He took off his jacket—the same gray, worn one, smelling of smoke and leather—and draped it over her shoulders. Emma didn't refuse. She wrapped herself in it, feeling the warmth of his body return to her. "Thank you," she said. "Don't mention it." They fell silent again. The moon had risen higher, its light whiter, colder. Somewhere in the city, a clock struck—two dull, distant chimes. "Two in the morning," Liam said. "You need to sleep." "I don't want to." "I know. But you need to." He took her hand and led her to the roof exit. Emma followed without resisting. At the door, she stopped, turned back. Looked at the mansion on the hill—a black silhouette against the lightening sky. "Do you believe we'll win?" she asked. "Yes," Liam said. "Why?" "Because you don't give up. Because you have something they don't." He looked at her. "You love each other. That's a weapon they can't steal." She wanted to say that was naive. That love wouldn't stop the Sleeper. That monsters didn't care about feelings. But the words stuck in her throat. Because maybe he was right. Maybe that was exactly what kept them afloat—not the daggers, not the circles, not Brooks blood. But the fact that they were together. They went back down. The hallway was dark and quiet. Liam stopped at the door to Lisa's room. "Goodnight, Emma." "Goodnight," she replied. He opened the door, stepped inside. At the threshold, he turned. "Emma." "Yeah?" "I love you. Not tomorrow. Not when I come back. Right now." He said it simply, without fanfare, as if it were the most ordinary fact. "I wanted you to know." She stood in the hallway, clutching her dog tag, looking at him. There were no more tears. Only emptiness—but not the cold one from before. A different one. Warm. Waiting to be filled. "I know," she said. "Me too." She didn't say "I love you." She couldn't. Not yet. But he understood. Liam smiled—one last time—and closed the door. Emma stayed in the hallway. She stood with her back to the wall, listening to his footsteps fade. Then she turned and walked to the living room. On the couch, Max was already asleep—truly asleep, without trembling, without clenched fists. Jenny sat in the armchair, staring out the window, her face calm. "Everything okay?" Jenny asked. "Everything's fine," Emma replied. She lay down on the couch, pulled the blanket over herself, clutched the dog tag in her fist. Behind the wall, in Lisa's room, someone was breathing quietly. Upstairs, in his room, Arthur was probably still awake. "Tomorrow," Emma thought. "Tomorrow he leaves. And we'll stay. And we'll wait. And we'll fight." She closed her eyes. Behind her lids—a dance on the roof. Cold wind. And warm hands holding her, keeping her from falling. She fell asleep toward dawn. And she dreamed of nothing. Only the white noise of broken radio, sounding almost like a lullaby.