Chapter 39 – The Shape of Her Silence
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
No guards. No servants. No whispers. Just stillness.
Sirius stood for a moment, leaning against the heavy oak, his eyes closed, the echo of his mother's words still trailing faintly behind his thoughts like smoke from a fire that had already gone out.
But the flames were not in him.
Not anymore.
He inhaled slowly, letting the familiar scent of oils and parchment, candles and carved wood sink into him. The scent of her. Of this world he had built.
His sanctuary.
The only place that ever felt real.
He walked deeper into the chamber. Every step echoing softly against the floor, where soft silks and handwoven rugs bore faded sketches of her smile, her hands, her eyes. She was everywhere. Not haunting—waiting.
His fingers reached for a brush almost by instinct, trailing over the handle as if it were her hand.
He sat before a new canvas.
Blank. Untouched.
A small sigh left his lips, and his heart stirred—just slightly—as he dipped the brush in blue and pale gold, the colors she once wore when she danced in the garden, barefoot under the stars.
No words left him, but his eyes softened.
The coldness that cloaked him like armor in front of the world peeled away in layers—unseen, unnoticed—until only a boy remained.
A boy painting the girl who had given him something no magic, no title, no sword could ever offer.
A reason.
A home.
His strokes were slower than usual tonight. More delicate. The image forming before him was not of her face this time, but her back. Her figure turned away, stepping through a curtain of light as though she were slipping into memory.
His hand paused.
A breath.
"Abylay…" he whispered her name.
Not like a prayer.
Like a promise.
"I didn't kill her. Even though I wanted to. For you," he murmured, eyes still on the canvas. "You would've stopped me… like before."
He dipped his brush again, then traced the light in her hair.
"You still stop me. Even now. You're not here, but... you are."
His voice trembled—not with weakness, but restraint.
His shoulders curled slightly inward as if he could wrap himself around the memory of her.
He didn't speak again.
He just painted.
For hours.
And when he finally set the brush down, the new image on the canvas wasn't finished—but it didn't need to be.
It was enough.
Her shape was there.
And in the silence of that room, Sirius finally let himself exhale—alone, but no longer cold.