The Heart Ring

Chapter 9 – Heart-to-Heart

Randy didn’t look up when Abby closed the door. He sat hunched on the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed like a boxer waiting for the next round. The air around him shimmered with red and purple, smoke-black coiling thick enough to blur the posters on his wall.

Abby’s throat tightened, but she remembered Kimi’s words: Don’t be a pry bar. Be a bridge.

She sat beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. The shadow hissed at the contact, but she ignored it. “I don’t have advice,” she said softly. “I don’t have a fix. I just have me.”

Randy gave a sharp laugh with no humor in it. “Then you’ve got nothing.”

Abby turned, slid her arms around him.

He stiffened instantly. “Get off me.” His hands pushed at her shoulders, hard enough to hurt. The shadow surged, claws of black smoke lashing at her vision, whispering with Randy’s voice and not his: He hates you. He always hated you.

Her chest burned. The ring seared like it wanted to weld itself to her skin. Pain shuddered through her ribs, and tears spilled hot before she could stop them. She clung tighter.

“I love you,” she gasped. “Even when you’re angry. Even when you hate me. I’m not letting go.”

“Shut up!” Randy’s voice broke. He shoved again, but his strength was uneven now, jerking between fury and collapse.

Abby pressed her forehead into his shoulder, sobbing. “You’re my brother. You built me forts. You ran beside me until I stopped wobbling on my bike. You snuck me cookies when Mom said no. You’re not just this shadow. You’re not just the anger. You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

The shadow screamed in silence. The black coils wrapped her arms, pressed against her chest, tried to pry her off. Her breath caught, her vision spotted.

But the ring’s heat shifted—less burn, more steady flame. Warmth spread outward, powered not by force but by memory, by love freely given.

Randy shuddered. His fists hit her back once, weakly, then stayed there. His body went rigid, then slack. His arms came up, hesitant, then closed around her in a crushing grip. A sob tore from him, raw and strange, like it had been caged too long.

The shadow peeled away, unraveling into smoke. The room lightened, air filling with something that wasn’t quite peace but wasn’t choking anymore. His glow steadied—still red, still bruised purple, but no longer devouring itself. A thread of gold pulsed faint in the center.

Abby wept into his shirt, her body aching. He shook against her, breath hitching. For a long time, neither spoke.

Then Randy sniffed and muttered, voice rough, “You’re still annoying.”

Abby choked on a laugh, tears streaking her cheeks. “And you’re still a jerk.”

They both laughed, broken and messy, laughter that carried their sobs with it. The kind only siblings knew, forged in fights and forts and forgiveness.

They slumped together against the bedframe, drained. Abby leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn’t shove her off.

The ring glowed warm, steady, like a lantern instead of a brand. Not a toy. Not a curse. A bridge.

Abby whispered into the quiet, “I hear you, Grandpa. I know now.”

Randy sniffed again, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Don’t tell anyone I cried.”

Abby nudged him. “Don’t tell anyone I hugged you.”

Their laughter rose again, softer this time. And for the first time in weeks, the air in the house felt lighter.