SWNOVELXO Chapter 12: A house that listens
It was Saturday morning.
And for the first time in a long time…
Ayumi woke up without pain in her chest.
A small relief.
Like the warm air drifting in through the half-open window.
She was texting with Yuki.
Light phrases, silly jokes, little things — and yet every notification felt like a soft touch on her skin.
"Maybe we'll see each other tonight?"
"Unless you pass out after that mega apple donut of yours 😏"
Ayumi laughed.
Really laughed.
With her mouth.
With her eyes.
With her heart.
She went down to the kitchen.
Her mother was kneading dough, apron tied wrong, hair carelessly gathered.
<< Bring him a slice if that boy comes over, alright? >> she said, without even looking up.
Ayumi smiled.
<< I will.>>
There was a feeling of celebration in the air.
Through the open window came the voices of children.
Bikes rolling on the asphalt.
Dogs barking in the distance.
It was an ordinary morning.
And yet… it felt like a victory.
Ayumi stepped outside for a moment.
Just to breathe.
The steps in front of the house were still wet with dew.
The air smelled of drying laundry, blooming plants, and fresh bread.
She stopped there.
On the step.
Closed her eyes.
Alive.
Finally.
Then she opened them.
And she saw it.
A small note.
Tucked between the railings.
Like a seed planted carefully.
Like something that wanted to be found… but not offered.
Her heart dropped.
Her hands moved on their own.
They took the paper.
Small. Light.
She looked up, slowly.
On the balcony across the way…
he wasn't there.
Only the kitten.
Gray.
Healthy.
Stretched out like a sleeping prince, paws neatly folded and eyes half-closed.
Ayumi stared at him.
He stared back.
For a second… it felt like they knew something about each other.
She went back inside.
Went up to her room.
Sat on the bed.
And opened the letter.
"I don't know how to be.
But I know how to watch.
And today I watched you smile.
Not for me.
For him.
I won't ask you for anything.
I won't come looking for you.
But know there is a part of me
that wants you to exist.
Even if you're not mine.
Even if you never will be."
— F.
Ayumi read it.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Her fingers tingled.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't know if she wanted to cry or smile.
She didn't know if this was a confession…
or a goodbye.
But one thing was certain:
It wasn't fear anymore.
It wasn't hate.
It was something that looked… like the truth.
She folded the letter.
Kept it close.
Near her.
---Feitan..---
The job had gone well.
A private auction, full of idiots with too much money and too much security.
He didn't care about the paintings.
Nor the statues.
Only the chaos.
The noise.
The held-back blood.
The heartbeat at the center of everything.
He came back home at dawn.
With the loot.
Overflowing with cash.
Hands dirty.
Eyes dry.
But inside… there was a new kind of silence.
A precise kind of absence.
The kitten ran toward him as soon as he closed the door.
It meowed. Rubbed against him.
Jumped on his legs, looking for him.
Feitan stopped.
He looked down at it.
That little creature…
was alive because he hadn't managed to ignore it.
It was alive like Ayumi could've been.
If only—
No.
He wasn't supposed to think about her.
Wasn't supposed to want her.
And yet he did.
Not her body.
Not possession.
Her gaze.
Again.
Only that.
He couldn't take it anymore —
watching her from a distance.
Reading her and not answering.
Hearing her laugh and not existing.
That night…
he decided.
He walked down the stairs.
Opened the door.
And he saw her.
Ayumi was returning.
On her bike.
Behind Yuki.
Hair loose.
Face glowing.
Beautiful.
Like something that was never meant for him.
The boy rode with her to the steps.
They shared a quiet, knowing smile.
And Feitan couldn't hold back anymore.
Didn't want to.
He walked.
Not running.
Not hiding.
Uncovered.
Present.
Ayumi saw him.
And for a second — just one —
her face changed.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Memory.
She stopped.
Feitan spoke.
<< I need to talk to you. Not in front of him. >>
The voice was the same.
Sharp.
Carved.
Yuki looked at him.
Confused. Annoyed.
But Ayumi did something Feitan didn't expect:
She took his arm.
And led him away.
Behind the house.
In silence.
---Ayumi...---
The touch of her arm was real.
Alive.
Strangely warm beneath the black fabric.
Him.
Truly.
Not in her mind.
Not in a dream.
In front of her.
Breathing.
Watching.
There.
She walked him around the house without a word.
Led him to the small clearing out back, where no one could see them.
Where no one would ever understand them.
She turned.
Faced him.
His face hadn't changed.
But something in his eyes had.
There was a silent hunger.
But also hesitation.
And for the first time, Ayumi saw him for what he truly was:
Not a monster.
Not a man.
A body full of memory.
That no longer knew if it wanted to be saved…or forgotten.
<< Talk,>> she said.
And waited.
He stood silent.
For what felt like forever.
Ayumi didn't say a word.
She didn't step back.
She didn't tremble.
Not anymore.
Feitan inhaled.
As if speaking meant tearing off his own skin.
Then he did.
<< I don't want your forgiveness. >>
His voice was rough.
Low.
Cracked by something without a name.
<>
He stepped closer.
<< I want your eyes.>>
Ayumi's gaze widened.
But she didn't run.
Feitan kept going.
<< I want you to look at me… and for me to exist. At least to someone. To you. >>
His hands at his sides were clenched into fists.
<< You made me real. And I… I don't know what to do with that. >>
His breath caught in his chest.
Then, softer —like a child afraid of saying too much:
<< I don't know who I am. >>
Ayumi listened to every word.
Every wound hiding beneath those dark, rough sentences.
And she understood.
That he wasn't someone who could be saved.
But he was still alive.
And that —was already a revolution.
She stepped closer.
Eyes glassy, but steady.
<
Feitan stared at her.
As if he didn't understand.
She gave a small smile.
Soft.
Carrying the weight of all her pain behind it.
<< You showed me what it means to survive. And that even in the blackest dark, there's still someone who can choose. >>
She paused.
Then:
<
Feitan swallowed hard.
For the first time, he didn't know where to look.
Didn't know where to place himself.
He raised a hand.
Uncertain.
Rigid.
He brought it near her face.
Then pulled it back instantly.
For him…
it was like falling off a skyscraper.
Ayumi closed her eyes.
Not out of fear.
But to feel.
Then… with both hands, she took his.
Held it gently.
Kept it there.
For a moment, neither of them breathed.
Feitan's heart was beating in the deepest part of his body —
the part he had buried long ago.
And Ayumi…
felt that she wasn't healing him.
She was healing herself.
With him.
In the silence that followed, no one said goodbye.
No one said "stay."
But no one left.
And sometimes, staying even one second longer
can change everything.
***
She entered the house without a word.
Closed the door slowly.
Her mother called from the kitchen, but Ayumi barely answered.
She went upstairs.
Sat on the bed.
Looked at her hands.
They were warm.
Slightly trembling.
Still carrying the imprint of his touch.
"I want your eyes."
"I don't know who I am."
Those words kept coming back.
Echoing in her mind without making a sound.
Feitan had said everything without emphasis.
Without emotion.
Like a man who had never learned how to speak feelings — yet was spitting them out with his flesh.
Ayumi had listened.
And she had felt a cruel tenderness for him.
Because she knew.
She knew that no one is born a monster.
And he…
he wasn't a monster.
He was a body grown up in the shadows, where no one ever looks at you like you're human.
Ayumi closed her eyes.
Lay down.
Clutching the pillow to her chest.
She didn't love him.
Not yet.
But she understood him.
And that, in the end,
was something even deeper.
---Feitan...---
The next morning, he didn't go out.
Didn't touch any weapons.
Didn't speak to anyone.
He watched.
Through the binoculars, as always.
But not to keep guard.
Just to stay close.
He saw her.
Ayumi.
In her tracksuit, messy hair, face still full of sleep.
Beautiful.
The kitten ran up to her.
She welcomed him with a laugh, stroking his nose.
She knelt down.
Spoke to him.
As if he were a child, a little friend, a fragile thing to protect.
Feitan couldn't stop looking.
That scene was simple.
Innocent.
But for him, it was pure violence.
It was too much.
It was everything he had been denied.
Feitan had stopped hoping as a child.
He had grown up in the sewers of a nameless village, in a world where children were sold before they could even speak.
He had learned that hands were made to kill.
That food was a luxury.
That eyes never looked at you with tenderness.
He had seen his companions die.
Had stopped crying before he ever learned to smile.
And now...
that smile on Ayumi.
That voice speaking to the kitten.
It was too real.
Too distant.
Too beautiful.
And yet, when she picked up the kitten, when she approached his house... he opened the door.
Like the first time.
Only now there was no hatred in his eyes.
There was wonder.
And something else.
She didn't speak at first.
She offered him the kitten gently.
He didn't take the animal — just looked at it.
Then looked at her.
And for the first time, he didn't hide.
Feitan stared.
In silence.
Something softened — just a little.
He slowly lowered his gaze.
Took the kitten into his arms.
And for the first time, didn't push it away.
Ayumi stepped back a bit.
Feitan followed her with his eyes.
<< Can you... can you stay? >>
he whispered.
Almost without realizing it.
She didn't answer right away.
Then nodded.
Slight.
Sincere.
And stayed.
Next to him.
A little closer.
The door closed behind her.
Quietly.
There was no wind, no hurry.
Only presence.
Feitan's villa, the same house she used to look at with longing as a child, now felt different.
Less dark.
Less distant.
The lights weren't bright, but enough.
The dust seemed to have stepped aside.
As if even the walls, for the first time, had decided to breathe.
The kitten jumped on the table.
Ayumi smiled.
Stroked it again.
Touched something small and alive.
And felt him watching her too.
With eyes learning to recognize calm.
She turned.
Feitan was there.
Sitting.
Still.
Staring at her.
Not with threat.
With attention.
With need.
Ayumi lowered her gaze.
And in that moment, she understood.
She understood that behind every sharp word,
every hard silence,
every dead look...
there was a child who had learned not to ask.
Not to hope.
Not to cry.
And because of that...
she decided to do something small.
But real.
She opened the fridge.
Not much.
Four or five things at most.
An egg.
A little milk.
Cheese.
Two tomatoes.
A piece of stale bread.
"Okay," she thought.
"I can make something."
She turned on the stove.
Feitan stood.
Followed her.
Silently.
She talked about nothing in particular.
Softly.
The way you talk to a scared kitten.
Or to a dream that's just beginning to wake.
<< My mom makes something like this when she comes home tired... she says simple things are good for the heart. >>
Feitan was behind her.
She felt him.
He made no sound.
But he was there.
So present.
He stayed there, arms crossed.
Didn't speak.
But watched.
Watched how her hair fell over her face as she bent over the pot.
How her hands moved calmly, with that small, quiet care.
How she hummed — a breath of melody — while she stirred.
And she talked.
Softly.
Without looking at him.
As if speaking to the room. Or to herself. Or to someone who had forgotten how to listen.
She talked about school.
About the wind that morning.
About the smell of rain on asphalt.
About nothing. And everything.
She wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
Feitan said nothing.
But his body... was speaking.
With all the silence he had left.
They ate in silence.
Or rather: she talked.
And he... listened.
Ayumi was a stream of warm, light words.
She talked about friends who made her laugh, about garden parties, imagined trips, movies she wanted to see, times she'd failed math,nand the thousand small things that make a life.
Feitan said nothing.
Not because he was rude.
But because he didn't know how.
How to speak, when no one had ever taught you that it was worth doing.
He had in front of him something he couldn't decode:
a person who wasn't afraid of him.
Who looked at him.
And stayed.
He ate everything she made.
Every bite, silently.
As if learning to accept something he had been denied all his life: care.
After dinner, Ayumi chased the kitten around the house, laughing softly.
It jumped, hid under chairs, purred like it knew the house better than anyone.
Feitan watched her.
From the hallway.
From the shadows.
With a different kind of hunger than any he had ever known.
A hunger for peace.
For presence.
For her.
When she sat on the couch, with the kitten in her arms, the light was soft.
Time seemed to pause, right there, within those walls that for so long had been just cold stone.
He hadn't touched her.
Hadn't helped her.
Hadn't said a word.
He had only watched.
Standing in the corner of the room, eyes fixed on her hands.
Hands that moved with ease.
Cutting, stirring, warming.
Hands that knew how to care, even amid ruins.
And he wondered — why?
Why was she here?
Why didn't she hate him?
Why did she speak as if he was capable of understanding?
He found no answers.
And the silence inside him was too vast to contain any.
Her voice struck him gently.
It wasn't loud.
It didn't ask for attention.
But it had the same effect as a finger brushing cracked skin.
Feitan listened without reacting.
Each word settled on his body like fine dust.
A relief that hurt.
A wound that no longer burned.
He hadn't slept in days.
Weeks, maybe.
Mission after mission.
Blood under his nails.
Bodies broken like dry branches.
Eyes begging and then going dark.
And then...
that voice.
Her hands petting the kitten with a gentleness that didn't belong to him.
The way she adjusted her sweater over her fingers.
The way she sank into the couch, like none of this was wrong.
Feitan sat beside her.
Soundlessly.
At a distance.
But close enough to feel her warmth.
She kept speaking.
About simple things.
Her favorite tea. A dream she had the night before. Nothing.
But for him, it was everything.
Every word, a balm.
Every pause, a breath he didn't know he needed.
Feitan didn't want to give in.
Not there.
Not in front of her.
But his body no longer obeyed.
Not after so many nights spent awake, knife in hand and heart locked tight.
And so, slowly, without a sound...
he fell asleep.
His head just slightly tilted.
His shoulders finally free of tension.
It wasn't a collapse.
It was surrender.
As if the world, for once, asked nothing more from him.