Shadow Slave: Kindness

Cassie sat still on the bench, unmoving.

She listened as the stranger's footsteps faded into the soft hush of grass. Then, silence.

The wind returned, gentler now. It played with strands of her hair, whispering through the garden like it was trying to soothe something. She didn't move to fix her hair. She just sat there.

"…Handicap."

The word echoed quietly in her mind.

Cassie's lips pressed into a thin line.

She wasn't angry. Not really.

It was too expected for that.

People always said things like that. People who meant well, or tried to. Who felt awkward. Who didn't know what to say but said something anyway. The polite ones. The ones who tried to treat her the same but couldn't help sounding like they were offering condolences at a funeral.

She had heard it all.

'It's such a shame.'

'You're so brave.'

'Everyone has their struggles.'

'You're still beautiful, though.'

And now: "Guess everyone's got their handicap, huh?"

Cassie wasn't angry.

But the chill that settled in her chest wasn't unfamiliar either.

She tilted her head back slightly, letting her unseeing eyes face the pale morning sun. She couldn't see it, but she could feel its warmth brushing her skin. The light filtered through her lashes. Somewhere, faint birdsong rang out. The world was moving. Breathing.

Alive.

She'd forgotten how quiet it could be when someone wasn't talking to her out of pity or obligation.

That boy… Sunny?

He hadn't felt like the others at first. He hadn't spoken in the voice of someone trying to fix her. Or help her. Or save her.

He had just… spoken. Badly. Awkwardly.

It was almost funny, in a way.

The corner of her mouth tugged up, slightly.

Almost.

But then, he had ruined it. With one thoughtless sentence, he had reminded her of the same truth everyone else did.

That they didn't — couldn't — understand.

She leaned forward slightly, folding her hands tighter in her lap.

She didn't know what he looked like. Only his voice. His careful steps. The way he hesitated before speaking. She had thought, maybe, that he wasn't like the others. A little foolish. A little too casual. But not unkind.

She'd even considered asking his name.

But now, she wouldn't.

The wind stirred the leaves again.

Cassie sat in silence, not ready to return to her room.

Not yet.

And definitely not because she was waiting to hear his footsteps come back again.

Definitely not.

In the end, she was disappointed.

Sunny didn't get far.

He turned the corner out of the garden and leaned against the nearest wall, letting out a long, frustrated breath.

"…Handicap? Really?"

He stared at the ground, jaw tense. The words played again in his head. Innocent, simple — and now, clearly, stupid.

He had meant it casually. Like a joke. Like a shared secret. Like, "Hey, we all have something wrong with us."

But he had seen the way she stiffened. Not visibly — not dramatically. But he was good at reading people. You had to be, when you grew up where he did. A slight shift in posture, a half-second delay before her answer, the way her voice dropped by a fraction of a degree.

She hadn't said anything after that. Just went quiet again. Shut down.

He hadn't known what to do, so he'd made some excuse and walked off like an idiot.

"Nice going, Sunless," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "You really know how to make friends."

It wasn't like he had meant to be rude. He never did. But he wasn't exactly polished when it came to words. Especially with strangers. Especially with girls. Especially with blind girls who had probably gone through hell, and going through said hell.

He paced a little, hands shoved in his pockets. The garden was still visible from here — just barely. He didn't look back.

But she was still sitting there, wasn't she?

He exhaled again, slower this time.

Maybe it was better this way. He shouldn't be making connections. He didn't want to be involved. He was doing everything right: staying under the radar, keeping his head low, pretending to be weak. Making friends — especially the vulnerable kind — was not part of the plan.

She probably didn't want company anyway.

But…

…There'd been something in her voice. Something he recognized. Not the coldness — that was familiar, sure. But beneath it. The weight of it. Like carrying something too heavy for too long, and still pretending it didn't hurt.

He knew that feeling.

Sunny looked up at the sky. The sun had climbed higher now, lighting the upper walls of the Academy with a golden glow.

He stood there for another minute. Then another.

Then, finally, he turned and walked away.

He didn't go back to the garden.

Not yet.