Chapter 82 A Phone Call to Grandma

Chapter 82 A Phone Call to Grandma

Ethan's POV

"Security's already arranged. Don't worry, no one can get near her."

"But that's only temporary." I looked at his face. "You know that."

Her hands started shaking. Not the kind that trembles from the bones outward, but finer, faster, like a string plucked too many times—already loose but still vibrating. Her breathing turned erratic too, like something was expanding inside her chest.

She stood up. The chair scraped across the floor with a harsh screech.

I reached from behind and pressed my hand on her shoulder. Her hand slid from my shoulder to my back, and I stroked it gently, like calming a startled cat.

"I want to call my grandmother." Her voice didn't shake, but when she said that word—"I"—the tone was already off.

Cedric looked at her. After two seconds, he nodded.

"Go back and call. Get some rest."

She walked toward the door. I followed close behind. When we reached the doorway, I paused, wanting to say something, but my mind was blank—nothing came out.

The door closed behind us.

The hallway was quiet. The wall lamps cast light on the stone bricks, yellowish, like the color of old photographs.

The lamplight flickered—whether from wind or someone passing by, I couldn't tell.

All the way back, I watched Olivia walk uneasily. Only when we returned to my dorm did she relax a bit.

Olivia sat in the chair by the desk, leaning against the wall, not getting too close. She didn't like people hovering when she made calls. I knew that.

But I couldn't really leave either, so I chose the closest spot that wouldn't be in the way. Legs stretched out, arm draped over the chair back, pretending to read a book I had already gone through three times.

Olivia sat on the edge of the bed and plugged her earphones into the messenger. Her other hand's index finger wound around the corner of the blanket, round and round.

She was talking to her grandmother.

I could only hear her side, but it was enough. Each sentence was short, like she was afraid saying one more word would leak something that shouldn't leak. Yet her tone was calmer than I had expected.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"No, just a bit tired."

"Classes? Quite a lot, but I'm keeping up."

"Him... he's alright, I guess."

When she said "him," her voice dropped a little, like missing a step on stairs then quickly steadying herself.

I turned a page in my book. I hadn't actually read a single word.

She paused after every few sentences. Someone was talking on the other end. She was listening.

Her shoulders gradually curled inward, like she wanted to fold herself up, fold into something very small, so small that no one could find her. Her fingers twisted the blanket corner into a tight roll, then released it, then twisted again.

I clenched my jaw. She said "fine" soft enough, but the word cracked at the end—not a question, a fracture.

Her grandmother was probably asking something. Her shoulders curled again.

"No... I'm not lying to you..."

Her voice broke off. She couldn't continue. She quickly pulled the earphone away from her ear, pressed her finger on the messenger—the movement too rushed, she pressed twice before hanging up. Then she tossed the messenger aside, as if unwilling to let her reflection in the screen watch her.

She didn't cry, but her nose was red, her eyes were red. Her nostrils flared rapidly. She sat motionless, staring at the opposite wall, her gaze empty, like someone had extracted everything inside her.

I stood up, walked over, and sat down beside her.

"My grandmother said I should take care of myself." Her voice was flat, like reading a textbook. "She said she's proud of me."

"Mm."

"She said she knows I won't be like my mother."

Olivia's hand rested on her knee, fingers still clutching the blanket corner. I reached over and covered it.

Her hand was cold, fingertips even colder, like coming back from outside in winter without gloves. My fingers circled her wrist, not pressing hard, just resting there.

She leaned her head on my shoulder, forehead against my collarbone. It hurt a bit.

"Olivia."

"Mm."

"What did you just tell your grandmother?"

"I said I'm fine."

I didn't respond.

"She didn't believe me," she said again, her voice muffled against my clothes, buzzing. "She asked if I'd been crying. I said no. She said you've never been good at lying since you were little—whenever you lie, you speak faster."

I thought back—when she said "I'm fine," her speech was indeed a bit faster than usual.

Her hand gripping my sleeve tightened, knuckles turning white.

I felt like I should say something—find the right words, warm words, words that could turn this situation around.

But I couldn't think of any. No words could change the fact that she was trapped here now, couldn't change the fact that her grandmother lived alone with two security guards added at her door, couldn't change the fact that she had just learned what she was and had to face all this before she could even feel happy about it.

I couldn't change anything.

"I just thought of something." I thought for a moment, then suddenly said.

She didn't move, but her breathing skipped a beat.

"When you transformed into a Phoenix—could you see what you looked like? You had feathers, gold and red, absolutely beautiful."

She didn't speak.

"I've never seen anything brighter than your hair." I paused. "Your feathers were even brighter than your hair."

She lifted her head slightly from my shoulder, chin resting on my collarbone, looking up at me.

Her eyes were red, tears still clinging to her lashes, glistening like broken glass.

"Your comforting is still terrible." Her voice was hoarse, but the ending of "terrible" lifted slightly.

"I know."

"Can't you say something normal to comfort people?"

"I'm not very good at it."

Olivia stared at me for two seconds, her mouth twitching. A very small laugh came from her nose, like choking on saliva. Then a second, a third. The laughter grew louder. Her whole body slid down, from leaning against me to lying across my lap, shoulders shaking.

I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying.

Maybe both.

My chest tightened, and I didn't know what to do.

I placed my hand on the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. Her hair was tangled—the result of not washing it yesterday and sleeping all day—the ends twisted together, my fingers got stuck.

I didn't pull, just left them there. My palm pressed against her scalp. Beneath her hair was a layer of fine down, traces from the transformation that hadn't completely faded yet.

"Everything's a mess." Her voice came up from my lap, muffled. "All of it's a mess."

"Not everything," I said. "Your grandmother is proud of you. That poisoned girl didn't die. You still haven't failed any classes, and you even passed the Bindlight tryouts."

She didn't respond, but her hand moved from the bedsheet, touching my knee. Not grabbing, just resting there, the back of her hand against my pants.

"And you still have me," I suddenly said seriously.

When those words came out, I hadn't thought them through—they weren't prepared in advance, they just ran out of my mouth on their own, unstoppable.

Olivia's hand paused on my knee. She made another sound, very short, like a laugh, or maybe a sigh.

"Do you know that every time you say things like that, your ears turn red?"

I reached up to touch my ear. It really was hot. I knew it—I wasn't suited for saying those kinds of things. I blushed.

She sat up from my lap and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. After wiping, she looked at the back of her hand, then wiped again, the motion forceful, making her whole face scrunch up.

"Your bed is too hard."

"Mm."

"So are you."

"Mm."

"But I still want to stay here."

Those words were said so softly, so soft they were almost unspoken.

When Olivia lay down, she faced the wall, back to me, curling herself into a very small shape. The blanket pulled up to her shoulders, only showing the back of her head and a small section of neck. That posture seemed to say—I need you here, but I don't need you to see me crying.

I sat on the edge of the bed, didn't lie down, didn't leave either.

After a long time, her breathing became calm and deep, shoulders no longer twitching. Her fingers relaxed too, curled on the blanket's surface, like a sleeping baby.

I stood up. My leg was a bit numb. I looked at her for a few seconds, then walked toward the door.

The hallway was quiet. The wall lamps cast a dim yellow light, illuminating the stone bricks like old parchment.

I looked up at the ceiling, not knowing where to direct my words.

"If anyone approaches this door—"

The door lock clicked into place.

Not locked from inside, but from outside. I had used magic.

"—notify me immediately."