Yuuta slept peacefully, curled against Sophia's side, his small body finally relaxed after weeks of healing.
The wounds that had covered him were gone, not completely, not entirely, but enough. The healing potions that had been forced into him during the experiments had done their work, slowly, painfully, but surely. His skin, once a map of cruelty, was now smooth in places, scarred in others. His bones, once cracked and broken, had knitted together. His organs, once crushed and ruptured, had mended.
He was not whole. He would never be whole. But he was alive.
Sophia ran her fingers through his black hair, watching him sleep. His face, even in rest, held a softness that made her heart ache. His lips were slightly parted, his breath slow and steady, his small hand curled against his chest. He looked like any other child, ordinary, innocent, untouched by the horrors of the world.
