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Family

The twins are back.

I didn’t think I’d say that sentence again. Not out loud. Not like this.

It’s been years. Years since the hospital room went quiet except for machines. Years since Dreama sat beside me, her hand on mine, whispering prayers she didn’t believe in just to keep herself from breaking.

Emery was all laughter before the coma. Loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. Electra was sharp-eyed and still, like she saw the world in layers no one else could touch. And then—just like that—they were gone.

Not dead. But not here either.

I stayed. Dreama stayed longer. She read to them. Sang. Told stories like they could hear her. I didn’t ask if she believed they’d wake up. I just knew she needed someone to believe with her.

And then one day, they did.

Emery blinked first. Electra followed a few days later. It wasn’t dramatic. No gasps, no miracles. Just quiet movement. Just life coming back in pieces.

We thought that was the hard part.

But after Dreama died, they left. Not out of anger. Not out of blame. Just... distance. We all kinda went our own ways for awhile after it happened. Grief makes people drift. I didn’t chase them. I figured if they needed space, I’d give it. That’s what Dreama would’ve done.

Still, it hurt.

Now they’re back.

Emery’s still loud. Still impossible. But there’s something softer in him now, like he’s carrying pieces of Dreama in his chest. Electra’s quieter than ever, but when she looks at me, I know she remembers.

We don’t talk about the coma. Not directly. Not yet. But it’s there—in the way Emery hugs too tight, in the way Electra lingers in rooms she used to avoid.

They came back.

And I’m here. Like I always was. Like Dreama taught me to be.