Gold light splatters across the pillow. The little room hums with morning quiet, dusty beams crawling over rumpled white sheets.
Bramble jolts awake. His brother's sleepy fingers smack right across his cheek. He yanks his face back, lip pulled tight, fist curling under the sheet.
"You were supposed to wake Mom!" Bramble hisses, pointing a shaking finger at the other bed. The room goes still. Only the wooden frame creaks.
His brother's mouth hangs half-open. Breathing slow. The creak of the frame fills the quiet gap where words should be.
Bramble stomps to the window and whips the curtain wide open. Bright sun pours in, sharp and warm on his bare arms. He turns back, jaw set.
But his brother's hand is already drifting across the gap between the beds. Slow. Blurry. Like someone reaching for a toy in a dream.
"Sorry…" His brother mumbles, plopping a chipped, crumbly cookie into Bramble's open palm. Then he rolls over and buries his head under the pillow.
The little chocolate smear on the cookie wobbles as Bramble stares at it. On the other bed, his brother snores — round and soft.
Bramble's shoulders drop. A long breath pushes out of him. He crunches the chipped cookie, golden crumbs tumbling onto his chin.
His brother snores — round, soft, steady. The sun stretches gold over both of them, filling the small room with quiet warmth.
