The migraines began three days after Harold's burial.
Gray noticed them first as a dull pressure behind his eyes, a weight that pressed against the inside of his skull like something trying to get out. He'd felt similar headaches before - in the early days after the collapse, when the wrong-color light had been new and overwhelming, when his pattern-sight had still been raw and unfiltered. But those had faded as he'd learned to control the sight, to turn it on and off like a lamp.
This was different. This was not the light. This was something else entirely.
He noticed the pattern on the second day. The pain came after he used his sight - that cold-water sensation that mapped the invisible world, that showed him the threads connecting all living things. Each time he reached for it, each time he let the cold flow through him and reveal the hidden architecture of reality, the pain lasted longer. Dug deeper. What had begun as a few minutes of discomfort now stretched into hours of throbbing pressure.
He didn't tell anyone.
---
The group moved through the eastern district on the thirty-first day, searching for supplies in a row of storefronts that hadn't been completely picked clean. Elias led, his movements precise and economical, his voice calm as he directed the others. Sarah stayed close to Emma, her hand on her daughter's shoulder. David walked point, his eyes scanning every shadow. The silent teenager drifted at the edges, present but apart, his dark eyes missing nothing.
And Mina walked near Gray.
She'd been doing that more often since Harold's death. Not hovering, not crowding - just present. A quiet anchor at the edge of his vision. He noticed it the way he noticed everything now: the way she positioned herself during rest periods, the way she seemed to appear at his shoulder whenever he stopped to catch his breath, the way her eyes found his across the group with a frequency that couldn't be coincidence.
He didn't acknowledge it. He wasn't ready to be seen that clearly.
The storefronts yielded canned goods, a few bottles of water, some medical supplies that made Mina's eyes brighten with professional interest. Gray contributed where he could, his hands moving on autopilot while his mind churned with observations he couldn't share. The threads around them were quiet today - no predators nearby, no twisted creatures lurking in the shadows. But he'd checked three times already, each check sending another spike of pain through his skull, and he knew he'd pay for it later.
"Gray."
He looked up to find Mina watching him, her hazel eyes steady and knowing. She stood in the doorway of what had once been a pharmacy, her hands full of bandages and antiseptic, her expression carefully neutral.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"Doing what?"
"That thing you do when you're hiding something. You get this look - like you're listening to a conversation no one else can hear."
He wanted to deny it. The words were right there, ready to deflect, to redirect, to turn the conversation away from anything that might expose what was happening inside his skull. But looking at her - at the quiet concern in her eyes, at the way she held herself like she was ready to catch him if he fell - he found he couldn't.
"It's nothing," he said instead, which wasn't quite a lie. "Just tired."
She didn't believe him. He could see it in the slight furrow of her brow, the way her gaze lingered on his face a moment too long. But she didn't push. She simply nodded, once, and turned back to her supplies.
He should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt something worse - the weight of her patience, the knowledge that she was waiting for him to trust her, and the guilt of knowing he wasn't ready.
---
That night, they made camp in the upper floor of an office building, the windows dark and the stairs blocked with debris that would slow anything trying to reach them. It wasn't perfect, but it was defensible, and after a day of walking, everyone was too tired to search for better.
Gray took the first watch, positioning himself by a window that overlooked the street below. The wrong-color stars pulsed in the sky, their light casting strange shadows across the ruined city. He let his pattern-sight unfurl, reaching outward into the darkness, checking for threats.
The pain came immediately - a sharp spike that drove through his temple like a nail. He pressed his palm against his head, his jaw clenching, and forced himself to hold the sight for another thirty seconds. He needed to be sure. He needed to know they were safe.
When he finally released the sight, the pain didn't fade. It settled into a deep, throbbing ache that radiated from behind his eyes to the base of his skull. He sat very still, breathing through it, waiting for the worst of it to pass.
"You should rest."
He turned to find Mina in the doorway, her silhouette dark against the dim light from the hall. She crossed the room without waiting for an invitation and settled beside him, her back against the wall, her shoulder almost touching his.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're not." Her voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. "I've been watching you all day. You wince every time you think no one's looking. You press your hand to your head when you think we're distracted. And your eyes - there's a tightness around them that wasn't there before."
He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. She'd seen through him, as she always did, and denial would only make him look foolish.
"Is it the sight?" she asked. "The thing you do - the thing that lets you see what others can't?"
He looked at her sharply. He'd never told her exactly what he could do, had never put words to the cold-water sensation or the threads or the way the world looked different when he let himself see. But she'd observed, and she'd listened, and she'd put the pieces together with the same quiet intelligence that made her such a skilled healer.
"Yes," he admitted. "It's getting worse. Every time I use it, the pain lasts longer."
"Then stop using it."
"I can't. It's the only way to check for threats. It's the only way to keep everyone safe."
"Safe," she repeated, and there was something in her voice that might have been frustration or might have been grief. "You're destroying yourself to keep us safe, and you won't even tell us it's happening. How is that fair? How is that right?"
He didn't have an answer. He'd never thought about it in terms of fairness. He'd only thought about necessity - about what needed to be done, about the price that needed to be paid, about the fact that someone had to pay it.
"I don't know how to stop," he said finally, and the admission cost him something he couldn't name. "I don't know how to not do this. It's the only thing I have that makes a difference."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached out and took his hand, her fingers warm against his cold skin.
"You're not alone," she said. "You don't have to carry everything by yourself. Let us help you. Let me help you."
He looked at their joined hands, at the way her fingers curled around his, and felt something shift in his chest. It wasn't relief, exactly. It was something more complicated - a loosening of a tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a crack in the wall he'd built around himself.
"I don't know how," he said again, and this time it sounded less like an excuse and more like a confession.
"That's okay," she said. "We'll figure it out together."
They sat in silence as the night deepened around them, her hand warm in his, the pain in his head a distant throb that seemed somehow more bearable with her beside him. He didn't tell her everything - couldn't, not yet - but he let himself lean into her presence, let himself accept the comfort she offered without understanding why it helped.
Tomorrow, the pain would still be there. Tomorrow, he would use his sight again, and the cost would be higher, and he would have to decide how much he was willing to pay. But tonight, in the quiet dark, he let himself rest.
It wasn't a solution. It wasn't even a beginning. But it was something.
And for now, that was enough.