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The boy did not die in the attic.
This is clear to the boy who died, and it should be clear to him; after all, he is of the few who knows how the man worked.
(This, too, is important. Few knew how the man worked. One knows how he works today, and truthfully, that person does not work as he used to.)
The newspaper clippings and school pictures and pieces of evidence can be tacked to cork and connected with red thread three times over, but decades will pass and it is abundantly clear. No one will ever accept this as fact.
The boy did not die in the attic.
It may appear to be so, for his body was laid to rest on a bed of dust and rotting wood. A bed of dust and rotting wood is comforting to nobody but the dead. The living cannot find solitude in dust and wood, but those who have long forgotten warmth’s embrace can stand to pretend for a little.
The boy did not die in the attic.
Bodies can be hidden anywhere. The man—the one who doesn’t work anymore, the one who is remembered by all and who is missed by none—knew this well. He was clever. Far too clever. His brain was not of himself; it was composed of knowledge from banned writings and mouth tales and stolen things. A lilt of the voice, a hand shielding laughter.
No one was immune to his smile.
The boy did not die in the attic.
The mansion was old when the man was born. It was even older when the boy died. The mansion was treated like a beloved toy, passed down from person to person until the charm wore off and the paint chipped away to reveal the ugly cogs and wheels inside. Mansions do not have cogs or wheels, but they are not meant to last forever, either.
Perhaps the mortar was strong once. It must have been, for the mansion to stay upright amidst so much. Every clap of thunder sent a new crack running down the walls, but what the outside lacked, the interior made up for in durability. The windows can be shattered, but the wood husk holds nicely in a storm.
The boy did not die in the attic.
The man thrived off of stories. Legends, some say, because he wanted to be one of them. The one in the papers and novels. Passed from tongue to tongue. His power was great. Far greater than anyone else’s. When he flared his fingers, energy was sent racing beneath his skin.
He did not go down a legend. He went down a nightmare.
The boy did not die in the attic.
Maybe dreams were calm for the man. Could he have dreamt of grass beneath his toes and tulips in the springtime, with the blood on his hands? The man’s grin was permanent, curved upward when he was happy and even still when he was sad.
Should the man be sad? He has nothing to be sad for. A lock on a door, perhaps. A scream cutting through the night, oh, but those sounds, the shrill and the piercing, were common for him, weren’t they? White noise to his ears. Trained, one could say. He hummed a tune as the boy rotted above.
The boy did not die in the attic.
The younger brother’s dreams were not calm for years. He was fitful in sleeping, tossing and turning and waking when everyone was asleep. He shared a room with the man as children. Two beds on opposite walls. The man’s comforter was boring. Grey and loosely stitched. But the younger brother’s bed was dressed with a quilt, of green and blue and yellow fabrics. Happy colors, the younger brother thought to himself as his head pounded and something of a cry left his lips. Like grass and sky and teeth.
When he leaves, the colors aren’t so happy anymore.
The boy did not die in the attic.
We should talk about the boy now, shouldn’t we? He’s the main character of this story. He’s the legend, not the man. But how does the saying go; that legends never die?
The corpse of a thirteen year old begs to differ.
The boy did not die in the attic.
A silly mistake. That’s all it was. The rain fell too quickly and the roads were slick. The boy was running, but when was he not? He could never catch his breath, it seemed. His lungs heaved, burning in his rib cage, and he reminded himself, again, to draw in air.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
That’s how you live, isn’t it? It’s how you keep on living, when you scrape your knees after being tripped and cry so hard you throw up. When your mother dies in your arms and you can’t do anything about it. When your nails dig into your scalp hard enough to bleed and, bitterly, you find yourself wondering how it got here, how the wind changed and a piece of gravel was dislodged. Such trivial things, weren’t they? Such silly mistakes. So out of his hands. Poor child.
The boy did not die in the attic.
The friend was mean to the boy. His words were like blades and he raised them once when he was small. The blood on his hands was new, and he marveled at it; flexing his fingers and painting the pavement red. After he saw how much the words—not blades, he could never wield such a weapon—hurt, he brought them down five more times, the red so potent not even turpentine could rid his skin of it. The friend found more friends, and they had knives and razors, too. The friends were not friends to the boy.
They were fast learners. The boy was not.
Their words and names were scathing.
The boy did not die in the attic.
The first friend, the one with light hair and eyes of scarlet, wasn’t make-believe. They were friends; very real, very true friends, at one point. A real and true friend the boy adored, for he followed him around like a dog and was at his beck and call. Even when they turned four. Even when the friend learned the power of words. Even when the boy was shoved away.
It hurt, because his words and names sliced and stung and made him want to curl up into a ball and sob until his voice was gone, but the two of them were friends. The boy couldn’t leave his friend alone. Not after the mud pies and adventures in the woods.
That’s not what friends do. The boy wasn’t cruel. He was kind and considerate. His eyes were like the stars.
Bright, and, when pressured, prone to collapse.
The boy did not die in the attic.
That day, the boy tripped and fell. A silly mistake, that’s all it was. A loose rock, a miscalculation. A mistake. A silly one, at that. One he should laugh at, but he hadn’t felt like laughing, because his knees were cut up and his palms hurt something awful. He lifted his head, a puddle before him.
The reflection of someone foreign stared back at him.
He didn’t even look alive. His tears were a flood and he was drowning. Drowning, drowning, drowning. He tried, at first, to get to his feet, but pain had spiked up his ankles and he’d fallen back down with a cry, his pants soaked through with rain and salt hanging heavy on his lips.
Words, spoken from before and after, roared in his ears, and he put his hands to his head, wanting the flood to drown those sounds out, too, but the weather was unkind and the waves screamed.
The boy did not die in the attic.
The boy was supposed to make it to supper that day. Supper, yes, wasn’t he? It was at six, six on the dot, not an hour before, not a moment after. His stomach growled, insatiable; always, always insatiable.
And he couldn’t miss supper. He just couldn’t, because his mother was so prone to worry, and when her anxiety got the best of her, she got nervous, and when she nervous the wrinkles on her forehead deepened, and her coughs became red and her eyes grew dull, and…
Oh.
He doesn’t have a mother anymore, does he?
The boy did not die in the attic.
The world was out to get him. It was, wasn’t it? He dragged a hand across his eyes, scrubbing at the tears and letting the rain do the rest. He shouldn’t think of her now. She can’t care about supper anymore, either. The dead don’t worry about punctuality.
But the boy couldn’t help but wonder if his mother did. His mother, he knew, was not like others. She was daring and deft and dead. She was always worried, and she was always more worried about punctuality. Her nails weren’t long. They were stubs, trimmed by her teeth when there were no matches or bottles left in the cupboard.
He had no watch on his person, but he was sure it was time for supper.
The friend was long gone, his cackles faded and given way to the howl of the wind. But his touches lingered, they always did; a burned hand to the throat and a bruise blooming across the face. The scars on his back, shaped like bursts of light and deep as anything, itched.
The boy needed to get home. He didn’t want his mother to worry, even in the grave. She was so worried about punctuality. About presentation, about perfection, about peace, about poison. But he swapped the cups by accident, and his mother’s wits weren’t so sharp with age. She lifted the cup, and nature had done the rest.
As a child, he had always wondered about the jars in the medicine cabinet. The ones with bright colors and screw-top lids. He knew better now, he thought. He didn’t touch things that weren’t his. His hands, the fickle, exploratory things they were, have been kept away.
He doesn’t want anyone else to die. Not now. Not so soon.
The boy did not die in the attic.
His knees, red and angry, protested as he brought himself to stand, but he remained upright, even when the streets blurred into a watercolor of greys and blues. He stumbled, the piece of gravel too much for the sole of his shoe to bear, and he fell onto the cement. Again, because he was just so clumsy, wasn’t he? He was just so stupid, wasn’t he? He was just a deku, a moron, a waste of space and oxygen and…
He was so tired.
There were cars rumbling in the distance. That’s right, he thought. He was lying in the middle of the road. It was a wonder no one had found him yet. Then, he wasn’t so conspicuous, either; no one looks when there’s a mound on the road. They just drive over it. Always over. Never around. It’s too much work to redirect yourself, really.
Too much work for someone like him.
Another sob left the boy’s throat, and suddenly, the flood was there, again, and he was drowning, and he couldn’t reach the surface, his hands were flailing but they wouldn’t cut through the water, he was drowning, he was drowning, he was—
Suddenly, there was a man.
The boy did not die in the attic.
“Oh, child,” said the man with the eyes of a viper. “What are you doing in the middle of the street? It’s cold. You shouldn’t be out without a coat. Do you want to catch a fever?”
His hands were gentle on the boy’s body, but his smile betrayed.
The boy’s mother smiled like that, too. All teeth. Rotten, yellow teeth. Her molars were gold.
The man’s were white, though. Like pearls.
The boy’s mother had pearls. Fake ones, strung on elastic and clipped to her neck. She would dance around the living room, the gown she wore to her wedding stained and hanging to her knees. She was a dancer, she’d said, and she waltzed with the memory of her husband. The husband who left and never came back, but he was still here, still in her head and he would never leave, he was a good husband, he was a good father—
The blood spilled over her lips, and the elastic snapped.
The pearls scattered across the floor. The boy could not find them all.
“Can you speak?” asked the man, when the boy said nothing. His hands, oh-so-careful and kind, ran through the hair on the boy’s head, a mass of thick curls. The boy surrendered under the ministrations, melting into his arms. The man’s lip curled, and the rain around them fell in torrents. “Oh, you must be exhausted. You poor thing. Child, would you like me to help you? I can, if you want.”
The boy was hungry and tired. It was almost six o’ clock, he knew, and he had to be back for supper. He had to, he just had to, or his mother would mount his head on the wall and cry a river. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to drown.
His lungs cannot hold any more water.
“Please,” said the boy, in a voice that spoke of torment and hurt. “Please help me.”
It was a trick.
The boy didn’t like tricks, but the man hid the cards under his sleeve and smiled so wide.
The mansion loomed before them.
The boy did not die in the attic.
Nor did he die at first.
Because you see, the man was lonely. He was oh, oh so lonely and he had a big mansion with no one but himself occupying it. The servants were no friends of his, their smiles gelid and their words more so.
You get bored in such places, where the walls were too high and the locks were too tight. The candles burned day and night. He tired of these things, of the closed doors and windows. They should be open.
The boy clung to his jacket, his hands trembling.
The man offered a smile. “You needn’t be afraid,” he said, placing a hand upon the boy’s head. His curls were wet from the rain. “It only looks scary on the outside. The interior is much nicer and not nearly so cold.”
It was not so cold.
In fact, it was warm, all comfort and home. The hearths were lit with abundant flame. From a nearby door, the aroma of supper wafted into the room. The boy found his mouth watering at the smell. It was six, six o’ clock, and he should be home by now, he couldn’t let his mother worry—
The man let out a chuckle. “My cooks are excellent. Dinner will be ready soon. In the meantime, I will show you to your room.”
They wound through hallways and stairwells. The mansion was much unlike a mansion and more of a maze; a maze of hung paintings and luxurious carpet. The boy’s eyes were wide, and he gazed all around, at the statues and chandeliers and banisters, gleaming in the light from above.
The man was right, thought the boy. It wasn’t so scary inside.
The boy felt as if he were in a storybook. He had never seen a place so grandiose. Only in his dreams, when his eyes shut and he let his mind drift.
“Here we are,” said the man, when they stopped in front of a door, tall and handsome. It was made from the darkest wood, and the handle glittered in the candlelight. The boy stared at it in wonder, before casting a hesitant glance back at the man. He tilted his head in reply. “This is your bedroom, my boy. Do feel free to make yourself at home. I will call when it is time for dinner.”
He disappeared, and the boy stepped inside the room.
And oh.
He had felt like he was in a storybook before, but now he was in one. He was the knight in shining armor, he was the prince about to save the princess, he was the hero.
The room might have been larger than his entire house. The windows on the farthest wall stretched from the ceiling to the floor, and the curtains framing them were yards and yards of velvet. There was a bookshelf, and a mirror, and a box of toys, and it was everything he had ever wanted.
This was all without mentioning the crown jewel of the bedroom; the bed.
It was fitted with the softest sheets the boy had ever felt, and on top lay a quilt, stitched with care and boasting bright hues, of green and blue and yellow. The boy ran his hand along the top, marveling at the material.
These, he knew, were happy colors.
He had never felt more at home.
The boy did not die in the attic.
Supper was just as splendid. It was a full course, all for the boy and the man, a spread spanning from the head of the table to the very edges. The food was rich, and the boy indulged himself in spoonful after spoonful.
The man watched him, head in his hands. Though he had yet to touch his own plate, he was smiling. “You were hungry, weren’t you?” When the boy nodded, he made a sympathetic noise. “Oh, poor thing. You don’t have to be hungry anymore. Eat as much as you like.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you very much.”
The man waved his hand in dismissal. “Don’t thank me,” he said kindly. “After all you’ve been put through, I say you deserve this more than anyone else.”
The boy was too blinded by the lights and the colors to think of what those words might mean. He beamed, perhaps the first true smile for him in some time, and ate.
The man left, after a while. And soon it was only the boy.
The boy that did not die in the attic.
The boy that did not die at first.
...
Now, we need to talk about someone else.
Oh, you thought these were the only characters? That there was only the boy, and the man, and the friend and the friends’ friends and the younger brother and the mother?
Well.
You were mistaken.
The hero has yet to be introduced.
The boy did not die at first.
And the hero did not look like a hero. He didn’t look like much of anything, really, because he was a frail, sickly man. His bones poked from his skin, and he might have been more kin to a skeleton than he would be to a man.
The hero heard things, whispered and spoken quietly, of a mother’s demise and a boy’s vanishing. Of a man he thought was dead and things his mentor taught him when he was young.
He did not look like a hero, but he was a hero, down to the very blood that ran through his veins. Down to the marrow that made him human.
The hinges had not been oiled in some time, for the door creaked as he slowly pushed it open. All the lights were turned off, swathing the house in shadow.
He fumbled, feeling along the wall for the light switch. The light bulb flickered to life.
There were so many pearls on the floor.
The boy did not die at first.
Poison, the hero ruled. The mother died of poison.
And she had been dead for a time. Her lips were red, her skin cadaverous.
He investigated further.
The medicine cabinet held cups and jars, screwed shut and child-locked. But the contents were vile and reeked when opened.
He put the lids back on and closed the cabinet door. The mirror was dusty. His reflection was a blur.
Both beds were empty. The photographs on the wall suggested they shouldn’t be, for they showed a mother and a boy, the two smiling. No tears. No cries. Just smiles. A boy, a head of curls and a smattering of freckles, and a mother, youth and elegance embodied.
He stared at their pictures for a while.
The hero had lived in the world for a long, long time. He had read papers of families and shouting and blood, and the knowledge, of these things and their endings, choked him.
Red dripped from his lips. The hero reached up and wiped it clean.
He left the house, after that. He could not bear to be in such a place. Yet, before he did, he stood outside. Just for a moment. To see the house.
It was a quaint thing, not so big but full of character. All white paint and cutesy shutters. The porch was swept and the wicker chairs out front were free of dirt. It was all very well kept up. Flowers were planted in the bed below the front window. Lilies, he noticed. They were all lilies.
The sight—the paint and the shutters and the chairs and the flowers—made his stomach roil.
The house was like that of a doll’s on the outside, but he knew.
Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
The boy did not die at first.
The man was kind, and maybe that’s why it took so long for the boy to understand.
He patched the boy’s hurts, holding ice to the bruise on his cheek and wrapping the hand print around his throat with gauze. They didn’t sting after that, and he could forget the painting of blues and purples that danced across his skin, a practiced soft-shoe.
The man never raised his voice, either, even when the boy dropped his plate and it shattered into a million pieces, nor when the boy tipped over the glass and spilled water over himself. Even when the boy sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, the man spoke gently, the words mellifluous and soothing to the ear, patient until his tears ran out.
The man was too kind, the boy thought. Why was he so kind? The boy was doing his best to be good, but even when he messed up, the man always had been there with a calm disposition and a gentle hand.
But the boy got food. And his bed was soft and his clothing was nice and the mansion was from a fairy tale, and he loved fairy tales, and to think that he was in one—
It was strange.
It was strange to think he might be in one, because he was useless and a deku but—
The man didn’t think he was.
“You’re the farthest thing from worthless, my boy,” the man told him. “I would even dare to claim that you’re worth more than you could ever imagine.”
The words were like candy and the boy ate them until his teeth rotted.
Not all fairy tales end happily.
The boy did not die at first.
The hero wanted to know why. Why the mother was dead, why the boy was missing, but the questions he asked went unanswered and all he could hear was the sound of the faucet drip, drip, dripping in the bathroom.
His mind flashed to another time, when his mentor’s smile wasn’t forced and he had no black coats and gloves, because you don’t need black coats and gloves when you’re happy. You need them when you’re distraught, in the throes of grief.
The clothes in the closet were not black. They were green socks and blue slippers and yellow skirts. In smaller boxes were ties and gloves, all things you need, but things that were untouched. There was a bucket hat, once orange but faded into a sickly peach, at the back of the closet. When the hero pulled it from the floor, a spider had scurried out from beneath it.
An unfamiliar name was written on the tag.
His mind was dark.
The dress the mother wore may have been fit for a wedding, once, but it was so old and the fabric was so worn that the color was not white, but yellow; purity given way to peasantry.
The hem was cut up, like someone had tried to make it shorter, but they were no seamstress, for the thread was loose and the fabric was rough beneath his fingers.
On the kitchen counter were two china teacups. They were fancy; the handle curled, decorous in nature, and the rims were hand-painted with flowers. One was empty. The other was very full. When he took the latter in his hand to dump it in the sink, he found that the tea had stained the inside brown, like the rim of a tub after a dirty bath.
Beside the teacups sat a ceramic bowl, full of the pearls. They were plastic, the hero discovered, just as all the other ones that littered the floor were. Cheaply made plastic, too. The seams were stark.
A string of elastic sat beside the bowl.
Perhaps they had been trying to make a necklace.
The boy did not die at first.
The mansion, and the land it was built upon, was no stranger to the weather. When it rained, the roof was sturdy but the water spilled over the sides, creating a waterfall of the greatest proportions. The boy would watch this phenomenon from the window, tucked into a corner and counting the drops as they hit the glass. One, two, three.
A fire burned in the fireplace, and the room was cast in a golden glow, kin to that of the sun.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” said the man. He rested in an armchair, a book in his hands. He slid a bookmark, of silk and blue dye, to mark his page, and placed it on the table beside him. “Mother Nature is someone to behold.”
Upon being acknowledged, the boy startled, his head snapping upwards. Four, five. He composed himself, after, and when he spoke next, he was meek. “Do you ever—are you scared of the rain, sir?”
The man tilted his head. Six, seven. “Of the rain?”
“Yes,” said the boy, nodding. “The rain.”
Eight, nine, ten.
“Oh, I’m not,” said the man. “Not anymore. I used to be, when I was younger.” Eleven. Here, he laughed, the sound kin to thunder. Twelve. “The lightning startled me so much it sent me scrambling under the covers of my bed with my brother every time. We would stay there until the storms went away, like the quilt was a shield and we were the knights.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the armchair. Thirteen. There was something of a smile on his face. “Of course, we weren’t very good knights, but, well. I suppose we thought we were.”
Thirteen.
That gave the boy pause. He turned his head, curious. Ever curious. “You have a brother?”
“Had,” corrected the man, after a moment. Twelve. Eleven. His eyes were wistful, but not from tears. Outside, the rain fell in streams. “He died.”
The air was thick with silence.
Ten, nine, eight, seven.
“Oh,” said the boy quietly. “I—I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry. It was ages ago, I’m afraid. I’ve moved on.”
“I—I know people.” The boy’s words were rushed and spoken quickly, like he was saying something he shouldn’t be. Six. He looked away, worrying away at his lip. Five. There would be scabs by the morning, but he did not seem to care. Four. “That—um, that died.”
Four.
“You do?” prompted the man. At the boy’s slight nod, he let out a sigh. “I offer my condolences. Death is terrible.”
Five.
“Y-yes. It—I was upset.”
“Why is that? It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
Six.
In the distance, lightning struck. Six, seven. Seven, six. The room was illuminated with light. The boy’s eyes were like saucers with how large they were, and he shook his head.
Eight, nine, ten.
“But it was,” he told the man, and as the rain grew louder and louder, his face was wetter and wetter with tears. He rubbed at his eyes, his lower lip wavering. “My—I didn’t mean to, but she—I gave her the tea and—I didn’t want to, I didn’t mean for it to happen but—”
Eleven. Twelve.
“Oh,” said the man, kind, always kind, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket and placing a hand on the boy’s head, “you needn’t cry. I’m here, my boy. I’m here.”
Thirteen.
The boy did not die at first.
The hero asked around.
Or, rather, he tried.
“Have you seen a boy?” he said to a woman. She turned away, and continued purchasing her fruit.
“His hair is green,” he told an elder, who rolled his eyes, “and his eyes are green as well.”
“He shouldn’t be very tall,” he said, grabbing the shoulder of another pedestrian. The pedestrian, a lady with a child in her arms, pushed his hand away with a scoff. He stared after her, helpless. “Around thirteen years of age.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Have you seen a boy like this?”
“You mean Deku?”
The hero looked.
The friend was young. His eyes pierced the hero like knives. He stood with a slouch, his hands in his pockets and a scowl twisting his face.
The hero could not quite keep the note of desperation from his voice. “You’ve seen him?”
“Lately?” said the friend. When the hero shook his head, the friend laughed. It was a mean laugh, too. Not so light and laced with malice. “Serves someone like him right.”
“What do you mean by that? He’s been missing since—”
The crook of the friend’s mouth was friendly before. Now, it might cut the hero in half. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” asked the hero, something like lead in his stomach.
The friend opened his mouth, and the hero listened. And the hero heard.
Though it confirmed his suspicions—the things he had theorized about from the beginning—the knowledge was no less easy on the throat.
It choked him, and he could barely fetch his handkerchief in time.
The boy did not die at first.
That might have been the worst part of it all, because the boy didn’t know what it was like to be touched without the intent of hurt, or to be listened to without his words being twisted into ugly things. Perhaps he did, once, but those memories were gone, swept away with the rain and swapped with other rememberings.
He found himself watching his back. Turning around when no one was there but him. He could never be by himself. Someone was always behind him, weren’t they? To be alone is to be alive, and he did not feel very alive.
He drew in oxygen and his lungs screamed.
Yet the man stayed in his part of the mansion, and the boy his. They met for dinner, every night, and even when the boy wasn’t so punctual, the man was forgiving. He waved away the boy’s apologies with a hand.
“Being on time is not so important,” said the man. “It’s fine to be late now and then, I think, but I daresay a habit of tardiness shouldn’t be made.”
The door to his bedroom—the one belonging in a fairy tale—was kept locked. When the boy awoke in the morning, and padded across the floor, it is as it was before. Closed. Locked. He could not turn the handle.
The promise of privacy should be a good thing, but all it did was make the boy wary.
He turned his head, and saw nothing. Only the grandfather clock at the helm of the hall and the torches lining the walls.
Dinner was solemn. The boy arrived two minutes past six, and the man did not bat an eye. He merely smiled, and picked up his chopsticks.
“This mansion is big, isn’t it? I always came across new and exciting things in my youth. Did you discover anything new today, my boy?”
“No,” answered the boy. “I did not.”
In the corridor, the shadows writhed.
The boy did not die at first.
And he lied.
To say such mendacious things sent spiders up his arms, but the boy couldn’t tell the man of how many things he’d found. Of paintings with stories written on the backs and old journals under loose floorboards. He was keen, his mother liked to say, and in turn, he was too keen for his own good.
There were tales within the walls of the mansion, the boy knew. Tales seldom told.
He wasn’t sure what sort of tales they were. He hoped—as he always did, the dreamer with his neck stuck in the clouds—they were fairy tales. Some of his favorites had started out the same way this one had; a wayward youth is cast away to a faraway land, of the likes they’ve never seen before. They must adjust to a new way of life, and there are friends to make and feelings to share and fairies that never make an appearance, but are always there. On your shoulder or in your pocket.
The boy had looked for fairies, before. He read a book about a tiny fairy town, sequestered in a flower garden. He’d tried to see if any fairies lived in the flowerbed in front of their house, but his mother had gotten mad at him, because he was upturning the underbrush and trampling the tulips.
He stopped looking for fairies after that.
But he was sure they were real. There was no way they couldn’t be; not after all these books had talked about them. Their wings were dipped in sunlight and their eyes were made of quartz. They wore acorn hats and used dandelion seeds for pens. They used rose petals for blankets and leaves for umbrellas. They were real. He knew they were.
There were mean fairies, too. There always were; the ones that thought they ruled the world. But the other fairies always became friends with the mean fairies in the end.
The boy wondered if his fairy was a mean one.
“No,” he said quietly. “My fairy would be the nicest.”
“Did you say something, my boy?”
The boy looked up, before turning away. He took his chopsticks into his hand again. “No, sir. I was just mumbling.”
“Ah,” said the man with a smile, “you are so clever.”
Here, the boy’s face reddened. He sipped his water. “I’m not, really.”
“Oh, but you are! You shouldn’t undermine your accomplishments, my boy. They’re part of what make you yourself.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize so much. I’m a very forgiving person.”
“I know, I’m sorry—oh.”
And the man laughed.
The boy did not die at first.
The hero did not get much further, after that. But he was a tenacious soul, and he would not give up so easily.
He went back to the house, again and again.
The mother was buried in the backyard. He kept her in the dress, because he wasn’t sure what else to do. He was no expert on funerals, but the gown was nice if you looked past the stains and hem.
He went into the kitchen and took the bowl, the one on the counter with the plastic beads, and began the arduous task of stringing the pearls on the strand of elastic, one by one, until he could tie it around the mother’s neck. She looked like she was off to be wed. If only her dress were clean.
He wasn’t qualified to hold any sort of funeral, not by any means, but he didn’t want to set her in the dirt and be done with it. That would feel wrong, he thought, to treat someone in such a way. She might be dead, but she was alive once.
Tucked into the back of a cabinet, the hero found a pouch of tulip seeds. They seemed to have been left there for a while, and the pictures on the front were faded, but they were seeds and he scattered them among the fresh earth. Perhaps something pretty could come out of a demise so ugly, he thought. Perhaps this might mean peace.
He marked the grave with a stone, and maybe, in doing that, he made a mark himself.
The hero visited the house every day. Even when the rain was abrasive and when the sun was too eager. He came, whether with an umbrella or not, and took charge.
He did not live in the house, because it wasn’t his. He couldn’t simply take something that still needed someone. No, instead he pruned the lilies and made sure the shutters kept the storms away. He cleaned the china and fixed the foliage. He tossed the trash out and straightened the sheets.
The head of the house may have passed, but there was a boy somewhere who needed a home to return to.
That is to say, if he was alive.
The hero wasn’t sure he wanted to think of that.
So, he didn’t.
He was no singer, but he sang a song under his breath and continued to shine the silverware.
The boy did not die at first.
He was careful. He needed to be, for what he was going to do. And doubt rang in his head like a church bell, louder and louder, but come the next morning, he swallowed his fears, walked into the man’s study, and requested a journal.
“A journal?” echoed the man.
The boy nodded, his hands wringing at his sides. “To write in,” he said. “I really like to write stories and books. A-and it’s fine if you say no!” he added hastily. “That’s… that’s fine. I just wanted to—to say it.”
The man stroked his chin, and was silent for a few more seconds. He was clearly thinking very hard. “Well,” he said at length, “I suppose that could be arranged.”
“Really?” The boy wasn’t able to mask his enthusiasm, but the man didn’t seem to notice.
“Journals aren’t expensive, you know. I’m sure I could find one for you.” The man hummed. “What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t really have a favorite,” admitted the boy.
“Oh, come now,” chided the man. “We all have a favorite color. Mine is blue.”
The boy tilted his head. “What kind of blue?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Well, um, there are a lot of different shades of blue, sir. Do you like sky blue, or dark blue, or light blue, or—”
“I didn’t think there was a difference between sky blue and light blue, my boy,” said the man with a laugh. The boy’s face reddened. “Are they not the same?”
“Oh,” said the boy, ducking his head. “W-well, I never thought they were. Sky blue is more… bright, I think. Maybe that’s because of the sun—I don’t really know. And then light blue… light blue is soft. Like new sheets sort of soft, I guess. We—I don’t have blue sheets at home, but I think I did, when I was younger. Light blue is—it’s lighter than sky blue, I think? And—and sky blue is… it’s, um...” He came to a halt, then, his words running together, and he glanced at the man, who was watching him carefully. The boy hadn’t even noticed; he’d been so absorbed in speaking that all he could think of was what he would say next. He’d forgotten all about this—he wasn’t at school or his house, he was in the man’s study. A private space. And he’d just—he’d just barged in. Under the man’s heavy gaze, the boy felt himself shrink. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Sorry.”
“Why should you apologize?” The man’s hands were folded in his lap, and he did—he did look like he was listening. “I found your rambling endearing.”
The boy’s face felt hot. “Oh,” he mumbled. He looked at the floor. A floorboard to his right was loose, the nail’s head misplaced. “Sorry—I mean, no, it’s just that—Kacchan never liked me talking like that. He said it was annoying.”
“Annoying, hm?” The man muttered something under his breath, but since the boy was so far away, no matter how much he strained his ears, he could not make the words out. Then the man cleared his throat. “I say different. You’re quite clever for someone your size. How old are you, again?”
“Thirteen, sir.”
The man hummed. “When I was your age, I could never have been as smart as you are.” Something welled up in the boy’s chest—was it pride, perhaps? He hadn’t felt it enough to know. “I was too busy playing outside to read books. Now, it seems, that’s all I have time for.” The man laughed. “I suppose that’s aging for you. Do you play outside, my boy?”
Shaking his head, the boy said, “No. I’m too old for that.”
“It would do you good,” said the man brusquely. “You shouldn’t stay shut up here all day. The courtyards are sprawling. You’d have a nice time out in the sun. You might even see the sky blue you were talking about.”
The boy’s brow furrowed. “But I like it here, sir. The mansion’s—it’s nice, inside.”
“And it’s just as lovely on the outside. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes.” Though, the boy did not mention that the only time he’d ever been outside the mansion was when he arrived on that cold, dreary night—he hadn’t been outside once since then.
There was not exactly a reason that he left this piece of information out, but there would be, later.
He was clever like that, you see.
There’s a reason he didn’t die at first.
“I can get you a journal,” said the man, splitting the silence without preamble. “I’m going to the market tomorrow. I’ll see if I can find something for you.”
The boy bowed. “Thank you, sir.”
“It’s nothing, really. Anything I can do to get young brains working. Now, you’d best be off. Lunch will be delivered to your room later in the day, as it always is.”
“Thank you.”
The man waved a hand. There was an amused quirk to his mouth. “Just as you apologize, you seem eager to use your manners, as well,” he said. He sighed, straightening his collar. “I suppose I can’t fault you—your mother raised you well.”
“Yes,” said the boy softly. The word—the name— was jarring to his ears, like a clap of thunder in the middle of the night. He had forgotten about her. How could he do such a thing? He might be in an unexplored space, but she was his caretaker, his guardian, his mother, and he’d— “She did.”
“Off you go, now,” dismissed the man. “You can go out to the courtyard, if you’d like. It may be damp, given last night’s rain, but so long as you’re careful, and don’t jump in puddles of mud, you will be fine.”
“Okay.” The boy crossed the threshold of the study, lingering by the door. He felt the sightless eyes of the man bore into his back. “Thank you again.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Then, the boy turned. “You never answered me before, sir.”
“Oh?” said the man.
“What blue do you like best?”
The man went quiet. Then, he smiled. “I think I like sky blue.”
The boy did not die at first.
There was something… nice, about this.
Nice about cleaning the house, nice about washing the windows and doing all the things he could.
But just as there was nice, there was bad. Good can never exist without evil’s influence.
The hero felt he shouldn’t be doing this.
The house—it wasn’t his. He had his own, a modest one-story in the country, nowhere near here, nowhere close to this, nowhere close to him.
The boy could be dead.
And then what? What had he done all this for? Clean the house for the next owner? Dig a grave for no one new? What was the point if he didn’t come back?
The boy could be dead.
You don’t know that, the hero thought, his jaw tightening. You don’t know anything.
But it had been a long time since he’d last seen his mentor’s smile, and he had thought she was alive then, too.
His breath was shaky, but he drew it in and drew it out, placed the feather duster on the mantle, and rode the train home.
The boy did not die at first.
“Did anyone else live here?”
The man, placed in a stately chair, paused. He was reading a book with dots. He did not turn around, not yet—but he set it down on his desk and picked up a package instead. “What do you mean, my boy?”
The boy ran his fingers along the door. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just… well, this place is really big, right?”
“In a sense, I suppose it is.”
“Are you really the only one that lives here?” asked the boy. He gestured around. “You don’t need all this space just for one person.”
“Ah,” said the man, raising a hand, “but it’s not just for me. I have servants and chefs who need their quarters, too.”
Frowning, the boy sidled further into the room. The man still held the package. The tape on the sides was discolored, he noticed. “That’s a given,” he said. “Does your family not live here? I’ve only ever seen you.”
“That’s because my family doesn’t live here. They haven’t for some time.”
“Then—but you grew up here, didn’t you?” At the man’s nod, the boy plowed on. “Shouldn’t your mother and father and… and your brother still be here?”
“No,” said the man simply. “They shouldn’t be.”
The boy’s brow knit together. “This house is huge,” he said. “Why should they not be?”
“Because,” replied the man. He seemed unbothered by the boy’s questions, hardly batting an eye to such a vocal barrage. The boy wasn’t mad yet—no, he had no reason to be—but it set his teeth on edge. “They have all the space they need. They don’t need to live with me.”
The boy’s lips pulled into a wry smile. “What, do you keep them in some sort of underground cellar?”
This made the man chuckle. “Oh, heavens no.” He waved a hand. “That’s inhumane.”
“Then where are they?” said the boy. He was in the man’s face now.
“Where are they?” repeated the man, after a moment. He put the package in his lap and tilted his head. “My boy, my family is dead.”
The boy did not die at first.
“Oh,” whispered the boy. “That makes sense.”
The boy did not die at first.
“It does, doesn’t it?” The man exhaled, slow, and it was a sound that might have been sad, for he was old and weary, yet he seemed to be anything but. His hands were wrinkled like tissue paper but he had no lines by his eyes. “My family is buried in the courtyard. They have been for a while.”
The boy did not die at first.
“I’m sorry,” said the boy softly, before getting louder and louder. He stepped away, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—asked.”
The man tilted his head. “You had every right to.”
“I didn’t,” said the boy. “And I don’t. This isn’t my house.”
“It is,” interrupted the man. “It is.”
“It doesn’t feel like it is.”
“It will,” said the man coolly. “Someday it will.”
The boy felt similar to a child as he asked, plaintively, “When?”
But the man only held a finger to his mouth and gave him the package in his hands.
(It was a worn journal, the leather exterior dyed dark blue. Not sky blue.
Just dark blue.
Someone had written their name inside the front cover. It was blacked out with marker.
The boy wondered who did that.)
The boy did not die at first.
He didn’t remember too much after that.
Well, no. That’s a lie. Another to add to the books.
If he didn’t stop, there might not be enough paper in the world to keep track of them.
(He was a liar, a liar, just a filthy liar, that was all he ever seemed to do, all he ever did was lie, lie, lie—)
The boy did remember. He did, he promised, but only the important parts. The things he wrote down, he remembered, because those were the important parts.
He didn’t… he didn’t need to write about himself. Not so much as he needed to everyone else. They couldn’t talk about their lives anymore, their stories weren’t told, and if there was someone of sound mind in this mansion that could, then…
Then he’d gladly volunteer.
The days stretched on and on and he wove through the mansion like a piece of thread, and his pencil was the needle.
The boy looked at paintings and went inside bedrooms and did things he surely wasn’t supposed to. His journal became a beloved thing, the parchment fragile and thin from how much he used it.
Now, he was in a room that might have been skipped over, because there were boards on the door and the handle didn’t turn right. He always kept a bobby pin on his person, though, and he wasn’t well-versed in taking nails out of wood, so he received a splinter in his thumb and an unlocked door for his efforts.
He stepped forward, and a floorboard beneath his foot creaked.
The nail was loose, just as the one in the man’s study had been.
He bent down, and pried the board away.
The bones of fingers were beneath him.
The boy did not die old.
It wasn’t raining today.
That shouldn’t have been such a surprise.
But to those used to cloudy skies and the feel of rain jackets brushing against you, well.
It was more than a little jarring.
The hero left his red umbrella by the door and stepped onto the train.
As he rested his head against the window, the sun broke through the clouds and cast the world in a glow of yellow.
The boy did not die old.
The mansion was no different; there was no rain, come the morning. Only sun. Burning, burning, burning sun.
It was strange to see it all in light.
The boy went outside, that day.
The man wasn’t far behind, for he never was. He was like a shadow, his suit black as night. In the heat, he must have been boiling alive, but he showed no sign of it.
“Do you like the courtyards, my boy?” The man’s voice was a rumble, and the boy nodded. Once. His gaze wandered.
The path beneath his feet wasn’t worn. It was gravel, but every piece was in place and everything was perfect.
The lawn, too, was manicured. He had never seen anyone out here, and he stayed at the window for hours. Not a weed was in sight. There was only miles upon miles of trimmed grass; a vibrant green. This might feel nice beneath his toes, he thought.
“They’re nice, sir,” remarked the boy. “Does someone keep them up? They look like they’ve been taken care of.”
“That would be me, my boy.”
The boy turned, eyes widening. “Really? But the courtyard is so big.”
“Oh, it’s not once you get used to it.”
The man continued to walk, passing him. The boy followed, not a step ahead or behind. A butterfly flew past his ear, its wings beating like the heart of a rabbit. The boy watched it, curious, as it glided to a crepe myrtle tree nearby. The blossoms were bright pink, and the butterfly settled among the leaves, at peace.
“I’d say this is the one thing I’m good at, really,” the man told the boy, voice lowered like he was sharing a secret.
They stood, silent, basking in the rays of the sun. The boy’s gaze lingered on the butterfly. A wasp buzzed past the tree and struck the butterfly. Its wings, white with the slightest hint of green, broke in two.
The butterfly died. The boy looked away.
“Do you have a garden?” he asked the man.
Laughing, the man shook his head. “As loathe as I am to admit it, no,” he said. “I’d like to have one someday. Flowers are so picky, though. I haven’t met anyone with enough skill to maintain them.” The man smiled. His teeth were blinding. “Perhaps you could help me figure it out. My hands are aged, anyway. I would need someone else to help keep a garden up on its feet. Does that not sound nice?”
“I know a thing or two about gardening.” When the man made a sound of affirmation, an invitation to go on, the boy added, hesitantly, “My father loved tulips.”
The man’s head turned just so. “Did he?”
Carefully, the boy nodded. “They were his favorite. He always planted them in front of our house in the spring.”
“I’m not so good with flowers, myself,” said the man, after a moment. He drummed his fingers on his leg, each as thin as a bone. “I might have been in my youth, but those days are long gone.” The man looked at the boy, fully, and there was that strange glint to his eyes. He was seeing, yes, but his gaze was dull and his lips were curled, almost as if in thought. “Still, I must admit that they look lovely when tended to. I’ve never been able to find a good gardener, or this place would have a true garden. Did your mother like them?”
The boy startled. “Like what?”
“The tulips. The ones your father planted.”
“Oh, no.” Fumbling with the cuff of his sleeve, the boy stared at the mansion. Far away from them, the train drew on. A bell rings. “She hated them.”
The boy did not die old.
The sun was even brighter when the hero opened the door to the house, and he cracked the shutters open to let the light splay inside, yellow and warm. The curtains billowed in the breeze.
And it shouldn’t have been a surprise, really. The door opened without preamble, a thunder to dispel the peace, and the hero drew in a breath.
The room smelled of lemon wax, and the face of the friend in the doorway was twisted, like he had eaten one whole, peel and all.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?”
The words were thrown like knives, and they echoed in the air, a melody of anger, but the friend was reckless in emotion and they flew across the room, sticking in the hero’s palms as he raised them, placating.
This is okay, thought the hero. He was used to blades, so he smiled, turning his lips up at the corner and wiping the blood when it streaked downward. “I’ve been tidying up,” he explained. “When I first came here, it was a mess. Dust and dirt everywhere. I think it looks a lot better now.”
The friend’s hands gripped the side of the wall, his knuckles ghostly white. From where he stood, he looked less like a boy and more of a menace. But his childness lingered in his eyes, for though they were hardened, if you were to take a mallet to them and strike once, they would surely collapse. “Why would you want to tidy up the house of a murderer?”
“You misunderstand,” said the hero. “He’s—”
“No one just kills their own mother for the hell of it.” The friend took a step forward, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Deku was a freak. Everyone knew it, and now he’s a murderer. He killed his damn mom.”
Though he tried to keep his voice as calm as possible, the hero couldn’t stop the way his words wavered. “You have no way of proving that.”
The friend’s jaw was set. “I was here before you were,” he spat. “I know what I saw.”
“You were friends with him, weren’t you?” said the hero, in an effort to steer the conversation away. The friend went still. “I found pictures in his room.”
“You went in his fucking room?”
The hero frowned. “I thought you didn’t like him.”
“I—goddamn it, I don’t. But—”
“You seem protective,” said the hero. “Of him, I mean. Are you sure you weren’t friends?”
“We’re not friends,” growled the friend. “And I’m not protective of him.” He was seething. “Not of anything, and certainly not fucking Deku.”
“Why do you call him that? That’s not a very nice nickname.”
The friend barked out a laugh. “Tough shit,” he said. His mouth curled into a grimace—under the right light, it may have been a grin. The shadows were long. “It’s fitting, anyway. Useless is all he’ll ever fucking be.”
With that, Bakugou Katsuki turned on his heel and left, his hands in fists. The house rattled as the door slammed shut.
The hero stood there for a moment, staring at the door, a hand extended. When it was clear he was not going to return, the hero let it fall back to his side with a sigh.
He went back to tidying the living area.
The boy did not die old.
“Where is your family?”
A laugh slipped from the man’s lips. He covered his mouth with a hand. “I thought we’d talked about this, my boy,” he said, chastising, but there was a lilt to his voice that said the warning in his words was pretend. “My brother has been dead for some time. My parents longer. I can’t stand to think of where they are now.”
“No, not that.” The boy looked around, at the blades of grass and the caveat of a sky and the man’s pearlescent teeth. “You told me, um, earlier. They were buried out here, right? In the courtyards?” He cleared his throat. “Where… where are they?”
Ahead of him, the man stopped. His dress shoe—shining in the sun; he loved polish—hovered above the pavement, a second, a moment of vulnerability, he could be knocked away in a minute, and then what would happen, what would end, what would become of them all—
and then the man was walking again, his stride sure, no sign of the frailty from before. He wasn't terribly young, no, but he was quick and the boy hastened to keep up.
“Ah,” said the man quietly. He looked behind him, to meet the boy’s eyes without seeing them in the first place. The boy felt like an insect under a lens. “I should have known you would ask about that. You’re a curious one, did you know that?”
Let his gaze stray, the boy said, “My teachers said I was clever.”
“I wouldn’t argue with them. Come, my boy. I’ll show you my family.”
The graves were neat. Three headstones, square with rounded edges. They were spaced evenly among the grass. There were no flowers by them, but there were glass vases—so there might have been flowers, once.
(They’re not there anymore.)
The boy stared at graves for longer than he should have. The man caught him looking—how was beyond the boy, but he settled a hand on the boy’s shoulder and asked, curiously, “What do you see?”
The boy blinked, glancing first at the calloused hand on his shoulder and then back at the graves, innocuous as they were. “What?” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, um. Nothing really. I was just reading them.”
“There really isn’t much to read,” said the man, chastising, and he was right—all that was printed upon their tombstones were the names and the dates of importance. Death and birth. The numbers swirled. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen them.”
“I-I know. I just… wanted to know their names. That’s all.”
“The one on the far left is my mother.” The man took his hand from the boy’s shoulder with a slight smile. “My father is in the middle. My brother is on the right.”
“What about the vases?”
The man titled his head. “Pardon?”
“There are flower vases by each grave,” said the boy, pointing. He turned to the man. “Did you… put them there? They’re empty.”
“Flower vases?” The man’s brow furrowed, and after a moment of silence the smile left his face, like it hadn't been there at all. “No, no, I don’t think I did.”
The boy stole a glance at the vases again. The one by the younger brother’s grave had a crack running down the side, but someone had smoothed tape over it. Otherwise, it’s in one piece. “Oh.”
“I know who it was, though.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” replied the man. “But they’re long gone.”
The boy frowned. “Where are they now?”
It wasn’t funny, but the man laughed. “If only I knew,” he said. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Who is it?” asked the boy, hesitantly.
The man set a hand upon the boy’s head, messing up his hair. The action was kind, affectionate—yet the man did not smile. “Just a prodigy of mine. I bet he’s travelling the world now.”
The boy hummed, and the man began walking back to the mansion. The boy didn’t follow him. Not yet. He looked at each of the graves in turn, with the empty vases and the smooth writing.
“That sounds nice,” said the boy. “To travel the world.”
The man let out a breath, his lip curling. “It does, doesn’t it? Perhaps you’ll be like him someday.”
The boy soon fell into step with the man, the path whole beneath them. “I’d be afraid of the trains,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t know how to use them.”
“You could learn,” said the man. “It’s good you’re here, then. I can teach you to board a train.”
The boy smiled. “You have a train on your land, sir?”
“No, but the station isn’t far away. We could go out there someday. Tomorrow, maybe? Do you have any plans?”
“No,” lied the boy. “I have nothing going on at all.”
The boy did not die old.
Later, when the sun began to fall from the sky and the curtains around his window were drawn shut, there was a knock at his door.
The boy swept his pencil behind his ear and hid the inkwell in his pocket, just as the man pushed the door open. Turning his head, the boy rose from the desk chair. “Yes?”
“Dinner is ready,” said the man. He teased, then, “I know you don’t like to be late.”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” said the boy, sinking back into his seat. He took the pencil from his ear, and fiddled with it for a moment. “I’m drawing something.”
Raising an eyebrow, the man stepped further into the room. “Oh? I didn’t know you were an artist.”
The boy’s cheeks reddened. He looked away. “I’m not, really. I just like doing it now and again.” He picked up the sheet of paper. “Want to see what I’m drawing?”
“Perhaps another time, my boy,” said the man. “I’m starving.”
“I am, too. I’ll be there later. I promise.”
“Later? By how much?”
The boy set his pencil down on the table. “Not much,” he assured the man. “I just want to finish what I’m doing. I feel like if I stop now, I’ll just—the steam will stop, and I really like what I’ve drawn so far.”
The man lingered in the doorway, a moment. His eyes could have been searching. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he settled on. There was a sense of finality in his words.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” echoed the boy, opening his journal once again.
And again, the man stood, the light from the corridor forming something of a halo around his head.
He left.
The boy was alone.
There were no illustrations on the paper. Just the picture of a prodigy and the memory of a mentor.
He sunk his lip into his bottom teeth, and drew the inkwell from his pocket.
Liar, liar, liar.
The boy did not die old.
The hero closed the door to the house, checking that it shut all the way before making his way down the steps. The green tea he made was warm in his hands, though with the sun, it was unnecessary. Still, he supposed as he walked to the train, his house grew cold at night.
Perhaps it was a good thing, to make tea when the weather is hot. His fingers and toes would thank him later, he knew.
The hero brought the cup to his lips and let the sound of the train flow through him.
The boy did not die old.
He made his way down the halls and slipped the box inside the door in the room of a prodigy. He left the pencil on his own desk. It rolled, at first, but he stopped it with the eraser. It went still.
(Pencil can be erased. Ink cannot.)
He put the clothes he wouldn’t need in the closet, and smoothed the quilt on the bed. He remembered the grass beneath his toes and the sky above and the cries of the sun. He pulled the house slippers from his feet and laced his shoes. Once, twice. The jacket was warm and he kept the journal in his hand, a work written without words.
The boy stopped when he reached the door, when his fingers met the handle. He lifted his head, for what should be the last time, and looked at the bedroom, the place he’d lived, the photograph torn from a storybook. At the desk and the books and the mirror against the farthest wall that caught half of his reflection. A boy without a mother, a father. A boy with too-old eyes and a head of stories. A liar, if you will.
He shut the door.
The boy was careful. Cautious. The carpet muffled the steps he took, but he was light on his feet and after weeks of traversing the corridors, the winding maze that was mistaken for a mansion, he knew his way around.
He wouldn’t pass the entrance to the dining hall. He wouldn’t cross paths with the man. He would be safe.
Yet.
Despite the planning and the picking and the placing; despite the time and tribulations and trials—
The eyes of a viper met his.
“What are you doing?”
The voice sliced like thunder, and the boy stumbled. He didn’t fall, no, he didn’t—but he tripped over his own feet and turned, like a deer in the headlights. He tucked the journal under his arm and swallowed. The man was standing, hands behind his back, at the entrance to the hall from which he'd entered. Waiting, was he? When did he get there?
The light coming from the corridor made him look scary.
“What are you doing?” asked the man again.
“I…” The boy asserted himself. He tried, as he always tried, to make himself look taller, look threatening, but he was thirteen and timid. His teeth weren’t pointed. “I thought you were at dinner, sir.”
“As did I,” said the man. He stepped forward. His shoes thudded against the carpet. “Off for a walk, are you?”
The boy nodded. “Yes. I wasn’t hungry.”
“Neither am I. May I walk with you?”
“Oh.” And this was the boy’s mistake. A moment of hesitation, a second to think. Enough to warn. Enough to show.
The man struck.
“You don’t want me to walk with you.”
It was not a question.
“No,” said the boy, shaking his head. For every step the man took, the boy moved back. “It’s not that. I just—”
“You were willing to earlier,” the man went on. His hands were not in fists, but they flexed at his sides. “We went outside. Do you not remember? I showed you my family.”
“I remember,” the boy assured him. “I promise, I do! It’s just that—”
“Are you unwell? Is that it?”
“No. I—”
“Have you been feeling lethargic?” queried the man. He tutted. “You ought to sleep more. You’re growing.”
“I’ve been sleeping fine, sir. But—”
“Do you not like me?”
The boy’s ears rang.
******** ***** did not die old.
“What?” he said, meek. The journal in his hands felt like a weight. He stared at it, incomprehensible. The man moved closer. He took a step back, and the man’s brow creased. Like he saw it. Like he knew.
******** ***** did not die at first.
“Do you not like me?” asked the man again. His eyes were forlorn. “I understand if you don’t. I’m no replacement for a guardian, but I’ve been doing my best.”
******** ***** did not die in the attic.
“I-I know that,” said the boy hastily. “My mother struggled too. She wasn’t—did you—why are you asking that? I like you. I do.”
******** ***** is a liar.
“Do you?” said the man. “Do you really?”
But, if that is the truth, then *** *** *** is no better.
“Yes,” said the boy earnestly. “I do, I do! You’re… you’ve been nice to me.”
“Nice,” repeated the man. He did not seem convinced.
The face of someone he thought was a friend flashed in his mind. Wringing his hands, the boy stared at the carpet. It was stiff beneath his feet. “Not everyone was nice to me. People didn’t… they thought I was weird.” He swallowed, and looked up. It was futile to meet the man’s eyes, but he tried to anyway. “But—you changed that!”
“All I wanted was for us to eat together.”
The boy stiffened. “What?”
“To have a nice meal together,” said the man. “To be like a family. Every day I’ve let you stay here—all I asked is that you come on time to dinner, so we can eat together. Is that so hard to achieve? I’ve given you everything. Don’t you think that you should give back?”
All was still. The boy’s breathing was loud. The man didn’t seem to be breathing at all.
“But I’m not your family,” whispered the boy. His fingers were white where they gripped the journal. “I never have been.”
“What’s in your hands, child?”
The boy stared at the journal, and then his head snapped back to the man. “Nothing.”
“You have something in your hands,” said the man. “What is it?”
“You couldn’t read it if you tried,” said the boy, stumbling. He clutched it to his chest. “It’s not yours.”
“A book? I know my way around those, child. Or is it a... oh.” The man’s tone grew venomous. “No, it’s your stories, isn’t it?”
The boy’s grip tightened. “You can’t have it.”
“Is it not enough to clothe and feed you? What more can you want?”
“You won’t—you can’t see them.”
“Why not?” said the man, with careful ire. “I’ve done everything for you, and you won’t let me see your journal? What if I want to hear your stories? What will you do then?”
“You can visit the library,” said the boy. He was almost near the bend, he could turn and never come back— “There are plenty of stories there.”
“I don’t want those stories. I want your stories, child.”
The boy’s back met the wall, his head just below a lit candle. He looked around the corner, and then back to the man, who was waltzing closer, ever closer. He wasn’t hasty. Just slow. Cautious. Waiting.
He bolted.
The boy wasn’t sure where he was going. Not exactly. He had grown to know the mansion like the back of his hand, through these weeks, but with the threat of someone on his tail, following him—
He was reckless, and maybe that was his end.
“Where are you going?” asked the man, his voice impossibly loud. “Your dinner will get cold.”
The boy did not chance a look back. He shoved the journal into his jacket again and kept running. A window—he could look for a window. He could break a window, and then run, run, run, just as he always did, just as he always does—
A knife whizzed past his ear and landed in the wall. The handle shone.
The boy faltered, daring to glance at the man. He had knives in his hands, now. Stalking closer, his steps were sure and confident. Nothing in his face betrayed, but he was smiling.
It was too familiar.
The boy ran.
Again, again.
Another knife, this time streaking past his side. It stuck in the carpet. His heart was a rabbit in his chest.
“Your legs will get tired soon,” said the man. “Why don’t you rest?”
The blade grazed his arm. The fabric in his coat tore. The boy kept running.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man told the boy, but blood was dripping down his arm now and the boy wasn’t sure he believed him anymore. “I won’t.”
“You are,” said the boy, fleeing into another corridor. This one was long, with windows lining the wall to his left. The sun was so bright. “Stop lying. You’re just like all the—”
The knife sunk between his shoulders.
He fell.
He didn't mean to, but he did—he tried, at first, to stay upright, grabbing the handle of a door and making it sticky with blood, but the door swung open and he fell, jarring the knife inside of him as he hit the ground.
It didn't hurt.
It didn't.
It didn't.
.
.
.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
His mother scratched at her neck, tearing at the elastic. She was trying to speak, but she couldn't—all that came from her lips was blood.
"I didn't mean to," he sobbed, trying to hold her hands, but she pushed them away, coughing. "I didn't mean to, I promise! I promise."
Her hand closed over his wrist, and she dug her nails in. Her eyes were wide.
"I'm sorry. I-I'm sorry!"
She didn't accept his apology.
The crescent moons in his skin didn't hurt.
.
.
.
It hurt.
And he had been right, oh, god, he had been right all along. The mansion was no mansion. It was never a house, either. It was a trap, the kind used to lure mice, and the pretty lights and soft quilt was the cheese and the man was the metal contraption, he had the jaws of a predator and the boy hadn’t seen because he was stupid, he was a deku and wasn’t it funny that he ever thought he could be anything else? He was dumb and useless and the friend was right, he was right all along and—
And he was—
He didn’t want to be—
Blood fell from his mouth.
The boy was nothing more.
...
The boy did not die old.
He might have, if the roads weren’t slick and the gravel wasn’t loose. He might have kept running, running, running, until he got home, safe and sound, with only a dead mother to his name.
But the rain fell and the roads weren’t maintained. He slipped. He fell. A miscalculation. A silly mistake.
It’s not so silly anymore.
The boy died a boy. A young boy, barely thirteen. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to shoot up like a weed; he simply got cut down instead. His wrists were so thin he might have been able to touch his fingers twice.
And he died young. Too young. Far too young.
And he died scared. His mouth hung open in a scream.
But he didn’t die alone.
Solitude would have been too kind.
The man sat beside him, running a hand through his hair, singing, humming a song that might have been a lullaby if the notes weren’t all wrong. There was blood on his hands now, but when was there not? The stains on his collar would dry brown by the morning, but he could bleach them away in an instant. Nobody would know.
The boy trembled. He might have been dead, to anyone else who saw the pallor of his skin or the gaping hole in his back, but he was still very much alive, and he breathed in, in, in, and he tried to breathe out, out, out, but his lungs squeezed and he choked, he was drowning again and it wasn’t even raining—it was sunny outside, so sunny, and the sun was so happy and he wanted to be so happy, too, but he wasn’t, he just wanted to run away, run so far away that no one knew his name and that he really was stupid and a deku, but his legs weren’t working and he was so tired, and he sobbed a river into the carpet.
“Shh,” said the man. “Shh.”
But the boy did not quiet. He cried and cried. The knife was in his back, not his heart, not his throat, but he could taste the iron on his tongue, and that made him cry harder.
He—
He just wanted to go home.
He wanted to see his mother, he wanted his own quilt, he wanted his own clothes and his own books and things that were his, not the man’s—he wanted his house and his pencils and his favorite teacup, and—he’d wanted help but not like this, this wasn’t helping him, this was hurting him, and—
Why was it always him?
Why was he the one that needed help? Why was he the one with the dead mother? Why was he the one with the mean friends and the bad luck and—
And he cried.
The boy cried so hard he drowned. He cried so hard he was drowning, he was drowning in his own tears and the man did nothing about it, just sang notes that were wrong and stroked his hair, like that could fix everything, like he held the world in his palm, and this was all to show the boy that people were mean. People were so very mean, and that he was stupid for trusting him, because he was mean, too, he was so very mean, but he spoke of butterflies and sky.
“It’s alright,” said the man, again, and he was kind and he was gentle, and it hurt. “You don’t need to cry anymore. I’m here.”
The boy opened his mouth, but all that came out was blood, and those weren’t quite words, they were just unspoken ones, and the man hummed his silly song.
Silly.
Silly?
Wasn’t what this whole thing was? It was silly. It was silly to think he could be anything more than what he was. To think someone would truly want to help him. To think that the rain wouldn’t fall and that the roads wouldn’t be slick. Silly, silly, silly. He was so silly.
He laughed, then, the sound wretched and wet.
“You really should have played by the rules, my boy,” said the man. “Perhaps then this would not have all happened.”
“I haven’t followed the rules since I came here, sir.”
“Oh, believe me, child. I know. I know.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, and the words ran together at the ends like drowned yarn. He coughed. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No one ever does, child.”
“Did they scream, too?”
“Who?”
The boy laughed. The sound was watery, and he spat out blood. “Maybe I should’ve named people,” he said. “But I don’t think you cared much about who they were, did you? You just liked that they were below you.”
The man was silent.
“The back of *******’s picture says she had a grandson.” The boy smiled. Red streaked his teeth. “I can see the resemblance between her and the boy in the painting beside us.”
“I’ve never heard of the people you’re speaking about,” said the man tersely. His hand ran over the boy’s temples, circles of false comfort. “You’re delirious.”
“Oh,” said the boy, “no, I guess it makes sense that you wouldn’t have, sir.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “And why, might I ask, is that?”
“Why?” echoed the boy with a bloody grin. “It’s easy. I don’t think the boy you knew as Shigaraki Tomura exists anymore.”
The man’s hand, curled in the boy’s hair, froze. He let out a noise. Something of surprise, maybe. It was soft, and short, and stunned.
The boy relished in it.
“That’s a name I haven’t heard in years,” said the man. His hand was still, and there was a quiet anger belying his words, tense and sharp. Fangs, poised to strike. He didn’t try to sing anymore. “A name I haven’t spoken in years, be that as it may. It does make me wonder; oh, though I’m sure it’s meant to. How might you know that?”
“His image is looking at us right now,” replied the boy, fearless as he could be in a puddle of his own blood. “You didn’t tell me you were an artist, sir.”
The man said nothing. Then, “You’re clever, rabbit.”
“I’m no rabbit,” said the boy with a giggle. His throat gurgled. “You know this.”
“I do, now.” The man, a blind viper, pursed his lips. “I know better now. I shouldn’t have thought of you as anything else.”
“As dinner?”
“I never thought of you as such. I—”
“Really?” interrupted the boy, his words slurring. “I don’t believe you. I don’t even know why I did. You smile just like my mother.”
“Did she think you were dinner?” asked the man. He had removed his hand from the boy’s head; it rested on his lap. The fingers were curled.
“No,” said the boy. “But she at least had a policy on lateness.” He laughed, again, but the words that came out of his mouth weren’t so funny. A tear slipped out of his eye—the start of a flood. “That was your first mistake, I think. You thought you could trust me.”
“I tried to. You made it difficult.” The man’s lips pursed, and he eyed the knife in the boy’s back. “Children are fickle creatures.”
“Not me,” laughed the boy. “Only my hands are. They wrote more than you ever could hope.” He looked at the man again, at the man with stolen eyes and a stolen face and nothing of his own—just a fake blue sky and portraits of dead people. “Shigaraki’s hands were fickle, too, right? They were. I know they were. You took both of his little fingers. That’s stealing. What do you need someone’s little fingers for?”
“It wasn’t stealing. He needed me to do it. He begged me to do it. Otherwise, this mansion might not exist as it does at all.”
“This mansion shouldn’t exist in the first place, sir.” The boy tilted his head back, then, to stare at the chandelier above him, to go somewhere else. Blood trickled from his mouth. “Shigaraki would have done us all a favor. You have a bad perception of what stealing is, too.”
“Do I?” said the man. He was trying to sound curious, interested, but the tricks didn’t work anymore. Above all else, he sounded bored. The carpet stained red. “How so?”
“You think you’re helping people, but you only hurt them instead.” Out of the corner of his eye, the boy saw the man shift. And the boy did not smile, not quite, but he felt amused. Bitter. “You thought you were helping your brother, because you put him in a cell so nothing would ever happen to him. I don’t think solitary confinement is a good way to spend the rest of your life. I wouldn’t know, though. You never got that far with me.”
“I could have left you alone to die,” spat the man. “How would you feel then, boy?”
“Better than I do now,” replied the boy. “It would’ve been nice to die without hearing your voice.”
As if trying to retort, the man said, “I look forward to reading your journal.”
The crook of the boy’s mouth curled, and he shut his eyes. The black that greeted him was almost welcoming. “You shouldn’t,” he said. “I wrote it with made-up symbols. Only I know what it says. I hope you know your way around such a book.”
Something in the man’s expression darkened. But the boy wouldn’t know, because he was almost asleep, and he couldn’t see the grass outside or the stolen sky or the man’s teeth, not so clean and white in the setting sun.
The boy thought the man would say something. Final words, perhaps; a telling of how he would become a legend. Passed down to different tongues.
Yet the man’s jaw clicked shut, and he stood, not threatening in the least. A man in a stolen suit. That’s all he ever was. A scuff on his best dress shoe, a tear in his tie.
He wasn’t a man now.
“Goodbye,” said the boy, his voice near a whisper. “I hope death treats you kindly.”
Still, the man was silent. He stalked away, his footsteps echoing in the hall. Quiet settled.
The boy smiled, showing all his teeth. “I did it, Shigaraki,” he murmured. “I did it, Ms. Shimura. If only you could see your brother now, One For All. He’s not as he was before.”
He got no response, though it wasn’t like he thought he would.
The boy closed his mouth, a last tear falling from his eyes, and melted away.
.
.
.
In the hall, a picture frame fell to the floor.
At the noise, the hero started, but when he rounded the bend, he saw no one.
He knelt down, his joints creaking, and took the frame into his hands. The wood was untouched, and so was the picture within. But the glass was shattered, ruined beyond repair.
The hero ran his fingers along it, feeling his skin catch at the pieces that jutted out. They were focused, he found, around the boy’s face. A spiderweb split his temple, and extended down his neck. The mother, smiling so widely; a long, thin crack cut her grin in half.
“I’ll have to replace this,” he mused, and hung the picture back on the nail.
.
.
.
The boy did not come back to the house.
But the hero did.
He returned, time and time again, to mop the floors and hope, with what little he had, that it might be worth it someday; that a teenager or an adult or an elder with freckles and sharp eyes and a smile would knock upon the door, once, twice, thrice. And the hero would open the door and see the face of someone far too familiar. There may be wrinkles in places where there shouldn’t be and a weariness to the shoulders, but the hero won’t pay that any mind. He’ll simply beckon him inside, tell him to take his shoes off and make himself comfortable, that he’ll start the kettle and heat up the room. The house was always like an ice box, but there are blankets in the room down the hall that are downy soft, and then it won’t be so cold.
And the teenager or adult or elder might not fit into the clothes in the closet or the shoes in the shoe box, but the hero could make do.
It would just be enough, he thought, to have the boy back, whether he be young or old, kind or belligerent. It would be enough. Somehow, someway.
Time, however, is not so kind.
The wrinkles in the hero’s forehead deepen as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks into months and the months into years and the years into—
The boy is dead.
He doesn’t know for certain. He can’t.
But the hero is old.
And his heart is clenched and his jaw is, too, and—
He knows.
One day, a map is mailed to the house.
Not his house.
The boy’s.
The hero finds it on the porch, on an otherwise unassuming day. The porch he finds it on is the one with the wicker chairs that he’d really ought to throw out, they’re so ridden with mold. The one with poorly pruned lilies, the one’s he’d tried to get rid of but keep cropping up year after year, just as tenacious as he is.
The porch that isn’t his. The furniture set that isn’t his. The flowerbed that isn’t his.
He bends down, his joints creaking, and picks it up. A loose rubber band keeps it rolled. The hero pulls it away and lets the map unravel.
The picture on it makes him ill.
It’s a place he’d forgotten about. A place he thought was the creation of his mind. He stares at it for longer than he should, his fingers shaking, blood creeping up his throat like poison ivy.
The hero hates it. Hates this place, hates his thoughts, hates his hands for trembling so very much.
He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to go back there, because the place—the place the map leads to is bad. It’s a horrible place. Somewhere that shouldn’t exist.
Surely the storms of the spring had sent it spiraling away? Surely they had? It’s been years, after all, and...
His mentor’s words ring in his head. He grits his teeth.
“No,” mutters the hero. “The mansion is used to storms.”
He doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t want to.
...
He has to.
He knows he has to.
The hero purchases a train ticket in the evening, for the day ahead of him. His pockets feel lighter, and he wonders, for a terrible moment, if this is worth it.
He doesn’t know.
(“Where are you off to?” the person beside the hero asks. His pinky fingers are missing, and he’s reading a book. He places it in his lap, though, and turns to face the hero. His lips are dry. “I’m going to visit my grandmother,” he tells him. “She lived in the country.”
“As did mine,” says the hero lightly. He hesitates. “To answer your question, I’m… ah, I’m visiting a place I haven’t been in a while.”
The person nods. “Yes,” he says. “I haven’t been to my grandmother’s in a while, either.” He rests his forehead against the glass, watching the rain fall from the sky with a forlorn expression. “I’m sure she misses me.”
“It’s good you’re meeting her, then,” remarks the hero. He turns to look out the window, too, before turning back to the person. “Where does she live now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Now?” repeats the person. He shakes his head and smiles, a tepid thing. “Oh, I’m sorry. You misunderstand. My grandmother has been dead for decades. I’m simply returning to her grave. She told us all to come at least every few months, but it’s been years since I’ve visited her.” The smile becomes bitter, and one of his fingers snakes up his neck, hovering above the skin for a long time. He sets it back in his lap. “Someone I used to know told me the dead don’t worry about punctuality, but I’m not sure I believe him.” Then, he adds, almost as an afterthought, “He lied a lot, though, so I suppose it wouldn’t be smart to believe him at all.”
The hero isn’t sure what to say. The words ring true, somehow, and he nods. “I see.”
“My sister told me that my grandmother was always on time,” the person goes on. He runs his index finger down the spine of his book; the title says it’s about vipers. The cover is sky blue. “I suppose she was fond of punctuality in life, but I can’t think of how she would feel about it now.” His lower lip curls. “I don’t believe the other man. I did, when I was younger. I don’t anymore, and I know he’s wrong. I’m sure the dead worry about a lot of things, just as you and I do.”
There is a mole beneath his mouth, the hero sees.
The hero opens his mouth, to speak, to ask, to stop him, but the world is cruel and the train dings. The person flashes another grin, something that might be scary in lower light, for all that his dry lips pull and twist, and says, “It was nice meeting you. I hope your travels are safe.”
Above, a bell chimes. There’s a voice, too, droning on for far too long. A baby cries, fussy from being in one place. The hero turns his head to look, and in the moment he takes, the person is gone.
He left his book behind, though. Whether the person forgot it or simply meant to leave it with the hero, it’s small and nondescript on the seat. The hero picks it up, and it falls open.
Written on the inside the cover is a name he doesn’t recognize, but it strikes something in him. Like he should remember it, yet it’s slipped his mind—a song forgotten to time.
(“Tenko” is the person’s name.
The hero doesn’t know any Tenkos. He racks his brain, thinking, trying to remember someone with a name like that, someone with a mole beneath their mouth and messy white hair, but he draws a blank.
Written beneath the name, in careful, sure strokes, are three words.
“Check the attic.”)
He places the book in his pocket and hums what the melody to such a tune might have been.
When the hero looks out the window next, it is sunny again.)
The mansion is old.
Staring at its dreary architecture, a single person before something so sinister, so horrid; the hero feels older.
The sun is a beacon, and he is blinded.
(He closes his eyes.)
He pushes the doors open, his fingers trembling, and he takes a step forward.
Another.
And another.
And another.
The air is stale.
That’s what he notices first.
It’s cold, too. Ice stabs at his fingers and toes like it’s the deep of winter.
The hero pulls his coat tighter around his boy and exhales. His breath comes out in a cloud.
He goes further.
No one is home.
That’s what he finds next.
No one. No cooks in the kitchen or maids dusting the breakables. Everything is so still inside that the hero feels he doesn’t belong; that if he came back as a mannequin instead he would fit in better than he does now, breathing and living as he is.
The mansion is eerie, too, in a way that sets his teeth on edge. He hasn’t been here since he was a boy, under the impression that his mentor hung the moon and the stars were all impersonators of her, and yet.
And yet.
The sight of everything—the unlit hearths and the broken windows and the scent of something almost metallic—still makes him want to leave and never return.
He didn’t buy a train ticket for nothing, though, and the map is still sticking out of his front pocket.
The hero trudges on.
The corridors are long. Maze-like, almost, in how they wind and twist. He is positive that there are only sharp corners, no rounded edges, but he feels like he’s going in circles anyway.
The hero doesn’t know where he’s headed.
(The map is only of the outside.)
The hero doesn’t know where the attic is.
(There might be stairs somewhere.)
The hero doesn’t know anything.
(He never does.)
The portraits seem to be watching him.
In his heart, the hero knows they aren’t—they can’t, they’re not alive. Not like he is.
He’s probably the only living thing here.
The painted people cannot breathe, but their eyes pierce deep.
One painting, an image of a child with dark hair and red, red eyes, stares at the hero the most.
No, not a stare. A glare.
He wears gloves and a fixed smile.
There’s a mole beneath his mouth.
The hero turns away, and the black in his coat burns.
There is blood in the carpet.
The hero had thought it was food—someone spilled their tomato soup, perhaps—or even red ink, but it’s blood. Though it looks old, because the stains have long since dried to a reddish brown, it’s there, and the stench tickles his nose, cloying in a way that’s reminiscent of perfume yet nowhere near as flowery.
(The area where the blood had pooled is the worst, because the scent is thickest and the section is small enough that a child could fit inside it with room to spare. Small enough that a boy could—)
He finds the stains—stains, multiple, why are there so many?—in a long hallway. There are windows on the leftmost wall, and they’re large; spanning across the entire hall, just before it reaches a bend. There are no curtains, so the sun falls upon it all, unhindered, elongating the shadows impossibly and casting the hero’s body in gold.
It was cold earlier, but now, faced with such light, the heat is stifling.
The hero coughs into his handkerchief and longs to be elsewhere.
There’s a trail of blood, just before the largest stain, that gets thinner as it goes along, with imprints of hands beside it; a macabre child’s finger paint project.
Out of morbid curiosity, the hero bends down and compares the size of his own palm to the stain.
(His hand swallows the other whole.)
The trail leads to a singular door. A door that might have been unassuming, if there weren’t the remnants of boards nailed to the sides, and a gaping hole in the middle, framed by splintered wood. It’s split down the middle like someone had torn them away with their bare hands.
(There is blood on the handle.)
.
.
.
(He opens the door anyway.)
The bedroom he finds behind the door is destroyed. Ransacked. What could have been the room of anyone’s dream is gone, replaced with upturned sheets and a broken chandelier. The glass sticks up from the floorboards in gaps and craters.
The wallpaper is peeling at the edges, and there’s a long crack in the ceiling, stretching from the door to the middle of the room. The toy chest in the corner is broken in two, the paint faded, and the matted teddy bear propped up on the bed is missing its left eye. All the clothes have been torn from the closet and drawer, and one of the pillows has been ripped apart; feathers decorate the bed, a sight that could have been pretty if the state of the bedroom wasn’t so horrible.
That isn’t what interests the hero, though.
It’s horrible, and the room reminds him of when he’d first stumbled across the house, with the pearls on the floor and the two cups of tea on the counter—someone lived here, and it was a long time ago, surely—the bookshelf is coated in dust—but whoever they were, they’re long gone.
But that’s not what interests him.
In the corner, where the toy chest should be, is a door in the wall.
It’s small. Looking at it, the hero knows that he would not be able to fit in it, much less crawl through it. The wood is old, but strong. There is probably a key that goes along with it, for there’s the outline of a keyhole below the handle, but if there is a key, he won’t need it—the door is already ajar.
With old fingers, the hero gently opens the door.
Inside is a cardboard box, a single plastic pearl, a piece of paper with an ink thumbprint, and the bones of someone’s fingers.
Beyond that is a passageway that gets wider as it goes, stairs leading down to a room of stone and nothing else.
(The hero does not go there. He will, someday. But for now, he draws a breath in, and shuts the door again.)
In the box is a journal. Fit for school use, really; the paper is lined and there are three holes running down the side.
But when the hero opens it and comes upon a page with the picture of a man he had long deemed to be dead, it is clear this journal had not been used for homework.
The name scrawled on the inside cover, beneath another name, scratched out with marker—hits him like a punch to the teeth.
Midoriya Izuku.
The boy that did not die in the attic.
The boy that did not die at first.
The boy that did not die old.
Yagi Toshinori holds the journal to his chest and weeps.