“’I’m going to walk to the bridge. If at least one person smiles at me on the way, I will not jump.”

From time to time, I am reminded of this anecdote of a man who jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge. I read it somewhere on the internet, and it stuck with me.

A warm smile. A simple greeting. They do really have the power to save lives - at least in some cases.

Three days before it all started, I was hospitalized because I cut my wrist in an attempt to kill myself.

I survived, thanks to the fact that my family found me early enough.

As I lay on the hospital bed, I wished someone would hold my hand. Of course, no one did, so I held my own hand. My hand which was now scarred, probably for life.

My suicide attempt was impulsive, though the seed of my suicidal ideation was sown long ago.

Lying on the bed, I wondered. If someone smiled at me or greeted me or say something simple yet warm to me that day, I might really not have the urge to disappear. I might have wanted to hold on for longer, at least until the impact of that smile faded.

It’s pathetic that I had no one to smile at me. My parents might love me, but as they were chronically exhausted from work, they seldom smiled. When was the last time they smiled at me, again? See, I couldn’t even remember.

I had no one at school who would smile at me, either.

I had transferred schools last year and I, being the socially awkward teen I was, couldn’t make friends even after a whole year had passed. Not that I had close friends in my previous school, either…

Today, I have to go to school. Again. Ugh. Life is tiring. Humans are even more tiring. I hate humans. I hate my life. I hate myself. Why does everything have to be so damn tiring?

As I drag my heavy self to the classroom, something splendid happens.

Someone greets me.

My first reflex is to look around to see if there's someone around. My brain doesn’t register that the greeting is, in fact, intended for me.

As I turn to the one who greeted me, he waves and smiles.

Something happens inside me. I feel weird. It’s been so long since I last felt this that I actually forgot that this feeling existed.

I feel warm inside.

Then I remember - that I should greet him back.

I wave back and smile awkwardly. Inside, I am dying of embarrassment. This is the first time in a long while since someone greeted me, and I am so useless that I can't even properly greet him back. Another part of me is somewhat overwhelmed with happiness.

Greeting someone means you go out of your way to acknowledge their existence. It means that you noticed them among so many people and cared enough to let them know that. However, most people probably don't bother to give it much thought. They take it for granted as they are used to being greeted by at least one person everyday.

However, for me, even that much feels like a luxury since I am pretty much invisible.

The feeling caused by that simple gesture of him stayed with me for the rest of the day, giving me the energy to go through the rest of the day. Even when I went to bed at night, his smile haunted me.

That someone was you.

I knew you from before. We were in the same classroom last year. You had a dazzling presence and interesting personality. My classmates were dying to get to know you; however, you were reserved and only ever talked to your seatmate.

Why would someone like you acknowledge my presence all on a sudden?

That doesn’t matter now, what matters is what happened.

Next day, I found a letter on my desk. It was written on a light green coloured paper.

At first, I wasn’t sure if the letter was meant for me. Sure, it was on my desk, but the question was who would bother to write me a letter? A fairly long letter, at that.

But it turned out that letter was indeed meant for me.

My heart beat with excitement as I held the letter. The scent of the coloured paper mixed with a faint scent of perfume. The texture of the paper. The words scribbled on the paper with beautiful handwriting. I took every little detail inside me and let them get curved in my memory.

It was late Autumn. Since it had been raining for the last few days, the wind was chilly. It made me shiver a little.

On a day like that, I got a letter from a strange classmate.

I read the letter over and over again, taking in each and every word. They were simple words, but to me they were very special.

You said you had been observing me from the day you transferred. In your eyes, I looked interesting, someone you would like to be friends with. You mentioned us being in the same classroom last year but in different classroom this year, which confirmed your identity. You said you could express yourself better when you wrote, that's why you wanted us to be penpals. That part made me feel relieved because I was clumsy with my words too. I never tried writing letters, though, so I didn’t know if I was good at writing.

During History class, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote you a reply. It was somewhat messy compared to your letter which was neat and clean, but whatever.

Truth be told, I was interested in you too.

You seemed to be living in a different world than me and the rest of my classmates. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why, but you gave off a different vibe. You reserved nature added even more to that vibe. It made you somewhat unapproachable. But the more unapproachable you seemed, the more you seemed interesting.

I couldn’t think of a reason why someone like you chose someone like me as a penpal. I lived a boring life. I had no experience worth sharing with others, had no hobbies other than listening to music, my world was limited to four walls - either of school or of home.

But you chose me to be your friend. The mere thought of it filled my heart up. I felt like I was dreaming.

That was the first time someone reached out to me.

Then I remembered the way you smiled at me. A smile that felt so natural, so warm. Would I meet you today too? Would you smile at me the same way?

Before I knew it, I was looking forward to seeing you when classes were over.

And there you were, chatting with a classmate. I didn’t know whether I should interrupt you, but then again, I had to hand you the letter.

I took a deep breath.

“Excuse me.”

You looked at me. “Oh, hi.” you waved with a slight smile on your face.

“I wrote you a reply,” I reached out my hand with the folded white paper at you.

“Wow, you're so fast,” the smile broadened as you took the letter from me.

“See you tomorrow.” I said.

“See you,” the smile didn’t fade until the end.

As I walked, I imagined your acquaintance asking you, “Who is he? What's with the letter? Are you two close?”

I didn’t know how you answered them. I didn’t want to know. I cherished that warm feeling inside me that was caused by you.

I found something to look forward to.

Your letters.

When I spotted the folded coloured piece of paper sitting on my desk, my heart started beating fast. No matter the contents, it was the act of getting letters that excited me.

You talked about various topics. From recommending new songs to explaining the newest scientific invention that I didn’t have a clue about, from the latest book you read to philosophy and literature - you talked about everything. Turned out we were fans of the same rock band - ONE OK ROCK. When you told me that, I internally squealed. You said we should go to their concert together someday. Even though I knew it was a distant daydream, I agreed. It was the first time someone ever wanted to go somewhere together with me, after all.

You loved writing letters. To you, it was like journalling, unburdening yourself at the end of the day. But unlike regular journalling where people keep the record for themselves to reminisce later, you wanted to share your day with someone else. For some reason, I seemed to be the perfect person for that. I didn’t know you in person and I didn’t expect you to be a certain way, maybe that was why.

At first, it wasn’t easy for me to write replies. As I mentioned before, my life was mundane. There was nothing worth mentioning. But nevertheless, I wanted to fill up the page. So I started writing whatever came to my mind. The new song that I listened to, random people who caught my eyes while I was spying on their windows unbeknownst to them…as I let the words flow, I started talking about myself. My exhaustion with human beings including myself. My loneliness. How I missed my parents despite living together. How I sometimes wished to have a friend with whom I can do everything together, from having lunch together to celebrating birthdays together to walking around the city hand in hand. “But then,” I added, “I get why anyone wouldn’t want to be friends with me. I am such a boring person, I wouldn’t be friends with myself either…”

“Demeaning yourself seems like your second nature. Everytime you say something like this, it hurts me.

However, this time, you not only demeaned yourself, you disrespected me too. You say no one would want to be friends with you… What am I? A cockroach? Huh? Fine, then…I was planning on accompanying you from now on, but seeing how you don’t count me as a person, I shouldn’t do that…It’ll be a waste anyway.

P. S. Go listen to What Makes You Beautiful by One Direction.”

I listened. I laughed and cried at the same time. And I made sure to write you a long letter filled with my sincere apology. I promised I wouldn’t say something like that anymore.

My parents loved me. But I forgot about that, even after seeing how devastated they were after my attempt at self-destruction. Now I had one more person who cherished me. If I said I was worthless, in a way it was insulting for them too. To them, I was far from worthless.

That day, after classes were over, you were waiting for me in front of my classroom.

“Come over to my house today. I am having a Halloween party.”

Your surprise invitation caught me off guard.

“Call your parents from the teacher's office and tell them you're not going home tonight.”

“Eh?” I was even more surprised.

“Let's go,” you dragged me by hand and didn’t let go until we arrived at the office. My parents were as surprised as I was at this sudden sleepover invitation, so you had to do a little convincing to earn their approval.

“I brought chocolates. And costumes. And scary movies, too,” you said as you settled on the bed.

“What is the costume that you are wearing?”

“It’s Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas… Wait,” You looked up to me, through the mask so I couldn’t see your expression, “Don't tell me you didn’t watch Nightmare Before Christmas?”

“I didn’t.”

You grabbed your head. “Oh man, how could you not watch a classic like that? We gotta fix

this ASAP.” As you removed your mask, your long, messy hair was spread all over your face. You combed them with your finger to straighten them and brought your laptop out from your bag. Then you handed me the costume that you bought for me, “Get changed into this while I download the movie.”

“What is this?”

“A Pumpkin.”

I burst into laughter.

I really enjoyed the movie, but what I enjoyed even more was the experience of watching movie with a friend for the first time. When the ‘This Is Halloween’ song was being played, you sang along. You sang really well.

After the movie was finished, we watched another horror movie. Horror wasn’t my favourite genre and I got jumpscared quite a few times, making you laugh. Once it was over, we lay side by side on your double-bed.

“That was fun…Wasn’t it?” You said.

“It indeed was.”

“Today was my birthday.”

“What? You are telling me that now? Had I known beforehand, I would’ve prepared some gifts…”

“It’s one of the things I wanted to do before I die, you know, celebrating my birthday with a friend. Thank you, I had a lot of fun today…” with that, you drifted off to sleep.

“You sleep like me,” I said looking at you, who was sleeping with your hands clasping one another, “You feel that lonely, huh.”

You didn’t respond.

I took your hands and untangled the fingers, then I intertwined your fingers with mine. I pressed my hand onto yours as an attempt to warm your hands that were colder than mine.

“When I was young,” I said in a voice a little louder than a whisper, “My mom used to hold my hand until I fell asleep. That became a bad habit, seeing even now I long for someone's hand when I fall asleep. Did your mom do that to you too?”

I knew you wouldn’t respond, I kept talking nevertheless.

“When I was at hospital that time, narrowly surviving a suicide attempt, I wished someone would hold my hand like this. I slept every night holding onto my own hand. Seeing you like this reminds me so much of those days. I don’t want you to sleep like that, not when you have another hand you can hold onto.”

That night, you were probably pretending to sleep. You did that so that I could talk. You knew that I couldn’t open up while looking into your eyes, so you helped me out. Heck, I probably wouldn’t be able to hold your hand had you not been asleep. I would be embarrassed.

Later, you told me that you actually knew about my suicide attempt all along. That day, you were on your way out when they brought me in, blood-soaked and unconscious. You saw that and shuddered. I didn’t even get the chance to get to know you, you thought. You had always wanted to befriend me but you held back. You had your reasons to do so which I found out later.

That explained why you smiled like that when we bumped into each other in the corridor. You were relieved to see me alive and well. That also explained why you got angry with me when I demeaned myself.

The next year, you gave me a surprise visit on my birthday. You hinted at it several times, like casually asking my address and asking if my parents were strict. I was dense and I didn’t understand it was all part of your plan.

So when on that day my doorbell rang, I was utterly surprised to see you on the other side. You pulled me into a hug while I was still processing the shock.

You brought homemade cake that you made with your mother's help. Your mom also packed sandwiches. We devoured them together. Before that day, I didn’t know that food tasted tastier when shared with a friend. You also brought a customized t-shirt, I was elated when I saw it and I wore it right away.

My parents weren't home, so we played OOR songs in full volume and screamed along until our throat hurt and voice broke.

“Let's live like we're immortal

Maybe just for tonight

We'll think about tomorrow when the sun comes up

'Cause by this time tomorrow

We'll be talking 'bout tonight

Keep doing what we want, we want, we want

No more wasted nights…”

With our voices gone, we fell on the bed, staring at the celling in silence until sleep seized us.

It takes very little to initiate a friendship.

Maybe one day you overheard someone talking about their favourite book and that happened to be your favourite book too. You went up to them and said “Oh you like that too?” and they said “You too?” and the two of you start chatting like old buddies, talking about the characters and plots and then the conversation shifts to “What other book do you like?” and another deep discussion began. Before you parted ways, you two had become buddies already.

Or maybe one day you happened to see a keychain charm of your favourite character hanging from someone's bag and you were dying to know them since then. Then one day, you actually mustered up the courage and started up a conversation. Then in the span of a month or so, you two are inseparable.

While you gather up the courage to approach, maybe you observe that person in the meantime and start noticing little things about them. Their little habits, how they talk to their friends, how they doze off during class and startle awake…Stuff like that.

I thought only friendless loners would invest their time in a single person like that. A loner like me, for example.

However, you proved me wrong.

You kept an eye on me ever since you caught me listening to Wasted Nights. Anyone would wonder why you just didn’t come up and initiate a conversation, but I understood you. At least I thought I would. Because if it was me, I'd act the same way.

Back then, I didn’t know there was more to it than just you being socially awkward.

You were at a tug-of-war.

Part of you wanted to make friends.

Another part of you didn’t want to get attached to any more people, knowing how you would break their heart. Just like how children who transfer school a lot give up on befriending new people or only make surface-level friendships.

I thought you were such a dummy.

Anyone can die anytime. Even being alive doesn’t guarantee lifelong relationships. Does that mean you'd cut off everyone and live in a hole forever?

However, after seeing you falling apart right in front of me, I finally understood why you made that decision. If I were in your shoes, I'd have done the same…Probably.

Outside, it was spring. The air was heavy with the scent of mango blossoms, the roadsides were colourful with bloomed flowers.

But in that little room of yours, you were withering. Spring didn’t reach you, like that one tree in the selfish giant's garden.

You, a child born in Autumn, turned into the epitome of winter.

That winter that consumed your body was consuming my mind. You were falling apart physically while I was falling apart mentally.

In one of your favourite books No One Writes Back, there was a quote. “Life is bearable when you have someone to write to.” Maybe that was the reason why we kept writing to each other. Your letters gave me a reason to go on, they gave me something to look forward to.

To think I would never see that smile of yours again…the mere thought of it makes me shudder.

Like that protagonist of your another favourite book, The Book Thief, I fell in love with words. And that was all thanks to you.

You coloured my life with colours I didn’t know. I coloured your life with my own colours. That was all we did - adding colours to each other's lives.

That day, your smile and that overused greeting that saved me.

Your letters saved me.

See, it really is that simple to save a life.

If only saving your life was that simple…

No, even if it wasn’t simple, even if it was complicated beyond my understanding, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

If only…

Did you know? That day, I actually grabbed the door handle to open it and go inside. But at the last moment, I stopped.

Looking at you through the glass door, I was reminded of a series of painful memories.

My maternal grandparents used to live with us. My grandfather was chronically ill and taking care of him drove my grandmother borderline insane. My grandparents loved me very much, especially grandpa, mind you.

When one day grandpa's illness took a bad turn, I, and everyone else in our family desperately hoped for him to survive. I remember wandering around the house like a lonely orphan as everyone was busy with my grandpa. Then one day, gathering all of the willpower I could manage, I went to see him. He was barely conscious, but I think he recognized me.

After enduring this for a week, he died. They said he died peacefully. I was in the middle of wearing clothes after getting out of the shower when I heard my grandmother's hysteric crying. To this day, I am reminded of that memory when I wear clothes after a shower. Weird, right?

I refused when they asked me to see his face one last time. I didn’t want to remember his dead face. I didn’t want him to become a nightmare that'll come back to haunt me.

As I saw your face that I saw through the glass door, those memories came rushing in. I stepped back and sat down at one of the chairs in the waiting room. I couldn’t bring myself to go in.

I thought of messaging you, letting you know that I was there. Then I thought of something better and got up. I walked out of the hospital and went to a nearby stationery store. When I got back to the hospital, I had a bunch of post-it notes in my hand.

I racked my brain thinking of what I should write. In the end, you know what I ended up writing. “Hello. I'm here. But I don’t think I am ready to face you just yet. Can you forgive me?”

I handed the note to the first person whom I saw going into your room.

You replied on the other side, “Actually, I don’t think I am ready to see you either. Thank you so much for coming, anyway. You didn’t need to.”

I couldn’t think of what else I should write to you. I wasn’t good with words. I didn’t know what would lift you up in a state like that. I thought long and hard until I had the perfect idea.

You gifted me with your words, and I know that you love words more than anything else.

So there I was, filling pages up with words, writing the longest letter I have ever written to you. A letter containing our memories, a tribute to our precious friendship. What kind of expression will you make when you read it? I thought about that as I kept writing. Knowing you, you'll probably laugh and cry at the same time.

One day, when you were sleeping, I actually sneaked in your room. Your hand, lying motionless, resembled mine when I was hospitalized, except they were bruised from injection marks. I was afraid to touch them because they looked so painful. I couldn’t stand there for more than a minute. I walked out holding back my tears, and let myself break down once I sat down on the waiting room chair.

That was exactly the reason why I avoided facing you. If I cried in front of you, you wouldn’t feel good at all. Knowing you, you might even try to force a smile despite your condition. I would really hate myself if you did that.

Just like you knew my secret, I knew yours too.

I learnt from your parents that you were taken abroad for treatment three years ago, and you got better…only for that damn disease to come back again.

Usually, growing up, people look up to their parents or older siblings or any dependable adults around or celebrity figures. However, I was an only child. Instead of looking up to my parents, I aspired not to be like them. Living a life with no time for myself and my family was the last thing I wanted to do with my life.

Then you came into my life.

Despite being the same age as me, you somewhat felt like an older brother figure to me, one who could help me grow.

Before I realized, I was becoming more and and more like you, like a sponge absorbing seawater. I was no longer that dense boy oblivious to my surroundings.

You were afraid of being forgotten.

Your life was short. You only ever had surface-level friendships, not wanting to get attached to anyone. You were lonely and you wanted a connection other than that with your family. You wanted someone other than your family to remember you. You longed for friendship like any other teen would. You held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, you might be able to have a normal life after all. That hope was what made you reach out to me.

Humans have this inherent tendency to leave their footprints on this world that lives on even after their death. That's why they produce offspring or make art. That's why they connect to other humans and pass their traits on. You, too, wanted to leave your footprints on this world, in your own way. With your letters and the friends that you made.

One day, I might fulfil the dreams you wanted to fulfil but couldn’t. I would walk in the corridor of the university you wanted to go to. Maybe I'd even save up enough money and attend an OOR concert, screaming along with our favourite songs. And I'd think, “You were supposed to be the one doing these, not me.”

Then maybe one day, I'd find what I really wanted to do with my life.

Mumbai’s chaotic streets were alive with the hum of honking horns and the chatter of countless voices. A city that thrived on its unrelenting pace—until the laughter started.

It began in whispers. A dissonant, cackling echo that seemed to bounce off the crumbling walls of Dharavi’s labyrinthine slums. Nobody knew where it came from. It was a sound that didn’t belong, alien yet intoxicatingly sinister. Then the bodies appeared.

In a forgotten corner of the city, a cluster of mutilated corpses was discovered by a group of schoolboys who had chased a cricket ball into an abandoned factory. Their shrieks brought the entire neighborhood running.

There they lay—five men tied to chairs in a macabre circle. Their faces were stretched in grotesque smiles, lips carved into bloody grins that extended to their ears. Eyes wide open, bulging as though frozen in eternal agony. A note pinned to the chest of the central figure read:

"Let’s put a little smile on this city. – J"

Mumbai’s chaotic streets were alive with the hum of honking horns and the chatter of countless voices. A city that thrived on its unrelenting pace—until the laughter started.

It began in whispers. A dissonant, cackling echo that seemed to bounce off the crumbling walls of Dharavi’s labyrinthine slums. Nobody knew where it came from. It was a sound that didn’t belong, alien yet intoxicatingly sinister. Then the bodies appeared.

In a forgotten corner of the city, a cluster of mutilated corpses was discovered by a group of schoolboys who had chased a cricket ball into an abandoned factory. Their shrieks brought the entire neighborhood running.

There they lay—five men tied to chairs in a macabre circle. Their faces were stretched in grotesque smiles, lips carved into bloody grins that extended to their ears. Eyes wide open, bulging as though frozen in eternal agony. A note pinned to the chest of the central figure read:

"Let’s put a little smile on this city. – J"

, the weight of the city pressed heavier than usual.

The Joker’s arrival in Mumbai was as theatrical as it was horrifying. He commandeered an entire local train, replacing its passengers with mannequins dressed in traditional Indian attire, each holding a severed human head. The train rolled into Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus at rush hour, its horn blaring a haunting rendition of Saare Jahan Se Achha. The people screamed.

And the Joker laughed.

Draped in a tattered green sherwani, his face painted like a demented Kathakali dancer, he stepped off the train. His long purple hair hung loose, blending with the blood splattered on his face. “Namaste, Mumbai!” he cried, spinning theatrically. “Your new master of ceremonies has arrived!”

He lobbed a gas canister into the crowd. Panic erupted as the vapor seeped into the air. Those who inhaled began to laugh uncontrollably, their eyes rolling back as foam frothed from their mouths. They fell one by one, lifeless.

That night, Rajan tracked him to a desolate textile mill on the outskirts of the city. The Joker had transformed it into a carnival of nightmares. Twisted metal beams were strung with garlands of intestines, and flickering oil lamps cast ghastly shadows across the walls. The air reeked of death and decay.

Rajan stepped silently through the darkness, his every sense heightened. His voice, modified through his cowl, was low and commanding. “Joker.”

From the shadows, the Joker’s laughter erupted, echoing like a maniacal symphony. He emerged, twirling a cane tipped with a razor-sharp blade. “Ah, the great Rakshak! Mumbai’s very own cowled crusader. I was hoping we’d meet.”

The Joker’s movements were erratic, his gaze shifting unpredictably. “You know, there’s something about this city. The chaos, the noise, the... madness. It’s beautiful. It deserves someone who understands it.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Rajan growled, stepping closer.

The Joker’s grin widened. “Oh, but I do. I understand that you’re too late.” He snapped his fingers. Suddenly, a group of kidnapped children, their mouths gagged and their tiny bodies strapped with explosives, stumbled into view. A timer on their vests began to tick.

Rajan’s heart pounded. He activated his gauntlet, scanning the explosives. The timer read 60 seconds. His mind raced. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, trying to buy time.

“Because it’s FUN!” the Joker shrieked, throwing his head back. “Look at you—scrambling to save them, sweating under that fancy suit. You think you’re their savior? No. You’re just a puppet dancing on strings I control.”

Rajan dove into action. His grappling hook fired, pulling one child toward him. He swiftly disabled the explosives with a device on his belt. Thirty seconds. He moved to the second child, his hands steady despite the chaos.

The Joker watched with fascination, clapping mockingly. “Tick-tock, Rakshak! The clock’s running out!”

With a final, desperate leap, Rajan grabbed the last child. The timer hit zero. A deafening explosion tore through the mill, but Rajan had shielded the child with his body. He groaned in pain as shrapnel pierced his armor.

When the smoke cleared, the Joker stood over him, his cane poised to strike. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he said, leaning close. “But persistence doesn’t win. Madness does.”

Rajan, bloodied but defiant, activated his gauntlet. A surge of electricity coursed through the Joker, sending him sprawling. Rajan rose, his voice like thunder. “You underestimate Mumbai. It doesn’t need a savior—it has me.”

Their battle raged through the night, a brutal dance of fists, blades, and wits. In the end, Rajan outmaneuvered the Joker, pinning him to the ground with a reinforced net.

“You think you’ve won?” the Joker spat, his grin unbroken. “I’m not a man. I’m an idea. And ideas... don’t die.”

Rajan knelt, his eyes piercing through the cowl. “Neither does justice.”

The Joker was handed over to the authorities, but Rajan knew this was far from over. As the first rays of dawn broke over the city, he stood atop the Gateway of India, watching over Mumbai. The laughter had faded, but its echoes remained—a reminder of the darkness he would always fight to keep at bay.

It always feels like a movie whenever we talk with him, nobody sees him or feel about him like us friends, even tonight he will be the one starting our conversation,

"I.. I don't really remember my name anymore, I don't remember my family nor do I remember where I was born or was I even born once."

Said a distant melancholic voice, glowing, white, translucent being. It continued to convey it's sorrow to us ignorant spectators, who are not interested in this melancholy.

"All I remember is that when I was alive I always thought that after death we either go to heaven or hell depending on what we did in our life. But now I have to remain in the world of living invisible to living and visible to idiots like you and to the souls."

It seemed like it was going to cry but then it turned around maybe thinking if it can even cry anymore or not. Someone muttered in our group, how is it to remain like this, while others like me only glared at the person who has asked this.

The entity started to reply making it look like he was going to convey it anyway,

"Well it's also kind of hell, I have to see my family cry for my loss, I have to see my daughter cry for me, my wife look sad even after applying ton of makeup. I don't remember their face or name, but I remember my daughter's small tender hands and my wife's warm embrace."

This made many of us have tears but still there were many heartless people like me, but this thing wasn't interested in us and said,

"I try to help them but I can't, I feel helpless."

As the entity’s voice faded, we sat there in silence, the weight of its words hanging heavy in the room. Then, someone broke the spell...,

"Man we should stop drinking and return to our family, and all of you crying please stop crying it's just a movie monologue that you have been seeing for like an hour now."

After hearing that one of the guys who had their eyes filled with tears said,

"Oh yeah, thanks buddy. Whenever we see this scene we always end up like this."

After that another asked "Hey Michael do you remember the name of this movie. My wife think I cheat on her as we all stay late every night so, tell me the name and I will rent it to watch with her."

The one named Michael answered while wipping his tears off, "Well it's called 'Ghost and I'. you can take the CD that I have. Your wife will understand you after seeing this scene."

And with that we all returned to earth, drank some water and packed our thing, turned the lights and T.V. off and closed our club to return to our home.

The music is ambient, the lights are low. Scraping chairs fall into the beat of the soft jazz; the receipt emerging from the till yet another piece of percussion. I am sat with a laptop- the quintessential 21st century person.

Facing the entrance, I have seen every person who's entered the bottle shop since me. People come in alone, looking harried. Some come in unlikely partnerships whilst others look perfect for one another.

An email pings: something is expected from me. I type and click, my brain whirring. Productivity is a noble goal. I am excited for the buzz I'll feel when I achieve something, anything.

Breathing deeply, I press 'send' and take in the scent of frying ingredients, a real mix of vegetables and carbs. The door opens once more, a light December breeze aerating the space.

I am used to many things, having moved to Los Angeles, where anything seems to go. That doesn't stop a small gasp escaping my throat when this tall, mustachioed man enters, a firecracker scent reaching me from even meters away.

The barista audibly sighs, assessing the queue and balancing the lesser of two evils. He scurries from behind the bar, grasping the sleeved arm of the new presence. "The restrooms are this way," he scolds, the two men moving in tandem out of my view. A woman in the queue with a crop is already drafting her poor Google review.

Before he rounds the corner, the man catches my eye. A singular jet-black curl peeks from beneath a worn green cap. With a short wave of his wrench, he manages to connect with me for a mere second. Then, he's gone.

I recommence my tapping, waiting eagerly for the plumber to re-emerge. The barista clears the queue, again and again, as it goes from a matcha latte crowd to a local IPA crowd. The sun crests the building opposite.

Sounds of a garbage disposal sink system being pushed to its absolute mechanical limits can be heard from every room in the apartment; the floors above and below it wake up to the grinding metal shards bumper car'ing into one another.

Something about letting them all swarm and fight over the fridges molded leftovers over night,

then getting the privilege of waking up to the garbage disposal being so flooded with those little cockroach mother fuckers that I can't even elbow grease another single solitary wing down into the magic hole until death rattling the load that's in there with the warm water running for a bit loosens things up.

Me and these coacsuckers have been at war ever since they moved in rent free (trying to state squatters rights or some shit like we live in a vacationing state where winter only comes after a nuke fails to kill their shelly asses)

Guess what?

"It ain't gonna take me a nuke to get rid of every last one of yous!"

The slumlord did one good thing when piling up this shit shack, concrete walls. No need for a gym just gonna bob n cleave these micro-bastards til my knuckles swell enough to have a mind of their own and tell me what to do next.

This place has become a super-highway and I don't intend on opening any more rest stops.

I flush em. The long wait afterword angers the survivors and the flying ones bounce around the closed lid

like some coked up genies with a dwindling supply.

I had a tub. I left a rather ripe post workout marinade film on the bottom that I added a full bear of honey to.

Once the white'ish porcelain turned to a blackout layers deep, my imperfectly measured homemade pool cover got placed over the top and I use this flesh n bone concoction God gave me to press the pool cover down and juice these coacs until the crunching stops.

I leave the last shovels worth in there to preserve in the clear dog shit bags to have fresh ready for Slumlord when he decides to show up Monday, or Tuesday. His door knob is shaped like half a heart and is perfect for tying bags of presents to especially if you just use the bottom to stab things through so their just barley not ripping apart while dripping through little by little on these hot humid heat waves.

The son of a bitch has no heart on the other side of that door! A genocide happening on his own species under his very roof & all he does is toss the bags out the window that soon enough will be too full of all us resident's gifts and will obstruct his perfect Emperial view of the Alleys many Bum Fights that we've fixed and pay me and a few neighbor's rent from a very mild Vig.

19 Yrs. Old.

Raid Walker

Power: Four Clover, a weak little power for a weak spindly armed gofer.

Or so said the only doctor Mama could take him to, whom had no reason for pretense or "bedside manner." Given that the man served criminals and any person too poor to pay the fees, blackmailing the second sort until they were just as dirty as the border patrol men who commandeered the bars and the women at night, their uniforms caked in sandstorm dirt and body odor, committing all kinds of acts from thievery to bootlegging to dealing. To killing and to demeaning, to threatening and to burning.

What Mama burned on Friday nights in a long silk gown and her own Mama's old wedding veil in the almost satanic ritual fashion, was absolutely none of his business. No matter how it stank.

With a shuddering breath, tears running down her face, Patricia prayed.

She silently asked that whatever God existed here-- if he or she or it had not abandoned this place altogether-- that white haired, pale red eyed [___] Walker forgave her.

With quick and now very accustomed hands did she strike a match and set it to a tiny candle wick.

And with her hand let the flame caress the corners of the page, of all the loose papers until they burned into ash on the writing desk he'd fished out for her so many months ago.

When he had finally smiled at her with the corners of his eyes crinkled.

___________________________________________

Raid knew this 'New West' fad the Others called it. Those rich folks outside the country.

While Raid knew it the way all the young people knew it. Not that he'd exactly be welcome among the "little maggots" anymore.

Anyone who survived to age out knew to run whenever you felt the slightest brush of an adult's shadow.

Because to actually live you had to be evil.

This country which was Baron's Coffer. What the mob man who had first struck bloody, iron colored order into the roasting sands and the screaming corpses fancied himself.

The Baron. Rich and opulent. Greedy and obnoxious in voice and of the size of his flintlock.

And no, no man knew the size of that. And besides, it was more of a glock. Very different guns.

Adults in Coffer were evil. A hideous, rotted bushel of fruit. Fruit.

Never seen what they actually looked like.

It was a rare photo that wasn't penciled over or written with crude sex-talking or threats of a mind that's snapped.

At the moment, Raid kept a stool on the bar counter warm. For an adult, Mama's coworker Hick Saw Hort was a steady presence who glanced past Raid as if he were an oddly large speck of dust but nothing more.

And let him nurse-- never drink-- an amber swig of the foul water from the faucet while he waited for Mama on her shift.

She had the tough job of actually manning the distillery and making repairs where necessary at a given moment.

Raid put his head down, eyes roving lazy toward a bushel of overweight, overindulging men in their blue work shirts acid washed and faded in filth.

His face contorted into a disgusted growl, the corners of his vision from his slanted view-- they steadily darkened.

Sly little wafts of vaguely violet shadows... pulsing.

And he let them.

One of the men had warts on his face, shocking white blond hair that didn't match his head's prune color on the backs of his hands and laughed like a pig.

Another had a complexion like wax and as he held his hand, his palms slowly, muddily began to drip.

A couple he could recognize by their freckles and jutting rabbit's teeth respectively.

Palomonio who lived on the loft below himself and Mama, who for every odd blue moon a month dragged bags of pilfered guard clothes and confiscated rifles and drugs, from the time Raid had been just seven years old. And Palomonio had always favored a finger gun to blow his little brains out than a bribe to keep him quiet.

He had once found a note in the eggs.

About Mama's big, curly hair.

How he'd run his hands through it, savor the feeling, almost sorry-- that he'd have to kill her.

And the rabbit teeth, once one of the "maggots," not too long ago. But turned just as brusque and cold as any pair of hands once he turned sixteen and began working with a "backdoor," charity doctor. The one who was so kind as to see clients without coin or collateral besides their own kids.

And the doctor didn't accept that.

Pig's stool broke, three out of three weak legs snapped clean in two making him land in a porking heap.

His "friends" rushed-- probably to see which sleaze could ingratiate himself by taking him to the hospital.

White hair moaned as his back quite suddenly gave out. And at the same time a small frame fell upon that same spot.

A waitress had passed by, only to jostle Raid's stool as she blundered and ultimately crashed.

Half a dozen glasses of mead and beer with a cockroach in one glass soaked into her uniform and the tile.

Ripping Raid out of his reverie and snapping reality back to what it should be.

Save... eight separate incidents and at least five injuries that could lead to demanding a free this or that or stoning the building.

There was fire in Hort's eyes as he helped the girl whose pearly tears shone in her eyes. Even against the truly grimy dins of light in the bar.

Raid simply tried not to gaze at her too long.

Until the cockroach in the glass turned out to be alive and crawled across her face.

Prompting a scream to cut down the ugly laughter at all sides of the building. The waitress running in a panic out the door. The slam making Raid flinch.

**************************************

Raid was kicked out. Quite literally kicked out once Hack Saw put him down, kicking him and shouting expletives as he rained and extra one or two thwacks with his oddly polished shoe.

Well, that was probably a concern wasn't it?

Raid would be likely to be finding more little notes within his shoes or with his Mama on her way back.

Should the new proprietors be so merciful to allow her back to him safely. Not-- without recompense and restitution for the newly respectful establishment worthy of The Baron and his other fellows.

Raid continued down the winding paths and down, down a hellish looking chasm by a rickety stairwell.

Into a commune of just eight disparate little cottages and a relatively-- desolate-- almost gated neighborhood. At least, it's what the Baron's closest boasted and is what patrol guards would often throw in their faces during shifts.

Getting back to their blond and chubby cheeked little kids and their little wives who made snickerdoodles or something.

Raid watched as Ms. Hodden's little toddler-- toddled-- into the corner of the boulevard by its butt.

Whether that was sweet or something sexual, Raid had to admit he was vaguely curious.

Hands smacking on the hard ground and slight protruding stones on the ground. Raid called it-- he called it Toddy-- better than just "you" or thing-- even if it smelled like a swamp ooze on most days.

Around here that sort of thing was 'pleasant heat.' Dirty and sweaty as heat still is but at least the throbbing wasn't just from sun.

Or maybe, per usual, the adults were lying again. The 'teachers' or "priests," who deigned to impart wisdom on the maggots often had this...

<Look>

Some greedy, voracious, and hungry bug-out of their eyes when casing their powers, their freakish features--

Which Raid knew now was the cruel, blade's edged wonderment of what they could produce when paired off and the like. What manner of powers and hybrids could they weaponize and how to violate them to doing so.

Some little girls dared prance about and make noise.

The one most behind with cheetah spots-- stretched skin and jaundiced eyes too large and too-- too round like marbles, pushed her friends forward. And so did her friend in third place.

He wished them well.

So much like they snared kids in to listen in the first place.

Sometimes there are polls.

Needed to have something to do after all--

And in one, of all the adults and-- all the older adults who get a vote half do agree: the ones who snap and do themselves in might have the right idea. Surely anything, even the supposed condemnation for "weakness," had to be better than being some blowhard with compensation issues' bitch.

Coming to the hostel where his Mama did also have a paying job allowing them to live in the place, Raid peered in-- the little old lady was out.

And he didn't feel like having a sharply carved cane sharply smack him to the floor and pointed to his vulnerable throat.

Even as the door lazed open under his weak touch-- another little bit of "luck."

Raid booked it and went the side way.

Where high boxes were stacked in an adjacent building.

In his pouch he always had a scrap of fabric to serve as a blindfold.

Having tried so many times Raid could safely say there was a degree of-- trust, involved.

Just the notion made him cringe.

Then again, Raid wasn't sure yet-- whether he wanted to live out and eventually shrivel up into a son baked raisin and be ashed.

Unless he possibly had a chance to find out just in what building in this minute country they did that in. When every singular building here was ramshackle, uneven, and even cute for their small size.

Hiking laboriously over he could feel out when the air got that certain degree of sting at his face to make the jump, fingers <luckily> clinging onto the flat roof.

Of which he ripped the blindfold off and carefully lowered a foot first to unhook his window latch and then climbed in once he had gotten it open.

The old lady, for all her threats to kill either dead weight (him) or the girls who pocket extra currency for themselves treated them good, having given Mama with a newly born baby the only room with a window and therefore ventilation.

Raid slowly closed the window, but uneasy pins and needles rand across his shoulders and back when he heard a clatter.

He paused his breath-- waiting--

CAWW CAW CAWW.

Raid winced at the choked out sound.

And then--

SSCRITCH SSCRAATCH

Moji's complaining pitter patter on the door.

Raid made for the added bathroom which was just a broken ceramic toilet with rusted pipes and what was either neon green tequilas thrown up or some type of chemical across its surface and a bathtub equally inoperable. But at least inhabitable for a dog, a cat, and occasionally an oppossum.

Swinging open the door all of fifteen animals scampered out, nearly bringing him to the floor and made ownership of the rest of the little house.

He wondered how much of a tease he'd have to give the old woman to make her forget why she was mad.

"Sir?" asked the head elf, Pippy Punkrocking.

"Yes, Pippy?" answered Santa.

"Sir, it’s about our NICE list. Last month someone from the NAUGHTY list was transferred over to it. I don’t remember authorizing that." Pippy held a tightly rolled-up scroll. Santa waved his fingers, indicating Pippy should let it roll open, spilling out onto the floor, which it did.

"Who?" Santa asked.

"Here, sir," the elf pointed out.

"Donald...J...Trump," Santa read slowly and deliberately. "Oh, that was me. I made the transfer.”

Pippy frowned, which if it were to continue for too long, could be life-threatening to him, as an elf.

“So what?” Santa argued. “What's the problem? I made the switch. I put him on. Don’t I get to vote?"

"Sir, you rigged it. He's naughty, not nice."

"That’s a matter of opinion, don’t you think? The people thought otherwise. And consider, Pippy, what it takes to be a leader. Some see naughtiness as leadership. You can't lead nations without being stern—even mean sometimes. You've gotta make tough choices. It’s hard. The free world is too important to leave it to someone nice."

"Well, sir, then, leave him on the NAUGHTY list, where belongs.”

“Oh, Pippy, you tricked me with our sharp-tongued little elven doubletalk. No, he’s naughty but, by our standards, he’s nice and stays on the NICE list.”

“But it's his choices that put him on the NAUGHTY list. Where do I even start?"

"You don't, you little Democrat runt!" Pippy's mouth dropped open in disbelief. The frown had only been the beginning; he felt pressure in his chest and began to feel faint. He had never seen Santa like that. He began to cry.

"There, there," Santa cooed, attempting to assuage him. "You have to be a little naughty to send out Seal Team 6, right? Or change regimes, right? Everyone thought Obama was nice, but he did some very naughty things, it turned out. Y'know, Pippy, I've never been elected anything. I'm Santa, because...well...just because."

"Because you're St. Nick! And Jolly. Jolly St. Nick. You're a saint, for goodness’ sake! You don't need to be elected.” Pippy clutched his chest and rubbed his left arm. “But Santa, what you just did wasn’t jolly or saintly. Not at all. It was naughty!"

Santa's assuaging countenance stiffened, becoming severe, even angry. He had a very dark moment.

"What did you just say?" he seethed.

"Oh! Oh! I didn't say you were naughty. Just what you did."

"You want I should put myself on that NAUGHTY list, do you?" Pippy was beside himself. He coughed on his sleeve and saw specks of blood. The animus in the room began to melt the snow outside the door, and some water began slipping over the threshold.

"Of course not, Santa. You? On the NAUGHTY list? Hahahahahahahaha! Never! But him? It's a mistake putting him on the NICE list. A big mistake."

"Not really. I’ve gotten a lot of letters from children asking for their very own Chia®Donald Trumps. And they’re asking me to bring their Dads Trump coins and watches and their Moms a Crystal Trump 2024 Memorabilia Lapel Brooch. I can’t break the hearts of over half the parents’ children out there."

"But," the elf said, "I think it is a mistake. I mean, there's a whole list of things that he's—"

"Pippy, Pippy," Santa cajoled him. "Do you think anyone's above forgiveness? Republicans? Democrats? Pyromaniacs? Remember little Jimmy Nubbins? Set his sister on fire but was really sorry after. Remember?"

“Yes…I remember.”

"Remember the uproar at the list-assignment conclave when half you little guys thought he should stay on the NAUGHTY list? And what did you say? Remember?"

"Yes, Santa..." Pippy answered, swinging a loose foot back and forth.

"You said, 'Don't judge someone by their past…but by the promise of their future.' Your eyes even teared up when you said that."

"I guess so..."

“And you said, ‘Give the little misunderstood tyke another chance. Was it really his fault? Is anything really anyone’s fault anymore?’”

“I suppose…”

“So moving, Pippy. And remember you said, ‘Aren’t we better than this? The NAUGHTY list is written in pencil for a reason. Have we forgotten what erasers are for? Things change. People change. And even if they don’t, who are we to judge? We’re not walking in their official Donald Trump footwear! We don’t know what can make someone choose anything on the spur of the moment. Inclusion means everybody.’ And, ‘Who are we to judge? Give ‘im another chance’—well said! You were such a persuasive and woke little elf—so persuasive that little Jimmy ended up on the NICE list again. He got that PlayStation 5 Pro last Christmas morning, along with his sister getting those finger extension splints. So, waddaya say now about Mr. Trump?"

"Pardon him?"

"Oh, no-no-no-Ho-Ho-Ho! He doesn't need me for that.”

“A nice fruit cake, then? Or better yet—the annual subscription—a new fruit cake arriving every month!"

“That’s the elf I know! Now, off wit’ ya, Pippy. Those Chia pets aren’t gonna grow green hair by themselves!”

Her name was Rachel. She worked for an e-commerce company & had the most important job of all(at least that's how it seemed to her.) She wrapped the items intended as gifts.

Her hands lovingly folded and taped each corner, expertly tied each bow. She gave it her best no matter how bizarre the item or how mundane.

Slowly the company became more and more automated. Robots did most of the work now and flesh & blood employees disappeared. "Not me," Rachel thought. "They can't take my job it needs a human touch. It requires a caring soul and these machines don't have that!"

That proved to be true at least for a while. Ultimately though one day she was called into to talk with the boss. He was a firm man but not unkind. It was with no trace of enthusiasm that he informed her that the soulless, mechanical, bipedal things with bland, prerecorded phrases would be taking her place now.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Rachel. I held off as long as I could but this is from the top down. Honestly I'm surprised they haven't automated me yet."

So two days before Christmas, her favorite time to wrap gifts Rachel left work as the latest casualty of futuristic innovation.

It began to snow fiercely as she walked dejected past the honey yellow shop windows with their yuletide displays. The streets were practically deserted and she felt alone. One of those new fangled police cars that looked like a oversized tent peg stopped beside her. The door raised like a dolphin waving good bye with its fine. "Ma'am," said the husky voice beneath the tactical helmet,"There’s a major winter storm coming. I must advise you to go home and stay indoors until the all clear is given."

"Yes home. That's what I shall do, go home."

The storm was as ferocious as twenty-three starving lions. The winds howled like lost souls & blotted out the scenery with snow. The next day a body was found in the park. It was a woman and in her frost bitten fist she clutched something. "That's peculiar, mused the rescue worker. It's a scrap of wrapping paper."

I was born in the video game world. Both my parents (as well as their parents) were behind the scenes NPCs. But they never felt they weren’t important. They took pride in the roles they were designed for and instilled this sense of self-worth in me.

By the tender age of 10, I was helping my mom with her real estate business. I did odds and ends around the office, tidying up and reading the occasional telegram. She sold homesteads along the Oregon Trail. From my 16-bit perspective, it was an exciting field filled with intrigue and adventure. Trying to make a difference for hard-working people looking for a better life out West, she considered herself the facilitator of dreams.

As an independent contractor, my mom never let on the struggles she, and of course, her clients, faced. She’d invest hours analyzing the ever-changing maps and charts to find the perfect location that hadn’t already had a claim staked against it. She accurately filled out the cross-state paperwork in triplicate, making sure all pertinent documentation was ready before the afternoon’s Pony Express departed. She was meticulous when it came to synchronizing the time, date and location the parties involved in the closing were to meet.

Unfortunately, after all the details were finalized, a potential homeowner would more often than not die from dysentery before even crossing Wyoming. Heartbreaking on all fronts. Usually, the remaining members of the grieving family would give up hope, divert to the south and settle in Salt Lake City or Boulder. My mom was not licensed in either location. So, all that work and energy she put in was for nothing. If your income is solely derived from commission, deals that fall through make for anemic paychecks. But my mom persevered with a programmed smile on her face.

So, I was destined to follow in my parents’ footsteps. When old enough, I set out on my own with the intent of being part of something big. It’s scary in the world of graphics. But life was good in 1981. Optimism was giving the country a big, warm embrace. America was prospering under President Reagan’s “Trickle-Down Economics” policies.

I understand that for others to advance, a consistent supply of inventory is necessary for the true players to triumph in their respective quests. I recognized this broad niche and decided to fill some portion of it so I could take a big terabyte of the profit pie topped with a heaping scoop of capitalist ice cream. My question was, “What void can I fill?” Deep down I knew when I got this answer, I’d be on the way.

While waiting in line at craft services one afternoon, I listened as a spunky Italian in front of me commiserated with other players. Seems he’s currently in a protracted battle with a gorilla named Donkey Kong, or DK as he was known in the gaming community. Apparently, DK is a thorn in the side of this plumber, Mario, and his girl, Pauline, by trying to keep Mario at bay and having Pauline all to himself.

Mario, in passing, mentioned he wished he had better wooden mallets to smash the barrels constantly being tossed at him. The ones he wields now are too heavy. Hearing this, a serendipitous lightbulb flicks on in my head. Without hesitation, I interrupt, “Wooden mallets you say. I can get you wooden mallets. My mother knows where the clear cutting of vast tracks of land out west is being done. She can get lumber. My father’s the foreman at the bat manufacturing company for Intellivision’s Major League Baseball game. Together, we can make you mallets.”

“Thatza great. Howza big can yous maka them?” “As big as you.” “Whatta kinda wood ya gonna uza?” “Ash, of course,” I state with confidence. “Oy, mamma mia, Imma in,” Mario replies. I was now on the way.

Selling wooden mallets that haven’t been produced yet to a stranger in blue overalls that’s being harassed by a barrel-tossing monkey was not the path I thought I’d ever take. But sometimes the path you’re on is really an exit ramp to bigger things. I jumped at the opportunity knowing things will work out in the end. So that’s the start of my relationship with Mario and the inception of my company: Mallets, Mallets, Mallets.

I didn’t realize how huge a client Mario would become and how many mallets were needed for all his games. After a quick learning curve, my small company managed to keep up with the demand and we forged a solid working partnership.

“Yup,” was the curt response he gave when I asked my brother if he would like to make a lot of money. I noticed that DK would go through a 100 times more barrels during a game than Mario did with mallets. This was an untapped market. But my moral compass points North. I didn’t feel it was right to sell DK barrels that would be destroyed by mallets I sold to Mario. It came off as a conflict of interest. But with my brother’s experience repairing wagon wheels for my mom’s players, it was an easy transition for him to lead the newly formed business: Barrels, Barrels, Barrels. And my compass only deviated a couple of degrees.

Our cousin came on board to supply the oil and fire for the burning drum. She was a borderline arson who ultimately worked on the pyrotechnics involved with the Adamant Flame from Street Fighter. She was also a wiz regarding regulations and overcame the minor speedbump when the embargo kicked in and oil prices shot through the roof. Being resourceful while stretching the law regarding imports, she formed a shell corporation in the Bahamas to avoid the tariffs. This kept production costs from ballooning and the money poured into our coffers. All was well in the world. But a healthy stream of revenue means the inevitable unhealthy flood of drama.

First, Mario’s brother, Luigi, got into some legal trouble with the Feds after overstaying his work visa. The bilingual, human rights attorney who took the case and was smart enough to get the charges dismissed while securing a green card for Luigi came with a hefty price. Those billable hours depleted a large chunk of the brother’s retirement savings.

Pauline wanted to start a family, but Mario got into professional go cart racing. He met Princess Peach in late 1984 at the Monaco Grand Prix and that was the beginning of the end for his relationship with Pauline. As someone who was always the “damsel in distress,” I was surprised when she got a cutthroat attorney. Although they were never married, her barrister convinced the jury that she was Mario’s common-law wife. Without a prenup, Mario was on the hook for half his net worth. That’s a whole lot of quarters. Last I heard she was married to a programmer and residing in Los Gatos.

PETA got involved by filing a cease-and-desist letter citing that DK was subjected to animal abuse and inhumane conditions. When PETA disregarded DK’s multiple restraining orders, their letter was withdrawn.

The International Association of Bridge, Structural, Ornamental and Reinforcing Iron Workers, Local 605 started raising a stink over the use of non-union labor for rebuilding the trusses Mario destroyed while climbing to save Pauline. Greasing the teamsters’ palms wasn’t cheap.

Then Mario got into an extended contractional dispute over licensing residuals with Nintendo. He was looking to parlay his joy of driving carts into a full-time gig with his brother and thought he should be properly compensated. Nintendo countered that Mario’s licensing fee covered all future endeavors. In the end, Mario got a physician to deem his knees arthritic and climbing ladders was counterintuitive to Mario’s long-term health. Both sides agreed to a court-sealed settlement. Personally, I think climbing ladders reminded Mario of Pauline and brought up painful memories of what was and what could have been.

By then, there was scuttlebutt circulating that my job was one of many in consideration for being outsourced to a third-party vendor in Mumbai. I saw the writing on the wall and went my own way. It was a good run. But as with any successful venture, there’s popularity. And popularity leads to incrementally higher levels of fame. Fame always begets money, which ultimately ushers in stress-headaches. I was too young to have stress-headaches. After spending some time as the exclusive pizza caterer to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I left the video game world for good. We all outgrow our comfort zones. I stayed in technology though. Now I service bitcoin vending machines.

Since I was never a marquee name, I don’t get invited to any Comic Cons or asked to join gamer podcasts. That’s okay, I welcome the freedom anonymity brings. I can reminisce about the good old days, painting memories with broad brushstrokes of biased nostalgia. And can do it without being worried that I’m going to get hit with a barrel. Or unplugged.

The sand feels different today. I run it through my fingers, counting each grain as it falls, though I know that's impossible. One, two, three—the rest blur together like static. The morning fog hasn't burned off yet, and the pier stretches into nothing, its endpoint lost in gray.

I've been here six hours. Or maybe twenty minutes. Time moves differently when you're counting sand.

"Ma'am?" A voice breaks through. Police, probably. They always come eventually. "Are you alright?"

I don't look up. Can't look up. There's work to be done. "I'm organizing," I tell him, my voice raw from the salt air. "Each pile needs exactly one thousand grains. It's important to be precise."

His shadow falls across my workspace, disrupting the careful patterns I've drawn in the sand. Concentric circles, each smaller than the last, spiraling inward toward some truth I can't quite grasp. Yesterday there were seventeen circles. Today I count twenty-three. Tomorrow there might be none.

"Dr. Garcia called us," he says gently. "She's worried about you. You missed your last three appointments."

A laugh bubbles up, salty-bitter as seaweed. "Dr. Garcia doesn't understand. I'm conducting an experiment." My fingers tremble as I separate another small pile. "If you remove one memory at a time, at what point do you stop being yourself?"

The tide is coming in. I feel it in my bones, that slow creep of water. Soon it will wash away my work, like it does every day. Like it has every day since Mason—

No. Don't think about Mason. Don't think about the pier, or the fog, or why you know exactly how long it takes a body to—

"Five hundred ninety-eight, five hundred ninety-nine..." My voice cracks. "I lost count. I have to start over."

The officer crouches beside me. Through my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of his nameplate: Officer Collins. He was here yesterday too, though he's pretending this is our first meeting. They all pretend.

"How about we get you somewhere warm?" he suggests. "The fog's getting thicker."

"You don't understand," I whisper, my fingers cramping as I scrape together another pile. "If I can just figure out the exact number—if I can find the precise point where a heap becomes not a heap, where a person becomes not a person—then maybe I can work backwards. Maybe I can find the grain of sand that changed everything. The moment before it all went wrong."

A wave crashes closer, sending spray across my carefully ordered piles. The salt mingles with something warm on my cheeks. When did I start crying?

"One grain at a time," I murmur, more to myself than Officer Collins. "That's all it takes. One grain, and then another, and another, until suddenly your heap is gone. Until suddenly you're gone. But if you can count them—if you can keep track—maybe you can put them back in the right order. Maybe you can rebuild..."

The fog swallows the rest of my words. In the distance, a siren wails, or maybe it's just the foghorn. These days, I can't always tell the difference between warning sounds.

-----

Dr. Garcia's office smells like lavender and lies. She thinks she's clever, using aromatherapy to mark the passage of time—lavender on Mondays, sage on Wednesdays, eucalyptus on Fridays. As if temporal anchors could stop the slipping.

"You're agitated today," she observes, pen hovering above her notepad. Three months ago, she used blue ink. Two months ago, black. Today it's red, like warning signs, like blood in water.

"I made progress," I tell her, watching dust motes drift in the afternoon light. Each speck a tiny universe, falling. "I reached six hundred grains yesterday before Officer Collins interrupted. That's eighteen more than my previous record."

She doesn't look up from her notepad. "And how many times have you met Officer Collins?"

"Once," I say automatically. Then: "No, three times. Or—" The certainty crumbles like wet sand between my fingers. "He pretends it's always the first time. They all pretend."

"Who pretends?"

"Everyone. The officers. The lifeguards. The man who sells ice cream by the pier." My hands twist in my lap. "Even Mason pretends, when I see him in the fog."

The scratching of her pen stops. In the silence, I hear the clock on her wall ticking. One second, two seconds, three—how many seconds before a lifetime becomes a life sentence?

"We've talked about Mason," she says carefully, each word measured, weighed, precise. "About what happened on the pier."

"Nothing happened on the pier." The words taste like salt. "Nothing happens. Nothing is happening. Nothing will happen. Time is just grammar."

She sets down her pen. Red ink bleeds into white paper. "You were there when they found him."

"I found a shell that morning," I say, the memory suddenly sharp as broken glass. "Perfect spiral. Mathematical precision. The Fibonacci sequence made manifest in calcium carbonate. I was going to show him, explain how nature builds itself in predictable patterns, how even chaos has underlying order, but—"

My fingers trace spirals on the arm of the chair. One rotation, two, three...

"But?"

"The shell disappeared. Like the sand castles. Like Mason. Like everything, eventually. Entropy in action." I look up at her window, where fog is creeping in despite the afternoon sun. "Did you know that beach sand moves? Littoral drift. Constant motion. What you touch in one moment is gone the next. The beach you stand on today isn't the same beach as yesterday."

"Is that why you count the grains? To hold onto something constant?"

A laugh escapes, hollow as a seashell. "I count to find the edge. The boundary. If you remove one grain of sanity, are you still sane? Two grains? Three? Where's the line, Doctor? When does a person become a patient? A mother become a mourner? A witness become a—"

I stop. The fog is pressing against the windows now, impossible for this time of day, this time of year. Through its gray veil, I see a familiar silhouette on the pier.

"He's out there," I whisper, reaching toward the window, fingers grabbing empty air. "On the pier right now. All I have to do is count backwards, find the right number, the exact moment—"

"There is no pier outside my window," Dr. Garcia says softly. "We're three miles inland."

I blink. She's right. The window shows only a parking lot, sun-baked and solid. No fog. No pier. No Mason.

"I need to go," I say, standing. My legs shake like sand castles in rising tide. "The beach changes with every wave. If I don't get back soon, I'll lose count. Have to start over. Have to—"

"Please sit." Her voice has an edge now, sharp as shells, as broken promises. "We're not done."

But I'm already at the door, fingers reaching for the handle. I step into the hallway. The cold lights flicker—one, two, three…

-----

The sun is setting now, or rising. The fog makes it hard to tell, turning everything the color of old memories. I've arranged three hundred and forty-seven piles of sand, each containing exactly one thousand grains. Or maybe it's seven hundred and twelve piles of three hundred and forty-seven grains. The numbers swim like fish beneath the surface.

Officer Collins sits beside me now, no longer pretending this is our first meeting. His radio crackles with static that sounds like waves breaking.

"Tell me about the shell," he says.

My hands keep moving, sorting, counting. "Fibonacci. Perfect spiral. Mathematical certainty in an uncertain universe." A grain slips through my fingers. "Mason would have understood. He was brilliant at math, did I tell you? Sixth grade, but already taking pre-algebra. He could see patterns everywhere. Even in chaos. Especially in chaos."

"Wiser than his years." His voice is gentle. Like the fog. Like Mason's was, before. "What happened after you found it?"

"He was angry about the phone." The words come easier now, worn smooth like sea glass. "Such a small thing. A stupid thing. One week without it, that's all. His grades were slipping. He needed to focus. I thought the beach would help him find his peace, like it always had before. If I had just... if I had waited one more day, let him keep it one more day..."

My fingers stop moving. A thousand grains of sand cascade into nothing.

"You couldn't have known," Officer Collins says.

"There was a pattern," I insist. "In his behavior. In his moods. In the way he stormed out, slammed the door. The way he ran—" My voice cracks like a shell under pressure. "I counted the seconds before I followed. One, two, three... sixty-seven. Sixty-seven seconds between his door and mine. Between his footsteps and mine. Between mother and—"

"That wasn't your fault."

"But where's the line?" The words tumble out like tide rushing in. "How many seconds of anger before discipline becomes cruelty? How many moments of rebellion before attention-seeking becomes... If you remove one word of the argument, then another, then another, at what point does a mother's caution become a child's last—"

"Stop." His hand hovers near my shoulder but doesn't touch. "The investigators were clear. The railing was wet from the fog. When he turned around to come back—"

"No." I pull away, start a new pile. "That's not—I need to count. Need to find the right number. If I can just figure out how many grains make a heap, how many moments make a childhood, how many breaths between defiance and regret, between standing and falling, between his laugh and his—"

The fog shifts, and suddenly Mason is there, at the end of the pier. Twelve years old forever, balancing on the upper rail, turning back with that look—half-anger, half-fear, whole child. "Mom," he says, or maybe it's just the wind. "Mom, I didn't mean—"

"Do you see him?" I whisper.

Officer Collins follows my gaze. "I see fog," he says softly.

"He's trying to tell me something. He's always trying to tell me something." My voice sounds far away, like shouting underwater. "But I can't... the numbers keep changing. The grains keep shifting. Yesterday I was sure it was one thousand grains. Today it might be three. Tomorrow..."

A wave crashes against the pier's pylons. When the spray clears, Mason is gone. Like always. Like everything.

"Come on," Officer Collins says, standing. He offers his hand. "The tide's coming in."

I look down at my piles. The neat circles I've spent hours creating are already disappearing, erased by wind and water. Tomorrow I'll make new ones. Tomorrow I'll count again. Tomorrow I'll find the right number, the perfect equation, the exact point where everything changed. Where a mother's discipline became a child's rebellion became an empty bedroom with a phone still charging on the nightstand.

Or maybe I won't. Maybe that's the real paradox—not how many grains make a heap, but how many times you can watch it disappear before you accept that some questions don't have answers. Some patterns exist only in the spaces between "I love you" and "I'm sorry."

I take his hand. Let him pull me up. My feet leave perfect prints in the wet sand as we walk away from the pier.

Behind us, the fog swallows everything—the piles, the patterns, the possibilities. One grain at a time, until nothing remains but the sound of waves counting seconds into infinity, each one the exact length of a child's last breath.