"Darling, you love comforts me like bright sunshine after a--" The scrap of paper said. It was my turn to vacuum the floors on Saturdays and right at the far end of our study table, just before it got sucked by the machine, I stooped and picked up the torn snippet. The scrawly hand wasn't mine and, in that moment, it was as if my life had been sucked by the vacuum cleaner. Who was writing Shakespearean love notes, albeit flawed, to my wife?

When Jen got home, I skipped the pleasantries and all but shoved the scrap of paper in her face.

"Oh, there it is!" She looked bewildered. "Where did you find it, love?"

"Don't love me!"

"I can explain--"

"You'd better get started then!" I stood akimbo, us barely inside the front door.

"It's not what you think."

"Then, tell me!" I demanded again.

"You know how..." She paused to think, "I decided to take up hiking again?"

"Yes, every Saturday. Five p.m."

"You remember, huh? Anyway, I met this guy--"

"What guy?" I was breathing down her face by now.

She backed up against the front door and her shoulders sank. "Well, he's part of a drama group--"

"I don't want to know what he does, ok?"

"No, I mean he asked me to join their troupe, and I did!"

"What has that got to do with this scrap, and why didn't you tell me?"

"I was about to..."

"But isn't Venus and Adonis a love poem, and not a play?"

"Yes, we're adapting several works into a collage drama, dear jealous Iago!"

Then, she punched me in the ribs and hugged me tight.

She stared at her signature drink the waiter set down in front of her. “I didn’t order this!” She called after the waiter.

“No, but I did,” the chillingly familiar voice reached her ears before he sat across from her. “Hello, again,” he smiled.

“Derek.” She said curtly, willing her face into neutrality. What was he doing here? She’d gone to the city to get away from him. Dyed her hair auburn, got a spray tan regularly, and started wearing glasses. She’d even changed careers from a chef to a school teacher, going to night school to finish her teaching certification. She'd thought perhaps she'd gone overboard; been too cautious. Yet, here he was, in the flesh.

“I’m so glad I found you,” his voice was as smooth as honey. “You still like a green tea matcha latte with a hint of vanilla, right?”

“What are you doing here?” She gripped the paper napkin in her lap, tightly. The coffee shop bustled around them, but here, at this table, the world stood still.

“I came to see you, Sara.” His blue eyes looked into hers, almost sincerely. Those eyes had fooled her before. “I was so worried when you disappeared. I came home to our apartment. No note, no message, no hint that you’d ever existed. You even took your art off of the walls and the spices from the cupboard.”

“Those spices were expensive and— No! You don’t get an explanation. Leave me alone!” Sara hissed.

He stared at the untouched latte with its milky white flower art in the thick green liquid. “It’s not poisoned. I never once touched it.”

Sara didn’t even look at the drink. To accept it would mean she was letting him in. Forgiving him, even if it was only a little bit.

“I know you hate food waste. It was one of your passions as a chef,” he coaxed as if she were a little child like those in her kindergarten class.

“Derek, did you not think that I would have told you if I wanted to be found?” She pleaded. She looked around at the cafe, but nobody seemed to notice, or care, that she was in distress.

“We’re married, Sara. Til death do us part. Or was that just a lie on your side?” His eyes narrowed.

There it was. The real Derek. The charmer and the sweetheart disappeared the day after they said their vows. Reality set in. He was cruel. A liar. A cheater.

“I was going to send the divorce papers as soon as I had enough to afford a lawyer,” she said quietly. She closed the little notebook on the table in front of her slowly.

“I won’t sign. We’re married, Sara. You’re my wife and I want you back.” Derek’s face was serious. No saccharine smile. No narrowed eyes. Straight face.

“You cheated on me!” Sara said a little louder than needed. Now heads were turning their way. She blushed furiously.

“I did and I’m sorry, Sara. I was wrong.”

She blinked, the only show of her surprise. “What?”

“I was wrong. I took you for granted and I want a second chance.” He said. His voice held notes of true regret.

Derek. Mr. Right. Mr. Charmer… he never… never admitted he was wrong. She stumbled over her words, “Derek, I—”

“You don’t have to answer right now. In fact, you probably shouldn't,” he said, standing. “But please think about it.” As he walked towards the exit, he paused. “I like the hair color. Makes your eyes pop.”

The door jingled too brightly. Sara stared at the journal in front of her, thinking about it.

“No. No, no, no!” Sal followed the trail of crimson in the snow to her crumpled form. “Mom!” He pressed his hands against the large red stain on her garments. “Come on, not this again. Your stitches were barely healed, What were you thinking?”

Somewhat deliriously, she smiled up at the large flakes wafting from the sky. “The Winter Berries are ripe, I wanted to sell them at the market. They fetch a great price, you know.”

“I told you already that I make more than enough. I had to leave my job early because Mrs. Potter saw you stumbling through the snow.” He looked down at her feet. “For Titan’s sake, Mom! You don’t even have shoes on!”

Despite her protests that she’d not finished harvesting the berries, Sal hefted his thin mother in his arms and trekked back to their cottage outside the village. Her eyes closed as they walked, drifting off. The blood on her dress began to dry and he breathed a small sigh of relief. He could barely afford their food and rent. Another visit to the physician would officially put them into debt. If the blood was clotting, though, he could take care of it himself.

He set her down on the cot in the corner of the main room and assured himself that her breathing was even and unbothered before he stoked the fire from embers to a large blaze that nearly didn’t fit in the hearth. He was worried about her. Her sleepwalking had gotten worse in the recent months. He’d begun sleeping with his bed against the front door to prevent her from leaving the house. The stitches in her abdomen were from a nasty fall she’d taken while Sal had been at work. She claimed she’d stayed in the house all day but the baker’s daughter, Kristi, had seen her walk like one of the undead into the forest, mumbling about the angels.

The village called her crazy. Sal had fought the diagnosis at first, but as the time dragged on and she grew worse, he feared they were right. Sal worried she might become a nuisance to the town and so much so that the magistrate would order her locked in the asylum in the next city over. Nobody knew what went on in the asylum because nobody was allowed in. If they took her, she was as good as dead as far as Sal was concerned. So far, her craziness extended to mindless wandering and strange muttering about angelic creatures and demonic fiends.

Sal returned to work, and, for the next few days, things continued as normal. He worked in the coal mines, the rhythmic pounding of his pickaxe grounding, in a way. He tried to occupy his thoughts in the dark tunnels, to keep them away from his mother, but he found himself worrying anyway. She could be bleeding out in the snow again, her purple, frostbitten hands reaching for the last of the Winter Berries out in the forest.

“Sal! It’s your mother!” Sal’s fists tightened around the handle of the pickaxe, but he turned to face the newcomer in the tunnels. Kristi.

“What is it this time?”

Her face was ashen. “The magistrate has her. She came into the village shrieking about the Urslusmegalucerus and that everyone needed to leave.”

“Take me to her.” He jogged after the girl, watching her red pigtails bounce against her back. In a different life, he’d have lived in a house of his own and asked the baker to marry Kristi, but with his mother’s condition, he had no other option but to care for her. He scoffed at his mother’s ridiculous raving. The Urslumegalucerus. A fairy story to scare little kids into staying in bed at night. A great big bear with teeth like a lion and antlers like a great moose.

Sal arrived at the town meeting hall where his mother, in nothing but a nightgown and one of Sal’s coats was begging the magistrate to listen to her.

“You have to let me go! You may not believe me but Sal and I have to leave! You can’t let me stay here to share my fate with the rest of the village! It’s coming!”

“Sal!” the magistrate shouted, spotting him the second he entered. “You promised you’d keep her locked up. She’s scaring the town and disrupting the market.”

“Sal! Sal! If they don’t let me go you have to leave! It’s coming! The Urslusmegalucerus!” Her eyes were wide with fear.

Sal’s heart sank as he beheld her. What had she become? How had this happened? “No, mom, it’s not coming. Let me take you home.”

“Out of the question!” The magistrate snapped. His thick, dark eyebrows furrowed deeply. “I told you, the second she began to cause disturbance she was through. I’m having my men take her to Dernum. At the asylum, they will be able to keep her from hurting anyone, herself included.”

Sal opened his mouth to reply, but screams began to rise from outside.

“Too late.” His mother whispered, looking at her feet.

The soldiers inside the hall shared glances before they all dashed outside to see the commotion.

Something twisted in his stomach. Sal, pickaxe still in hand, grit out, “Stay here.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Kristi or his mother, but he hoped they both listened. He dashed outside into the street and his jaw went slack.

A bear, fifteen feet in stature at least, antlers six feet across, tore through the town. One swipe of his paw brought down the tents and awnings lining the street. Vendors ran screaming. Sal could feel bile rising in his throat as a soldier, sword in hand, charged the bear. The man was dead within seconds. The bear trampled over the body, further into the town.

His mother was right. She’d known. She wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t sure what she was, but she wasn’t a mindless lunatic. He had to get her out. As he turned to go back to the town hall, another one of the massive creatures emerged from the treeline no more than a hundred yards away.

“You have to go now!” he shouted by way of greeting. “She was right! The Urslusmegalucerus. Two of them! They’re destroying the town.”

The magistrate looked stunned. Despite being the son of a madwoman, the magistrate knew Sal was no fool. The moment he regained control of his body, he fled through the backdoor.

“Come on,” Sal said, gripping his pickaxe. They followed the path the magistrate had taken, through the back of the hall into a long corridor. They pushed open the heavy oak door at the end. Sunlight flooded the darkness. The magistrate was climbing on the back of a horse.

“Hya! Move!” he shouted, digging his heels into the side of the beast. The horse sped into a gallop.

“Come on, there’s two more horses in the stable!” Sal shouted as they jogged towards it.

Kristi leaped into action alongside Sal, saddling the horse faster than even he could. He hefted his mother into the saddle of the dappled mare that Kristi had saddled. Before Sal could offer his hand, Kristi swung herself into the saddle behind Sal’s mother.

A scream sounded from the road behind them. Sal’s head snapped towards it as an Urslusmegalucerus tackled the magistrate and the horse from the treeline. “Go!” he shouted at Kristi. “Keep away from the treeline! Don’t stop until you get to Dernum!”

She and his mother rode off, fast. Sal climbed onto the back of the black horse but didn’t follow the two women. He steered his horse to the village where the screaming didn’t stop. He likely wouldn’t make it, but if he could buy a minute, maybe two, for anyone to flee, it would be worth it. He adjusted his hands on the handle of the pickaxe and rode into the fray.

"I want to worship your body on my knees."

I was fifteen and confused. Then almost immediately I got a follow-up text.

"Oops! Delete that last text, Jake! I was texting you and dad at the same time. Sorry about that, love. What I was going to say is I'll pick you up from Mattie's tomorrow morning at nine. Have fun!"

I guess it was nice to know that they still liked each other after 20 years of marriage...in a 'things I really never wanted to know' sort of way.

Today you are to die. Please meet me at the corner of Main and Highland at 4 PM. Come alone.

This correspondence is expressly meant for the addressee. If you have received it in error, please call 1-800-REAPER; otherwise, you forfeit your right to be excused from said intentions. And we don't care.

A trillion trillion years after the last stars flickered out and what was cold and final became absolute at -273.15º Celsius, it occurred to me.

Born of a true vacuum, my only warmth was memory. My consortium of entangled ionized particles wondered, wandering in and out of the vacuum to God knows where. God knows. I found that funny, and that’s what occurred to me. My nascent thought.

Nothing. And me.

Yet, all that ever was, all that came before—forces, objects, sentient things—left something, somewhere, laid out in a gossamer dimension that encircles the lesser dimensions within. Past has not passed, and the future has already happened.

Nothing, in my present, which is unstable. And me. And Charles McElhenny, who was stable.

Charles McElhenny had been born a trillion trillion years earlier than the absolute cold, yet he still was—on the special fabric of the gossamer dimension. Even I cannot see him, yet I know him. My entangled crosses over his entangled. There’s room for everyone in a perfect vacuum.

Charles McElhenny was born illegitimately and was suckled by a wetnurse in the year of his birth—by the nomenclature of his origin—1926. He was adopted by educators. He knew Greek and Latin, and by 1944, when he was killed in action in a place called Normandy, classical aphorisms came to him as his blood was leaving, akin to passing on the torch. Waves and waves of entangled ionizations entangle at higher dimensions, which is what put them on that beach in the first place.

The future has always been written in the past; the future has always written the past.

Charles McElhenny fathered a daughter and a son by the time he left for his death. During combat, he saved two men from death who went on to save two more each. The returning soldiers, alive thanks to Charles, had progeny in the tens of thousands by and large by the time the human epoch wrapped. Great things were done long after Charles suffered his last moments.

His was great a death of tremendous and spectacular suffering, because of an extra hole put into his body by someone who did not know him or even know the hole had been made. That man was killed by one of the men saved by one of the men Charles had saved, and thereafter there were fewer holes in persons visiting Normandy that day, although negligible in the final tally. Those without the intended holes from the assassin ignorant of the holes he had made went on to have hundreds of thousands of progeny, which moved civilization such that it rose to astounding heights and created technological magic for the masses.

But Charles suffered that day: suffering never ends; it just goes somewhere else.

His throat gurgled in air hunger. He could not feel his feet except for the knives he felt in the soles. He was dragged further up the beach by one of his saved beneficiaries, where he was left awaiting help that never came. It took him eight hours to die. There are a lot of aphorisms that can occur to a classically educated, but dying mind, in that amount of time.

All that, now, is long over, a wisp of data on the gossamer dimensional tesseract.

The suffering is there, somewhere, indexed inert—but there, notwithstanding. I know about it and the sufferings and joys of all of those who came from Charles McElhenny along the consortium of entanglement that I am. And that makes him, eons gone, forgotten, and molecularly dissipated, relevant. He lives in me.

When the virtual is and is-not particles remain as is, and the singularity collapses to create the big implosion to come, and when the unstable elements that have been strewn throughout the new universe coalesce—stable—once again into those who look at the sky and wonder, Charles McElhenny will still be relevant, because he was, albeit a streak of being on a gossamer membrane that oscillates in the undiscovered background.

It is something extraordinary and beautiful to see, for those who look for it.

The guards zipped through the market, trying their best to keep up with the so-called thief. Folks in the village, and surrounding areas had heard talk about some farmers losing their cattle. But up until this moment in time— no one had caught the perpetrator, or perps. One of the fishermen had watched the young lad zip past him. The lad thought he was going to make it back into the shadows of the thick forest that was supposedly harboring all the thieves that had been stealing the cattle. The fisherman smiled, and thought to himself: ‘‘Here we go, again.’’ Just when the lad was about to see the path leading into the forest, his tracks were stopped by the ebenaceae. Once the ebenaceae had caught wind of your scent, they could find you anywhere- even in the depths of the Red Sea…not even Moses would’ve been able to escape from their talented tracking magickal skills. The lad felt the earth beneath his feet start to sink in. He began to panic as his body sunk further, and further into the ground. One of the ebenaceae slowly clenched their fists, and the lad’s body took on the shape of a crumpled piece of paper.

https://youtu.be/catURHmSQSw?si=AdGoUizWnenHujiG

#CORVUS. Jan.|20|25

The plastic casing of the phone creaks under his grip. David knows he should speak, knows the silence stretching between them is cruel, but his throat has sealed itself shut. The living room light casts yellow shadows across his knees where they've given out, where he's sunken to the carpet beside the coffee table. On the other end of the line, he can hear her breathing – quick, shallow breaths that make his hands shake harder.

His wedding ring catches on the phone case. The small sound it makes feels deafening in the quiet. He should take it off, he thinks distantly. Should have taken it off months ago. But that thought sinks beneath the wave of grief rising in his chest, threatening to drag another sob from him.

"Dad?"

Her voice cracks on the single syllable, and the sound splits him open. The confidence she'd answered with – that casual "Hello?" of someone who hasn't yet learned to fear phone calls – has drained away, leaving behind something small and uncertain. Something that sounds too much like she did at four years old, calling for him after a nightmare.

He presses his free hand against his mouth, hard enough that his teeth cut into the inside of his lip. The pain helps, but not enough. A sound escapes anyway – something between a gasp and a whimper – and he tastes salt. Whether from blood or tears, he isn't sure.

"Dad, is that you?"

She knows. Of course she knows. Even after eight months of silence, even through his pathetic attempts to muffle his breakdown, she recognizes him. The thought sends another spasm through his chest. His fingers tighten around the phone until he fears the case might crack.

The next sob comes harder, violent enough to double him over. His forehead presses against his knees, and he's grateful for the darkness it creates. Grateful he doesn't have to see the room spinning around him, doesn't have to look at the empty bottles on the coffee table or the stack of unopened mail with her mother's handwriting on the envelopes.

In the background, he hears movement. A door opening. Then Sarah's voice, muffled but clear: "Honey, who's on the phone?"

The sound of his ex-wife's voice jars something loose in his chest. He remembers, suddenly and viscerally, the last time he heard it. The way it had risen and cracked and finally gone cold as she'd told him to leave. The way their daughter had stood at the top of the stairs, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she watched him pack a bag.

He hears his daughter's breath catch. Imagines her standing in their kitchen – the kitchen he helped paint sunny yellow when they'd first bought the house – looking between the phone and her mother. Imagines her trying to decide whether to lie.

The click of the line going dead hits him like a physical blow.

For a long moment, he stays frozen, phone pressed to his ear, listening to the silence. Then, slowly, he lowers it to the carpet beside him. The screen glows accusingly in the dim room, displaying the length of the call: 47 seconds. Not even a full minute.

He'd rehearsed this moment for weeks. Had practiced the words in his head, mumbled them to himself during sleepless nights: I'm sorry. I miss you. I'm getting help. Please. But in the end, he couldn't force out a single word. Couldn't offer her anything but his broken sounds and guilty silence.

The phone screen dims, then goes dark. In its reflection, he catches a glimpse of himself: a shadow of a man, huddled on the floor of a barely-furnished apartment, surrounded by the wreckage of his choices. He closes his eyes against the image, but it follows him into the darkness.

---

David's hands are steadier this time when he dials, though his heart isn't. The ring sounds three times before she picks up, and he finds himself counting her breaths in the pause before she speaks.

"Hello?"

He closes his eyes. Leans back against his bedroom wall and slides down until he's sitting on the floor. The carpet is rough against his palm as he braces himself.

There's a longer silence this time. He can hear her breathing changing, becoming more deliberate. Then, softly: "Dad?"

He manages a small sound, something that might be acknowledgment. It's more than last time.

"It is you." Her voice carries no accusation, just a quiet certainty. A rustle on her end – fabric against the phone, perhaps – and then: "I had a science test today. I think I did pretty well. Mr. Peterson – he's new this year – he does this thing where he puts joke questions in the middle of tests. Like today there was one about calculating how many molecules of caffeine it would take to keep him awake through all of our terrible lab reports."

David presses his head back against the wall, letting her voice wash over him. She sounds different. More confident, maybe. Or just older. Eight months, he thinks. Eight months of her life he's missed.

"Sarah got a better grade than me on the last one though. Not Sarah M., the new Sarah. She's really smart. We study together sometimes now." A pause, then quieter: "She lets me come over to her house. Her dad makes really good dumplings."

The weight of those words – her casual mention of another father – makes his chest tight. He swallows hard.

"Oh! And I joined Drama Club. We're doing Midsummer Night's Dream in the spring. I'm just in the ensemble, but Ms. Rodriguez says I might get to understudy for Hermia. Mom's been helping me practice lines."

Her voice brightens when she talks about theater. That's new. She used to be so shy about performing. Used to hide behind his legs when relatives asked her to sing or dance. The thought of her on stage now, confident under bright lights, makes something ache behind his ribs.

"The costume fittings are next week. And I think – oh wait." More rustling, maybe her checking the time. "I should probably go get ready. We're going out to dinner with Glenn. He got a promotion at work, so we're celebrating."

The casual mention hits him like a physical blow. Glenn. The name sits in his stomach like lead, heavy with implications he's not ready to process.

"But maybe... maybe I could tell you about the play another time? If you call again?"

The hope in her voice makes his eyes burn. He presses his sleeve against them, hard.

"You don't have to talk," she adds quickly. "It's okay if you're not... if you can't yet. Just... it's nice. Hearing you there."

In the background, he hears footsteps. His daughter's breath catches slightly.

"I should go," she whispers. "But Dad? I... I miss you."

The line goes quiet, but she doesn't hang up immediately. He can hear her waiting, perhaps for some sign, some small sound of response. His throat works silently, desperately, but no words come.

After what feels like ages, there's a soft sigh. Then the gentle click of disconnection.

David lets the phone fall into his lap. His daughter's voice echoes in his head, mixing with questions he's not ready to ask. Who is Glenn? How long has he been around? Does he make her laugh? Does he check under her bed for monsters like David used to, even though she's too old for that now?

He looks at the phone screen: 4 minutes, 12 seconds. Longer than last time. Not nearly long enough.

“’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.

The tavern breathed like an old beast—thick air, warm with the ghosts of a hundred dead conversations, the low murmur of men who had given up on everything except drinking. The candlelight barely touched the dark corners, flickering, weak, as if afraid of what it might reveal.

Two men sat at a corner table, their glasses nearly empty, the weight of the night settling over them like damp wool.

One of them, Nikolai, traced the rim of his glass, the other, Andrei, exhaled smoke from a cigarette he barely tasted.

They had spoken of many things already—of debts, of women, of the quiet horror of waking up and realizing the best parts of life had already passed them by. And then, Nikolai leaned forward, eyes shadowed beneath his brow.

“You ever hear about the artist who lost everything?”

Andrei smirked. “Sounds like every artist.”

Nikolai shook his head. “No. This one… this one really lost it all.”

Andrei swirled the liquid in his glass, watching it catch the light. “Alright. I’m listening.”

---

He was a painter once. The kind who thought his hands could carve something holy out of nothing. Who believed he was destined for greatness. The fools always do.

And for a while, he had everything. A wife. A home. A name that, if not well-known, at least carried whispers in the right circles.

But art is a cruel god. It demands everything and gives nothing back. The world did not love him the way he thought it should. The galleries were indifferent, the critics cold, and slowly, the cracks began to form. First, the debts. Then the disappointment. Then the doubt.

And, as always, then came the ruin.

The wife was the first to go, in the way that women always leave before they actually walk out the door. She lingered, out of duty, out of nostalgia, out of habit. But love, real love, had long since rotted between them.

She found comfort elsewhere. In a man who came in the quiet hours, who whispered things in the dark, who left before the sun could name him.

A man who, every time he was inside her, looked at the paintings on the walls.

“I knew him,” Nikolai said, his voice low, unreadable. “Not personally. But I knew his work. Every brushstroke, every violent, desperate smear of color.”

Andrei tilted his head, intrigued. “How?”

Nikolai exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk curving his lips.

“Because I spent years fucking his wife in front of them.”

Andrei let out a short, breathless laugh, the kind that wasn’t really laughter at all. “Jesus, man.”

Nikolai leaned back, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“She wasn’t faithful. Neither was I. But those paintings… they were something else. Every time I was with her, I’d look at them. I could see it—the madness, the obsession, the way he was clawing at something just beyond his reach. The last bits of his soul, bleeding onto canvas. He didn’t paint pictures. He painted his own slow death.”

Andrei shook his head. “You ever meet him?”

“No.” Nikolai set his glass down. “Only saw him once. The morning after. He was in the kitchen, drinking coffee like a man who had long since stopped tasting it. His hands shook. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade.”

Andrei exhaled smoke. “Did he know?”

“Of course.”

There was a silence then, thick and heavy, stretching between them like a noose.

Andrei broke it first. “What happened to him?”

Nikolai’s fingers tapped against the glass, slow, methodical. “He lost the fight.”

“Suicide?”

“Worse.”

---

The artist did not kill himself. No. That would have been too easy.

Instead, he kept painting. Even as his body failed, even as his hands trembled, even as his mind turned against him. He painted like a man clawing at the walls of his own grave.

And the sickness grew. Not one the doctors could name, but something deeper, older. He aged in fast-forward, like he had been cursed. In five years, he became an old man. His wife was gone, the debts swallowed him whole, and even his art—the only thing that had ever made him feel real—became meaningless.

And then, one day, he stopped.

Not just painting.

Living.

He vanished. Some said he fled the city. Some said he withered away in his studio, forgotten before he was even dead.

But Nikolai… Nikolai knew the truth.

Because months later, a package arrived at his door. No sender. No note.

Just a painting.

A masterpiece. The last one.

And in it, Nikolai saw something that made his stomach turn to ice.

It was a painting of himself.

Him and the artist’s wife, frozen in a moment of pleasure, of betrayal, of something primal and raw.

But the face in the painting… it was twisted. Wrong. As if something had looked through Nikolai’s skin and painted what it saw underneath.

Andrei stared at him, silent. Then, finally, he spoke. “You still have it?”