You've been here before.
Of course, you have. It's your own backyard.
Except—
The tire swing was taken down and the tree cut down years ago, and the air sticks to your skin, warm and heavy, carrying the scent of a summer evening and the noises of insects.
It's September.
Except it's not.
Not here.
[[Next->2]]BY GRAVESSLEEPING SUNThere's a very specific feeling that accompanies these dreams; a pulling somewhere inside your chest, like a fishing hook beneath your sternum, like your consciousness has been physically ripped from your body by some unseen force.
You take in a careful breath and turn around to walk back towards your house, silent on your feet as if to not disturb anything. Nothing seems //wrong//, yet; but you know better than to let your guard down.
The grass under your feet is overgrown, the way it hasn't been in a long time, and on your feet are the white, beat-up sneakers you threw out after someone at a high school party vomited on them.
It feels distant, yet not like a memory.
As you pass it, nothing seems particularly off about your own house; the front door is locked, the blinds drawn. It feels empty, but in an… abandoned way. If you strain your ears, there's a quiet tapping coming from somewhere around it, but you struggle to locate its source.
Something is off about the heaviness of the air and the stiff, humid smell of warm asphalt. It sticks to your throat, clogs your lungs.
Church bells ring from somewhere to your right, once, twice, thrice before falling silent.
//There's something warm covering your hands.//
You close your eyes and count to ten, willing everything to be over once you open them again. It shouldn't unsettle you at this point; you've gone through so many of these at this point, seen so many things, and yet—
An unmistakable feeling makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, tingling all the way down your spine; the air has become deathly still, and you can't hear anything behind you. But—
//"It can't hurt you here, $name,"// a voice sounds out behind you, so achingly familiar it almost makes you crumble, grief overtaking any of the fear it could've otherwise caused. //"It's just a dream."//
Your eyes shoot open, and you turn around to get a glimpse of the person, desperate for anything. There's a fleeting image of a figure standing in the grass, a flash of bright eyes and pale hands before it melts into the air like a heatwave.
You close your eyes again.
A kestrel cries out in the distance, a high-pitched, shrill sound—
[[Next->3]]
You can still hear it when your eyes open, and it takes you a second to recognize that it is the same birds you hear every morning, the kestrels that have made their home on the roof of your apartment building and the spires of the nearby church.
The way your shirt sticks to your sweaty back makes you frown as you shift around in bed, grasping around the mess of blankets and stuffed animals to find your water bottle. It's already light outside, which you consider a win – lately the nightmares have been waking you up before the sun rises, which has led to some very early breakfasts and early done chores; as well as some naps in questionable spaces.
The nightmares… are odd, to say the least. Technically, they started three years ago, back when everything first went down; but they were just that. Nightmares. Regular bad dreams. Therapy and medication helped with those. For the past year, ever since you moved, they've shifted into something else entirely.
It's hard to describe what they are – almost lucid, hyperrealistic visions, for a lack of a better term; sometimes it's hard to believe it's just a dream when you wake up most days with phantom pain from injuries or the taste of ash in your mouth when you go on about your day feeling as if your body isn't your own, as if your mind is still floating somewhere unknown. They're full of symbolism, you think. There are many themes you've grown to recognize; sounds, animals, and places. You're choosing to ignore that for the sake of your own mental health.
It feels like today is one of those days because you get out of bed to take your medication and need to take a second to just stand and stare out of the window, dazed and mildly dizzy all of a sudden. Your eyes feel heavy, locked onto the sight of one of the mistletoe-infected trees outside and unwilling to move, thoughts muddled except for fleeting memories of your dream. They're fading now, and your mind is grappling to hold onto the pieces like they're a lifeline, but the failed attempts leave you with a dull ache behind your eyes. You have to carefully stare at your pill organizer, just to make sure you're taking the correct ones for the mornings before you go on with your day.
Your whole body hurts, you realize once you've managed to pick out some clean clothes and make your way to the shower; the tossing and turning during the night certainly haven't done you any good.
Truth be told, you don't even want to look into the bathroom mirror. You know you will see a stranger there.
[[Next->4]]
Your name is: <<textbox "$name" enter name>>
[[Next->1]]
The scalding water of the shower manages to bring you back into your body, just a little. Getting dressed, and brushing your teeth still feels like it's done in a first-person video game, like the hands you control aren't yours. It's fine.
You have classes today, you think. But you haven't checked your phone except to look at the time when you woke up, and you're not exactly sure what day it is. You'll get to it in a second.
You don't.
It's your roommate that reminds you of it when they walk in on you standing in front of an open cupboard, unmoving.
"Good morning?" They say, a bit carefully, walking around you to turn the kettle on. "Do you want tea?"
You blink hard a few times, their voice ripping you away from what seems to just be white noise in your brain. "Hey," you breathe out, shaking your head a bit and taking a granola bar out of the cupboard. It's been there for a while. It's probably still good.
"Don’t you have classes today?" They inquire, opening your tea drawer and pointing to it. The possibilities are endless, really; you're constantly buying new kinds.
"The peppermint one. Please." You say, taking out two of your favorite mugs and checking the date on your phone. It seems like the safest option considering your stomach doesn't exactly want to cooperate with you on mornings like these. "I–uh, yeah. I have a lecture in… a bit."
In three and a half hours, which gives you considerable time to feel a bit more grounded, hopefully.
You grab your tea once it's done and head back towards your room, only mildly surprised when your roommate follows you there.
"Don't you have work, Luce?" You call out, lightheartedly, since you don't mind sitting with them at all.
Their smile is almost audible. "Maybe. But not now."
Meeting Luce might've been a miracle. You first heard of them through a friend of a co-worker, back home; when you expressed wanting to go to university it turned out that your friend had a friend who had a friend in the city, and that said friend might be looking for someone to rent an apartment with. You got to know Luce before you knew you got accepted, so living together wasn't a promise yet, but you still looked for apartments together. Though you probably would've left home anyway.
The first one you lived in was cheap, and it was a bit rough; you had to share a room, the kitchen was barely useful and there might've been a little mold problem – you made it about two months before tapping out. The second one – slightly bigger, slightly better, would've been perfect if it wasn't for the absolute nightmare your neighbors were; you thought you could handle it, with noise-canceling headphones and chamomile tea after each argument with them, but you two simply do not have the patience. But finally, after so many months, you were able to find the perfect apartment, though the bar was very low. It's not big, but you two have your own rooms and a tiny living room, your neighbors are either other students or elderly people who are surprisingly nice, and it's a good walking distance to both your university and Luce's work.
It's good. Sometimes it surprises you that things work out.
[[Next->5]]
"What is it?" You ask, having gotten a bit suspicious. Normally Luce would just leave you before your classes, maybe stopping to have a quick chat in the kitchen to let you get ready in peace. Unless they wanted to talk about something specific.
"Am I not allowed to talk to my dear friend?" Luce sighs dramatically, straddling your desk chair and folding their arms over the back.
"Come on, Luce,” you sigh, sitting back on your bed.
You open the granola bar with your teeth. It falls apart a bit, crumbs falling down your shirt and into your lap. Gross.
The way they're staring at you almost makes you wonder if something bad has happened; you'd like to think you can read them well after living together for a year, but in moments like these you really doubt it.
Luce stays silent for a few moments, seemingly thinking of what they want to say. They fidget idly with the ends of their hair, light brown thick twists going down to the middle of their back. The silver rings on their fingers contrast with the deep brown of their skin nicely, and the gemstones in their jewelry always matched well. Today they're wearing a lot of blues and greens – you recognize the agate and jade necklaces and the aventurine bracelet that you're pretty sure belonged to you at some point.
It's fine. Green isn't your color anyways.
"Humor me for a second," they finally say, and you make yourself comfortable in preparation for what's about to come. "Say, hypothetically, you have a friend. And that friend has a… problem. Very odd problem, maybe even concerning and they don't know what to do about it. But you happen to have another friend! And it turns out that this other friend has a veery similar problem, which is weird because the problem in question is very weird to have for one person, let alone two. Now– what would you do in this situation? Would you have them meet no matter what? Or is the situation not that important."
Huh.
A part of you has an idea of what they're talking about and you don't like it that much, but for the sake of the conversation—
"Hypothetically, it's probably important," you say, pausing to take a sip of water. "If it's a problem so weird it has you concerned for your friends, then it would be best to have them meet and talk about it."
On a different note, the granola bar might be expired. You turn it around, trying to find the date on the wrapper and, sure enough, it is.
Whatever.
It still tastes fine.
Luce grins at you for a second before their features turn serious.
"I know about the nightmares."
You freeze for a second, but will yourself to appear unbothered. It's– fine, probably, maybe they've noticed you haven't been sleeping well.
"I'd be surprised if you didn't." You shrug, taking another sip of your water since it feels like your breakfast has turned to sawdust in your mouth. "We used to share a room, Luce, you know I have issues sleeping sometimes—"
They lean forward, something glinting in their dark eyes. "No, $name, I know."
And here it goes. Of course, they do.
[[Next->6]]The thing is, you're not quite sure what Luce can do, and it seems like they're not 100% sure either. It is some sort of sensing ability; they can tell what other people's abilities are, though it's not always precise, and sometimes they just know things – like this one time when they could tell the cashier at the grocery store is getting divorced, or when they knew the cute barista they had a crush on was pregnant, even before she knew. It was a matter of time before they'd notice something was off about your dreams.
"How long have you known for?" You inquire quietly, grabbing the cup of tea from where you placed it on your nightstand. The heat from the mug grounds you a bit.
"A while. Not that long—well, maybe, but–" they cut themselves off, lifting up their glasses to rub their face; you wince at the sight of them spreading their glittery eyeshadow everywhere. "I knew for a while but didn't think it was that weird until my friend was venting to me and I realized it's very similar to what's happening to you."
You raise your eyebrows. "And what's happening to me?"
"That's what we need to find out."
"Uh-huh." You mumble, unconvinced. "And how do you think we will do that?"
Luce looks at their watch and then back at you with an expression that's almost apologetic.
"I get off work at like, seven." You know for a fact that they don't need to leave just yet, but it's clear that this is not a conversation for right now.
You don't say anything as they leave, unease already settling in your bones. There must be something that's off, otherwise, they wouldn't be so weird and secretive about it. And they’ve never really hid anything from you, if there was something they didn’t want to talk about they’d just say it. Something bigger is going on, and something tells you that it may not be anything good.
You're already dreading the conversation, but for now, all you can do is wait.
Suddenly nauseous, you throw the rest of the granola bar in the trash, finish your now lukewarm tea, and—
[[Next->7]]>>//The sun shining down on your face warms your skin pleasantly, and the tall grass rustling from the breeze tickles any exposed skin; you know it well. You’re back home, back outside the city, somewhere in the fields in spring.
You know them well.
But you wish your eyes couldn't open because this is nice, this is peaceful, this is something you’ve been craving; but it’s never this easy. It’s never good.
They open against your will, and there he is.
Laying next to you on his back, eyes closed, the wind ruffling his hair; he looks peaceful. But your eyes follow the shadows his eyelashes cast over his face, the slope of his nose, the dip of his chin, and—
You have to force yourself to sit up and face away from him, away from a torn open throat, from bite marks in his arms, from the mess of gore that is his chest and stomach, coagulated blood shining sickly under the afternoon sun.
You’ve seen many of his deaths. This one was new.
Even as you stumble to your feet, eager to run away, your eyes can't help but wander over to him, like a car crash you can’t look away from the contrast of his face, at peace and relaxed and the bloody, half-devoured mess of his body.
It makes you let out something between a gag and a sob, even though you’ve been having these dreams for almost three years, but sometimes they're not like this, sometimes in them, he’s still alive, but now—
Your knees shake as you walk away, away from the field and into the trees, closer to the road, closer to somewhere that doesn’t haunt you that much, but there's a noise coming from above you, up in the crowns of trees.
A bird. A cuckoo, you think.
There are two of them, sitting on opposite branches, beady yellow eyes staring right into yours. It makes you flinch, your whole body going taut with anticipation.
Then, they speak; in unison, voices layering in a way that makes it sound like there's a dozen of them,
“It’s not him,” they say, full of knowledge beyond your comprehension, “It will never be him.”
And there are so many questions on the tip of your tongue, so many things you still don’t understand, and you know you won’t get the answers you need anyway because something is shaking right next to you, and—//
[[Next->8]]Your phone vibrating pulls you out of the daze you’re in — because those started happening as well, weird nightmarish visions when you’re awake. They’re about him mostly, as is everything in your brain even after all this time, but there have been others, ones that are even weirder and harder to explain, because they don’t make sense, or they’re too weird, too vague for you to make sense of it all.
They don’t happen as often as the nightmares do, but you’d say that it’s even worse, because there’s no way to tell when or where they’ll happen; and you can’t really afford to see another psychiatrist and get put on more medication, and you can’t afford therapy anymore, and you can’t afford any other doctor, like as neurologist, because naturally, whenever you tried to search up symptoms on the internet, it told you you must have seizures.
Anyways.
Still filled with nausea after the vision, you allow yourself to lay there for a few moments, curled in a fetal position with a pillow held close to your chest, hoping to erase the images from your mind.
You breathe deeply through your nose for a minute or two, using the familiar mess of your room to ground yourself. A quick glance at your phone tells you you have—
30 minutes until your lecture, and the walk back to uni takes you about twenty minutes.
It’s fine. Everything is good.
Everything is good, so you go put on a jacket and shoes, chug a glass of water in the kitchen, and allow yourself to cry for precisely six minutes before forcing yourself to calm down and leave the apartment.
The dreams have been weird, lately– well, they always have been weird, but the past few… weeks, you think, they’d been worse than ever, both when it came to frequency and the actual contents of the dreams. As of right now, they’ve been happening almost every single night, but you’ve been able to save yourself by napping during the day; but, like today, it was never guaranteed to work. They’re more focused on the past than ever, too, which you’re not sure you should be concerned about this, because his birthday just passed, and the anniversary is on Friday, but something in your gut is telling you that there’s more to it than just that, but honestly, you might be going insane. Maybe you’re just delusional.
It’s fine.
[[Next->9]]
You're very much not looking forward to the one and only lecture you have today – you've attended one, maybe two of them since the year started; and it's not that bad, but you'd just rather stay home than only go there for a non-mandatory class. That, and you've slept exceptionally badly, meaning you've got a headache, you're still nauseous, and your neck aches whenever you try to look to your left. All things considered, all you really need is a good excuse to not arrive.
//(it’s not that important to mention the grief ripping your chest apart, and perhaps that’s not the best wording—)//
But— if you strain and squint very hard, you can see a hopefully good excuse, the familiar head of orange hair coming in what you think is your direction.
Maybe you should get your eyes checked out.
But, surely enough, once you're walked close enough to finally see each other clearly, the person waves to you, and you pick up the pace slightly when you see them slowly walk with their cane to lean against a lamppost.
"$name," they call out to you, saccharine sweet like they want to give you a proposition you can't refuse, and use their free arm to wrap it around you briefly in greeting.
"Riss," you grin, eyeing her carefully. Nothing is amiss; she's wearing her huge dark green jacket and pale blue cardigan, their white sneakers have seen better days and their beige tote bag is still stained with a mysterious liquid. But there is a certain tightness around their eyes and their brows furrow slightly in pain every few seconds like they usually do on days when her pain is worse than usual. It's clear they'd also rather be somewhere else.
"They just finished renovating that one cafe around the corner," she says, straightening up as much as their body allows them to. "What do you think?"
You pretend to think for a second, even though you both know the answer.
"You know, I never really had a chance to go there." You finally reply, shrugging and turning away from Riss' widening grin. They slap your shoulder lightly and turn to walk beside you.
[[Next->10]]"You don't look great," she says after a while.
You make a show of looking them up and down pointedly, raising your eyebrows. "Says you,"
Maybe you're just deflecting, but you don’t want to talk about it, and hopefully neither do they,
Thank gods the cafe isn't far, because before Riss can say anything else, you open the door and walk in.
The interior is very cozy, with all dark green walls and warm lighting, couches and window seats, and a few bookshelves in one corner. It looks like a place you might start frequenting.
The girl behind the counter smiles as you two walk in. You've seen her around on campus before, though you have a feeling she already graduated; her silver eyes glow when she looks at you and it’s only a little unnerving.
"Hi!" She exclaims, leaning on her elbows and nodding her head in the direction of the wall, where the menu had been written down on two blackboards. "What can I get for you two?"
You don’t really have a preference, so you go ahead and ask for a drink with the longest name– and there’s a lot of them. They must be named after bands, or songs.
You pay for your drink and go to sit in one of the window seats in the corner. It'll take a bit for Riss to figure out what she wants, given how much she likes coffee. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see a short boy with a full head of brown curls with twisted horns coming out, getting started on your order. The music they have playing, that you've just noticed, is mellow and familiar enough to become calming background noise.
Sometimes it amazes you; you're right here, in a new city, living your life to the best of your abilities, making friends. Despite everything, you're still right here. You didn't think it was possible for you.
And yes, maybe something bigger is going on, a storm cloud just somewhere in your peripheral vision, visible but not yet here. But you're right here, the world is still spinning, and the moon keeps rising. There isn't much else you can do except live, though you never expected to do it alone.
You need to book the train tickets for tomorrow; that’s when the anniversary hits, so your plan is to go tomorrow, on Friday, and come back Saturday morning or evening, depending on how long you’ll want to stay. Maybe you’ll even leave earlier. It’s hard to tell.
But Luce's earlier words sit at the back of your mind, wrapping around your thoughts like a rain cloud, cold and foreboding. It's the way they said it, that odd sense of urgency coloring their voice; it makes you equal parts curious and nervous about what they exactly meant.
"So," Riss' voice cuts through your internal monologue, and you eventually move your gaze from the fabric of the cushions around you to where she's heavily settling down into a muted gold-colored armchair, leaning their cane against it and stretching out their bad leg with a wince. "Anything interesting happened? Any plans for the weekend?"
You can't help but wince at the question a bit. You do trust Riss to a certain extent, but you don't want to talk about your conversation with Luce just yet. Though it wouldn't surprise you if they had already told her. The second question—
"I'm going home for the weekend," you shrug, hoping nothing in your expression betrays how you really feel about it. Riss doesn't know what happened – or, at least you'd like to think so, but there is a quiet understanding between you two because it's obvious that it's something that makes you hesitant to go there.
Thankfully, she seems to catch the need for the end of that particular topic.
"Oh, me and my roommate are going to the movies on Saturday," they start instead, and you feel very grateful. "He really wants to see that new superhero movie." They wrinkle their nose in disgust and you smile at that, ignoring the pain in your chest that came with the realization that the last time you saw a superhero movie in the cinema was back before everything went down.
The boy you saw minutes earlier comes to your table with your orders, and you both thank him before you remember what you wanted to say.
"I thought you said you liked the previous movie." You say, a bit offhandedly, giving your drink an experimental sip. You burn your tongue, but it's worth it, because it tastes amazing, bringing back some sort of a distant memory that you can only remember warmth and happiness from.
It's Riss' turn to shrug now, and you watch her eyes widen as she takes a sip of the coffee, not even noticing the burn. "I //enjoyed// it. But I wouldn't go to see this one if he hadn't paid for my tickets."
Yeah, okay. You get that.
"He's been so annoying lately, by the way," they sigh heavily, dropping their head back against the chair and you sit back, ready to listen and grateful for the distraction. "So we have this one elderly neighbor…"
[[Next->11]]Riss' roommate is certainly an interesting person. You zoned out a bit after about three stories of the things he's been doing recently that infuriate her; you have a feeling she doesn't quite mind.
But even Riss herself is an interesting person; you met a year ago, shortly after you started university because it turns out you had a lot of classes together. Now, you’re not sure what they’re studying, or if they even are enrolled in the university, because somehow none of the lecturers ever recognize them, even if you have classes with them multiple times a week. She’s a shapeshifter, which maybe could explain it, but she’s always looked the same to you, so you really have no idea.
And, a few days after you met, it just so turned out that they and Luce knew each other – at the time they were coworkers in a cafe that closed down shortly after Riss got employed, but according to her, there is no correlation between the two. You’re just not convinced.
They’re probably your second closest friend in the city, but you’ve only got two friends here, so maybe it doesn’t matter. You’re as close as one usually is with their school friends – you see each other multiple times a week, and you talk mostly with each other, but it isn’t like a //close// close friendship; you talk about anything but personal details of your lives, nothing more than comments about your past, but it’s fine. It’s refreshing to have someone in your life who doesn’t know.
(Well, Luce doesn’t know either, and sometimes you can tell that they are curious about what it was, what happened to make you like this, and sometimes you’re curious about them as well, about the things that caused them to behave as they do sometimes. Maybe one day.)
You sit in the cafe for a bit over an hour, slowly finishing your drinks and letting Riss do the talking; you feel a bit bad for not participating in the conversation, but speaking doesn’t come easy on days like these, and they’ve told you before that they’re a huge talker and a nuisance to everyone around them, so it’s fine if you don’t have anything to say. It only makes you feel minimally better.
But once she finishes her drink, Riss takes a quick look at her phone, then at you, then back at her phone, then back at you again. “I have a class in, like, 3 minutes,” they say as if they had just found out about it, which you’re pretty sure is the case. “Okay, I’ll— I’ll get going to class and you go get some rest! Have fun at home! Bye!” she exclaims with a stressed grin, getting dressed, and gathering her bag and cane before speed-walking outside. You smile to yourself a little, letting your head fall back against the window. You had a really nice time hanging out, but between the dreams and the upcoming talk with Luce, and the weekend awaiting you, you find it hard to be in a better mood. The worst part of every year has just started, and somehow you feel like this may be a very bad one.
You should probably get yourself something to eat on the way home, but you’re not exactly sure if it’s leftover nausea from the nightmare or the expired granola bar making your stomach feel queasy. Either way, you’re pretty sure there’s no proper food at the apartment, meaning you need to buy something for today and tomorrow morning, which is one of the world’s worst tasks, but it’s fine.
Getting up with a quiet groan, you gather your things, bring the dirty cups back to the counter and leave after saying goodbye to the workers.
A quick look at your phone tells you that Luce will be home 1-2 hours early today.
[[Next->12]]When the front door creaks open, you’re laying on the couch with your eyes closed, trying your best not to fall asleep. The small TV you two have is playing reruns of a movie series so familiar you can see it in your head without even looking. A brown bag of takeout is sitting on the coffee table, still mostly full – you got enough for yourself and Luce, knowing they’re prone to forgetting to eat at work, but unsurprisingly you weren’t able to stomach much.
You’ve been living together long enough for you to recognize all the noise that Luce makes, and you don’t even flinch at the way they slam the door shut and throw their keys on the kitchen counter. It’s familiar. It’s good.
“There’s food if you’re hungry,” you call out to them, sitting up to take a sip of your now lukewarm tea. The small amount of rest you’ve had since coming home has helped a little bit, but you’re still filled with anxiety.
Luce walks into the kitchen and looks at you in silence for a few seconds before quickly grabbing a fork and sitting on the other end of the couch. You don’t even bother telling them to reheat it, knowing that they likely won’t do it anyways. They eat in silence, occasionally pointing at you to turn the TV volume up, then down again. You finish your tea in peace, though the anticipation is there, and you’re just sitting there waiting.
“We’re going to Sunfall,” they say around a mouthful of pasta and vegetables like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You almost drop the mug you’re holding, staring at them and expecting what the punchline is.
The mountain ghost town, or the place where people disappear, or Sunfall, or the Dark Place, or the Gloomy City, or whatever awful name the local teenagers think of— is the town’s biggest urban legend. That’s all it is.
And the lore, it’s simple; on the outskirts of the city there’s a mountain, and up on it, is a city, A city where the sun never rises, a place where people go and never come back, for some unknown reason.
It doesn’t exist.
People have gone there and documented the entire thing, and there was no city to speak of, just trees and wild animals. You’ve never heard anyone speak about it like it’s a real thing– no one your age anyways.
“I thought you didn't believe in that stuff,” you say carefully, still half convinced it’s just a joke. Luce finishes their pasta, sighs, and turns to face you fully.
“I know it sounds stupid, but I need you to trust me on this one.” they seem slightly frustrated, but you don’t think it’s at you specifically, maybe just about having to explain that idea.
You just frown at that, because you still don’t get it. “Hasn’t it been proven, like, twelve times already? People going there and finding nothing?”
Luce takes their glasses off to rub at their eyes tiredly. “$name,” they start, slowly. “I have some sort of power. Riss can shapeshift. Jenny from next door is a vampire. Someone at your uni got expelled for accidentally burning a classroom down, and you’re telling me you don’t believe in a little ghost town?”
And sure, they've got a point, but still—
“Why don't people talk about it, then? Why’s it just a story?”
“If it really is such an odd place, wouldn’t it make sense to keep it private?” they counter, but it still doesn’t feel right.
“Then what’s the point in talking about it at all? Why keep proving that it’s fake instead of keeping it a secret?”
Luce shrugs, without an answer to that one. There’s something in the way they hold themselves now, like the concept of going there has them feeling uneasy as well. “Will you do it?” They ask instead.
You close your eyes for a second and take a deep breath. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. “Sure. When?”
“Sunday?” They suggest, and you shake your head with a wince.
“I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll be back on Sunday, but in the evening maybe.” you tell them, watching them give you a sympathetic smile. “I could skip classes on Monday or Tuesday.”
“I’ve got a day off on Monday,” they say, sending you their biggest, brightest smile. “Great.”
You just shake your head and turn back to the TV.
[[Next->13]]Back when you were little, somewhere in a long-forgotten past, an older couple was living across the street. There isn't much to remember, except them coming over once or twice to babysit and your mother crying when they ended up passing away in the hospital, a few months after one another. The house sat empty then, with windows boarded up and neighbors making sure no local kids vandalized it.
When you were around the age of six, the house began getting renovated, the backyard mowed and outside painted; after a few weeks someone moved in — a lady and her son, about your age, both with a sad, distant look in their eyes. You weren't quite old enough to fully understand, but maybe that's for the best; you didn't think of it too much, didn't ask many questions.
The first time you met was when your father – since your mother was out somewhere – took you to introduce yourselves. He even made those muffins with strawberries that you really liked; still do. The woman was incredibly sweet when she welcomed the two of you and complimented your favorite sweater, which for some reason is still incredibly clear in your memory. Her son introduced himself as Finn, immediately grabbed your hand, and ran to the backyard to show you his dinosaur collection.
And that's it. Sometimes you wish it wasn't such a regular story, but it very much was. You were neighbors and there weren't many kids your age in the area so you kept to yourselves. The town is small, so you only had one school and ended up classmates. Your father worked night shifts sometimes, and Finn's mother was out of town most weekends, so they took turns babysitting until you grew up enough.
You spent so much time together, orbiting around each other for so many years you might've been the same person, with basically the same interests, comfortable with each other like with no one else. No one compared to him. And you may be biased because he was your only friend for most of your life, but there was no one – and you don't think there will ever be – that even understood you like that. His bedroom was your biggest safe space, but you can't help but wonder if it was the room itself or just the fact that it was his.
You wish there was more to it. But you did genuinely think you were some sort of soulmates; no other friendships were special like that. You were each other's number one, made plans for the future, and then your world stopped.
[[Next->14]]It went like this:
Finn's 18th birthday fell on a Friday.
It was a big deal, sort of. But all you did was gather the few other friends you had, order food, and sat in his backyard playing board games and talking. Turning 18 calls for having deep conversations with your friends, really.
You remember him being excited about the future, about the prospect of getting out and moving onto bigger things in bigger cities, and it was a good time to start to think about it because you were going into your last year of high school, you had all the time in the world—
On Saturday morning you left for the weekend; a trip out of town, an aunt’s birthday– maybe. Your memory of those days is a bit blurry. But you texted him throughout it – nothing was outright wrong. The time spent with family was alright, if not a bit boring – you didn’t really know most of the people there, but you were excited to go home and tell him all the family secrets you learned.
On Sunday he didn’t reply to your texts, but you thought he was busy with something, or that maybe he was still sleeping off his birthday celebration. It’s fine, you thought. You were going to see him soon anyways.
Except—
You got back home on Sunday evening, and almost immediately went to bed.
On Monday, right past noon, his mother came to your house, shaken, saying that he was missing. She said she came home from work the previous day and he was just gone, all his essentials; phone, laptop, clothes – all missing. She couldn’t get a hold of him, and none of his friends knew where he was, and when she asked you if maybe he told you anything—
It felt like the ground caved in underneath you. You tried calling and texting him, but his phone was off the entire time and none of your messages from Sunday had been read.
The next few days– weeks, really, were a blur. You got together with a handful of other people, asked around, called friends living somewhere else, drove around all the neighboring cities and villages, put up posts on social media, and gave the police statement after statement, all while praying and hoping for anything. You didn't come back to school until January, months spent sleepless and scared, sitting in your backyard and the fields, going to the woods and //waiting, waiting, hoping// that he would show up.
He never did.
[[Next->15]]They say that the first 72 hours are the most crucial after a person goes missing. People’s memory is fresh, possible leads are easier to find, and most importantly - a large percentage of people are found before those three days pass.
When Finn disappeared, people didn’t know anything, there were no leads, and he never returned.
It’s like he never existed at all.
Thing is, even after all of this time, the police only managed to come to a couple of conclusions:
1. There were zero signs; he didn't say anything, didn't show anything, didn't do anything out of the ordinary.
2. The way he left his room showed signs that he might've been in a hurry — only taking essentials, leaving mess and disarray in certain spots, like he was hurriedly looking for specific things and didn't have time to clean it up.
3. The last time he was seen was at a train station the next town over, two days after he left; he looked shaken and worn out, and all the belongings were still on him.
4. He does have a history of mental health problems, and running away could mean that he was planning on taking his own life.
The police had their trackers, of course, but as it turns out, sometimes even supernatural abilities aren’t enough. They tried, but it was like he disappeared after boarding that train. And that was it. There really wasn't anything else they could do, considering the lack of leads. After about six months they told his mother they'd keep looking, but considering his past struggles with depression it was very likely he wouldn't come home alive.
You hated everything about it, were so angry because it //never made sense, none of it//. You knew him, knew everything about him, even things he wouldn't trust his mother with, it was always the two of you against the world and he was gone just like that. And you couldn't understand //why.//
[[Next->16]]
It's a miracle you managed to graduate despite it all, though it took a lot of willpower, time, and tutoring to catch up on everything you missed. The teachers were for the most part understanding – it's a small town, so most of them were familiar with Finn's mother; it's safe to say that everyone familiar with the two of them took it hard. You especially.
Therapy was essential, and the combination of it and medication definitely helped. Your therapist was the one to tell you that you need to leave. Not literally, but she did suggest staying on the same course, going to university, moving out, changing your environment; making new friends and being in a new city certainly wouldn't help you forget, but being away from a place that holds so many traumatic memories certainly has some benefits.
You weren't quite ready yet; though the need to leave was strong, the fear of the unknown was stronger. So you found a job in a nearby city, worked there for a year, and saved up money for your move. It wasn't as if your family couldn't support you financially, but it made it easier for them and took your mind off everything for as long as you needed. You don't think you'll ever work retail again, but you did what you need to do.
And you're here now, somehow; a year into living on your own, going to university, being surrounded by new people and not hating it and it's fine. Saying you've moved on would be a huge overstatement, but you're probably at your best since it happened, though nothing will be the same again, and neither will you. What happened in September those three years ago has left you with a Finn-shaped hole in your heart, and the passing time has begun to pull it back together, but it's held carefully with fraying thread, like the bluebells stitched onto the collar of his favorite jacket.
Your relationships suffered as well, obviously, with friends as well as family, because none of them really get it.
The friends you two were closest to took it hard, of course, they did, but it seems sometimes that they've moved on from it, albeit slowly.
Almost none of them are around anymore, both in the metaphorical and literal sense. It was somehow easier for them, to cut everyone off, leave somewhere far after graduation, put away the heartbreak, and store it away so it won't be touched. You don't think you'll ever be able to do that; no matter what, it feels like you're destined to always come back, to circle the city like a carrion bird.
Even the city itself feels different, odd in a way you can't quite name. Maybe it's just you, maybe it's all the memories attached, but you can't help but feel the dark storm cloud looming over your head whenever you come back.
And if that wasn't hard enough in itself, you are far from being the same person you were. Because, sure, you got better, but getting better meant that you had to let go of parts of yourself that you once considered crucial; but you also lost many parts of yourself along with the people you lost. You’re far from the person you were three years ago– hell, you’re far from the person you were when you first moved out. A part of you always feels wrong when you come home, like you don’t belong there anymore, like something that made the city feel like home isn’t there anymore, and you’re merely a guest, an intruder.
[[Next->17]]
The train station is just as dilapidated as it always has been, though the inside had gotten renovated sometime last year, the outside and the two platforms have certainly seen better days; sometimes you fear that a bad storm will just knock everything over. Still, you wrinkle your nose at all the memories of sitting there at night, in various states of sobriety, with people you’ll never see again.
There are many conflicting feelings when it comes to coming home. There are all of the obvious bad memories and trauma attached, of course, but on the other hand, it’s your home. For every bad memory, there are two good ones and it is so incredibly difficult to see that distinction sometimes. Still, not even the good times can make this place feel the way it used to.
Before heading home, you make your first stop; one that’s possibly more important than going to your own house, because it’s all a part of the reason why you’re here.
The house across the street from your own looks the way it always did, always in good condition, the backyard clean and pristine – and it’s all great, apart from the ache in your chest that comes whenever you see it, whenever you go there.
Still, you adjust your bags, make your way to the door and knock.
A few moments pass, and the familiar face and voice of the woman who’s almost been like a mother to you for most of your life comes to view.
"$name!" She exclaims, smiling at you; she always does, when you visit. She's looking a little better than last time, but you don’t think any amount of time is going to bring back the bright, cheery woman you remember from your childhood. There will always be a certain sadness with which she holds herself, clear in the gauntness of her cheeks and dimness behind her eyes.
You’re sure you don’t look much better.
“Hi, Sarah,” you say, letting her embrace you, sinking into the comfort easily. She’s one of the only good parts of returning home, really. “I just got back, thought I’d come to say hi.”
In those few years, you’ve gotten close to her, while drifting away from your own parents; they didn’t quite understand just what you were going through - but they were never as present as Sarah was. In a way, she’d always been like your mother, and after everything that’s happened, it rings even more true.
She pulls away after a moment, keeping her hands on your shoulders. “You look tired.” Her hand smooths over the top of your head, and the gesture is so comforting you could cry. “How about you go home and rest, and come by tomorrow? There’s something I’d like you to do.”
There's a shadow that passes across her face when she says it, and you already know what it means. The hole in your chest opens a little, leaking grief like acid rain in your gut.
"I think..–" Sarah stops herself, pressing her lips together. Her eyes shine with tears, and so do yours at the sight. "I think I want to clean out his room. I've been waiting for you to visit so you could take one last look, take things you'd like before I put them away."
You need to look away for a second and ignore the ache in your chest, store it away for now. "I'll— yeah, I'd love that. I'll come around noon?" You ask though you know it's fine. Sarah started working again last year, but always takes days off around anniversaries; she'd let you stay at her house for a whole week if you wanted to.
(You could. And you love her company, but being in the house hurts, still. You've got no idea how she can handle living there.)
"That's fine, honey." She says, the corners of her lips lifting just barely, and pulls you into another hug. "Go rest. We'll catch up tomorrow."
[[Next->18]]
Your house is empty. As it usually is these days. You're not quite sure where your mother is, and your father is working afternoon shifts, meaning he won't be back for another few hours. It's not like you blame them (maybe a little), they have to work, but it still hurts a bit that the only person who happily greets you is the mother of your (probably) dead best friend.
It's fine. You're used to it.
Still sleepy from the train ride and heavy-hearted from your conversation with Sarah, you go to leave your bag in your room. It hasn't changed at all since your last visit a month–maybe two months ago, but your plants are still alive and your sheets feel clean, which means someone took care of that in your absence. Very kind, considering what happened last time.
Which wasn't your fault, by the way. Your mother, who was home for once, drunk as she often is these days, made an offhand comment about you only visiting to sit at the cemetery, and never to see her. //I'm busy with school//, you replied because you didn't want to mention the fact that you don't see her anyway because she's never home. And your dad—
He said that //maybe it's time to get over him, $name//. He's not coming back.
Which, yes, maybe he's right, but it still hurts to be reminded of it. But then, your mother had the audacity to say that //we shouldn't have spent so much time looking for him anyway, he was probably dead in a ditch somewhere after a week.//
And that felt like getting struck in the face; you got up from the table, shaking with the anger coiling tight inside of you. Your throat was tight when you raised your voice at her, not quite yelling when you said that //she does ''not'' get to speak about him like that, she doesn't even know him because she's been absent your whole life// — and, sure, maybe that was a bit too far, and maybe you grabbing your things and spending the night at Sarah's house was a bit over dramatic, but they both know well it's an incredibly sensitive subject for you.
Your mother never apologized. Your dad also didn't, but he did say he should've been nicer about it and obviously felt bad.
Sure, he has a point; maybe still obsessing over someone who's been missing for 3 years isn't exactly healthy, but he just doesn't get it, and you're tired of explaining yourself.
You lay down for a second and take a deep breath. It's been a long day, and you feel a bit gross from the travel, but you don't know if you have enough energy for a whole shower. On the other hand, going to sleep might mean having a nightmare.
Some small part of you hopes that being in the safety of your childhood bedroom may help, but it never does.
[[Next->19]]
A bit reluctantly, you get up to grab a random pair of pajamas that's still in your wardrobe and all of your skincare products from your bag. You may be exhausted, but the routine keeps you sane.
Traveling always makes you feel disgusting, especially when it comes to public transport; you imagine it's a mixture of the dirtiness of the train station and the overall existence of old trains. Moving to a big city and having to rely on buses definitely took some getting used to.
What you didn't consider about taking a shower, is that it will leave you alone with your thoughts for some time, and frankly, you're not in the mood for that. It's too late for your mind to wander too far out, to the abandoned bedroom across the street, the cemetery gates, the city up the mountain.
Once you start, you won't be able to stop your thoughts, so you rush into your shower, and maybe you slip a little getting out. Maybe you bang your head on the wall. It's fine. No one is there to see it.
So you just turn on music, and you dry yourself off, get dressed, go through the entire routine of taking care of your skin, because, once again, it keeps you sane, gives you something to focus on. A quick text sent to your parents to let them know you’re home, and then you head to the kitchen, having barely eaten anything the whole day. And you don’t necessarily feel like eating, because you barely feel like eating anything these days, with the amount of constant stress and anxiety– but the amount of weight you’ve lost is concerning to your family and friends, and just mildly concerning to you, because you’re very aware it’s not healthy.
You make some tea – because you’ve been drinking copious amounts of it lately, and maybe it doesn’t actually help with anything, but it makes you feel just a little better. Then, you boil some pasta, grab a thankfully non-expired jar of sauce from the fridge, put it in with some more seasonings; and it’s not exactly a five-star dish, but it makes you feel a little better about putting in //some effort,// instead of eating just toast. And the fridge looks pretty empty, so you make a bigger portion, just in case your dad is hungry when he comes back. Because you’re a good kid like that.
The house is quiet in a familiar, almost comfortable way. A part of you wishes that at least your dad would be here, but at this point, after so many years, you’ve grown used to being home alone. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. So you eat your pasta in front of the TV, you finish your tea while it’s still warm, and then you just sit there. And wait. You text Luce idly, sending each other funny images, ignoring the elephant in the room that the trip has become, but you know yourself well, and you know Luce well, or at least you think, and you know well that the two of you likely won't talk about it until the day comes.
[[Next->20]]
It’s about nine or ten, when the lock turns, and you hear your father’s unmistakable, heavy footsteps walk in, the sound of his work boots being placed down, the rustle of his jacket being hung up. You don’t get up, but the smile on his face when he walks in makes your heart feel a bit lighter.
“Hey.” He says, walking over to the couch, leaning down to wrap his arm around your shoulders and kiss the top of your head before quickly letting go; you’ve never been a particularly touchy, affectionate family that talks about emotions, but things have been changing. “Your trip go okay?”
You let out a little confirmatory hum in response, making a bit of room on the couch in case he wants to sit down. “Yeah. No delays, no nothing,” you reply, shrugging a little at the small talk – you text and call semi-regularly, so there isn’t much to talk about. “I made pasta if you’re hungry.”
He lets out a relieved breath and squeezes your shoulder, seeming glad that he doesn’t have to cook. “Thanks, kid.” He sighs tiredly in response, but his tone is grateful. “I’ll eat after I shower.”
With another pat on your shoulder, he walks out of the living room, and you continue watching TV and checking your phone while the shower runs, tired and wanting to sleep, but knowing it’ll be nice to at least talk to him for a few moments, since you’re not home often and you’re leaving either tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. The shower stops running, and then there’s footsteps along the hallway, the kitchen, the sound of kitchenware and the microwave; and then he finally comes and sits down on the couch heavily next to you with the bowl of pasta.
“So,” he says, blunt but casual, because your father has never been the kind to beat around the bush. “You visit Sarah yet?”
You raise your eyebrow, watching as he eats – there’s something in the way he says it like he knows something you don’t; he probably does. He’s gotten close with Sarah, though not in a weird way. With how often he’s cared for Finn when we were kids, he was almost like a son to him, the way you were like Sarah’s own kid to her. They were both grieving in their own ways.
“Yeah. Why?” You ask, a bit cautious.
He looks over at you, shrugs, then gets back to eating. “Well, she’s gonna tell you everything.”
And you have to fight the urge to groan in frustration, because why does no one tell you anything?
“I’m going to her place around noon tomorrow.” You say, still a bit cautious. eyebrow raised, staring at him with a mildly confused expression. “She just said she wants me to take a look if I want any of Finn’s things before she packs them up.”
And maybe your throat tightens a bit at the mere thought of it, but it’s fine. You’re fine.
Your father gives you another look, another shrug, and doesn’t say anything else.
Ignoring the growing frustration, you shake your head and get up from the couch. “Right.” You mutter mostly to yourself. “I’m going to bed. G’night.”
“Night, kid.” He replies, and that’s that.
[[Next->21]]Your room is… nice. Tidy. But it doesn’t feel yours anymore, doesn’t have that same comfort and feeling of safety as it used to– almost nothing in this city does anymore.
All of your favorite belongings, pictures from walls, clothes– it’s all in your and Luce’s apartment, in your own, new, safe corner of the world. Here, it feels like you’re just a guest, like you’ve grown out of living there, no matter how familiar it is and always will be. Your bedsheets are a weird, flowery, random set because your favorite ones aren’t here, the blankets are old and slightly threadbare, the stuffed animals are random ones from the bottom of your closet.
It’s all yours, but it feels like someone else’s at the same time; like they belonged to a version of yourself that’s no longer you.
You try not to dwell on anything as you dig out your pill organizer and a water bottle from your backpack, swallow your medication, plug your phone in, turn the lights off and go to bed. A part of you is worried, as always, that being home will just heighten the nightmares, that no amount of anxiety medication and sleeping pills will help–
But after a bit of tossing and turning in the mild unfamiliarity of your bed, you fall asleep.
And you don’t dream.
[[Next->22]]It’s not very early when you finally wake up, feeling slightly more human, but you awaken to the muffled sounds of your parents arguing from their bedroom– and it’s almost sad how familiar it is, knowing that your mother came home late, likely drunk, and started arguing with your father first thing in the morning.
Whatever. They’re adults and can settle their problems by themselves. You know damn well you’ve done enough damage to yourself trying to mend their relationship as a kid.
So you try and tune them out as you get out of bed, then go on with your morning routine of taking your medication, brushing your teeth, washing your face, taking care of your skin, and getting dressed, before looking at the clock.
You’ve still got some time. Maybe you should come by the cemetery before going to Sarah’s.
And it sounds like a good enough idea, so you force some toast and tea down your throat because Luce always reminds you to eat breakfast, grab your backpack, put on your jacket and shoes, and leave the house, the sounds of an argument echoing in your ears.
The city is small enough, and the walk to the cemetery is ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most; though you may have gotten a little spoiled after being able to use public transport even with the smallest distances, back in the city.
And it’s a whole myriad of different emotions because you have to walk toward the outskirts of the city, down streets that you used to frequent when you were younger, past your old highschool, past houses of people you’re no longer in contact with. And it’s not the same crushing grief you feel in other places – just that odd, bittersweet pull of nostalgia in your gut, a yearning for times that were simpler and didn’t hurt as much.
But seeing the cemetery gates is different. Because it’s nothing but painful, because it’s just a reminder of how many people you lost in your life, and it makes your throat tighten because some of those wounds still aren’t healed.
Your steps are heavy when you head towards that one secluded corner, away from most graves, your shoes sinking a little bit into the mud, making your footsteps almost deafening to your own ears.You make a stop on the way there, at the small stand where an elderly woman sells candles and flowers; and she gives you a sad little smile, because she knows you almost too well, has seen you more than enough times, that she doesn’t even bother to make small talk.
And then you keep walking, the weight of candles in their little glass coverings rattling in your backpack seeming a lot more heavy than they actually are. The alleys make way to a smaller field, and there it is, tucked in the corner, beneath an old yew tree, a singular headstone.
[[Next->23]]Finn's funeral wasn't really a funeral and his grave isn't exactly a grave.
But that's just the short version.
Though legally he couldn't be considered dead just yet, because he had only been missing for two years at that point (out of the required five years), everyone in your environment had come to terms with the fact that he most likely was. Even you had, no matter how much you tried to ignore it at first.
And surprisingly enough, it was Sarah's therapist who first suggested the idea, which in your opinion was quite unorthodox and slightly strange, but you're not a professional, so who knows. He said that although she'll never quite accept it and will always on some level be looking for him, having something like that, something that symbolizes him not coming back might be helpful. You didn't think Sarah would do it, since she seemed very skeptical of the idea, but she did – it's not like she had more to lose.
Normally you'd imagine it's not that easy to hold a "funeral" and "bury" someone who's only presumed dead, but it's a small town. Stranger things have happened.
So last summer, in the height of August you stood under the sweltering sun and watched as an empty wooden box was lowered into the ground and a headstone placed, one that was made of light gray stone and simply said his full name and date of birth, carved in thin, black letters. The inscription, you've stared at it so many times it's burned into the backs of your eyelids, haunting both your waking moments and your nightmares.
But you visit, of course you do, on holidays and birthdays and anniversaries and important occasions, sitting in the grass, knowing he's not there but still hoping he'd be able to hear you, wherever he is. And as much as you hate to admit it, it's helped you as well, in its weird way. You hope, still, that he's not dead, but after so long you know just how impossible it is.
And it serves as an actual, physical reminder, that you should move on.
[[Next->24]]Which, okay, //to be fair//, you've been trying. Moving away, and surrounding yourself with other people has helped; you don't think of him on a daily basis anymore, unless you dream about him, which does happen often, unfortunately.
But being away from all of this, living in a place that carries no traumatic memories feels almost wrong. His disappearance somehow wasn't a bigger scale event, so meeting new people and them not knowing, not having to talk about him, not being bombarded with questions and well wishes—
It's a stark contrast to what your life used to be. You definitely don't miss it, but it feels like you've picked up a mask in your new home; like you're a different person when detached from him. It feels off, to go through life without having a badge of trauma pinned next to your name, but your therapist said that maybe it’s for the best.
Maybe he’s right.
The headstone looks nice and tidy, but the flowers standing below it are wilted and dry, so you take them out first, as well as some burnt-out candles; not many people are at the cemetery right now, which is equal parts unnerving and comforting. You got some new, nicer candles, and some wildflowers the old lady had; his favorite.
The grave itself is situated close to an aged yew tree; it’s not particularly sunny, but it seems like it may rain soon, which makes you glad for the cover. It is objectively a very nice place to spend time, but you may be biased considering you spent a large part of the past three years there. And even though you don’t come often anymore, it’s nice to know he’s still remembered, by people who are not in your closest circle
And even if Finn is still out there, still alive, there still is some comfort in knowing that his memorial is still being thought of.
His and… //everyone else's. //
The anniversary of his disappearance is always tough. It’s always hard to think about all the loose ends, of all the questions left unanswered, of the way the grief becomes even heavier when you remember it.
But you’re trying to get over it, to get better, and in an unusual display of mental strength, you only spend a moment to make sure everything is nice and tidy, only a moment to sit with all the longing and the grief, before you stand up and leave.
[[Next->25]]
You bought a surplus of candles and a few flowers specifically for that reason: to visit all the other people you've lost in those three years. Though there are not as many of them as you once feared it would be, it's still painful to remember what has become of all of you.
A part of you feels bad for only coming back here for Finn-related anniversaries when there are so many others you're missing; you try to rationalize it, by saying that he's been your closest friend your whole life, and all the others you've known for a shorter amount of time, but… —
It doesn't really matter, though, does it?
As you're thinking about the order in which you should visit everyone, you see a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye and walk across the path to a gravestone you've sat at many times as well.
[[Next->26]]
Ilya was a year older than the two of you, but his birthday was a few days before Finn's, meaning they often ended up celebrating together. You met him on a particularly unlucky night when you went to a different city to visit a museum for a school project, and couldn't come back home, because the only train that went in your direction was canceled. He approached you as you were frantically phoning everyone who could possibly pick you up, but to no avail; you would normally never get into a car with a stranger, but you've seen him around your high school with some of the people you talked to, and you've exchanged some small talk before.
All in all, it was a pretty good experience – as it turns out, you two had similar music tastes, and you blasted your favorite songs, got some gas station coffee, and ended up in a field a few kilometers from your town, sitting on the hood of his car and getting to know each other.
It went easy after that – you'd hang out after school sometimes, or go on drives on nights when you couldn't sleep and circle mindlessly. He was your second closest friend for a while, right after Finn, but the relationships were vastly different.
You've known Finn for most of your life; so long that there was no getting to know each other, not doing anything new together, or talking about anything new because you've existed around each other for so long that you were basically the same person. And because you've known each other for so long, there still happened to be things that you wouldn't tell him about or wouldn't do, because there was a fear somewhere in you, that he'd see you in a different light.
Friendship with Ilya came easily. He was one of those people that you just click with, and the two of you got close in no time. You found out that you two could talk about anything, though you were a lot different; but no one was as good of a listener as him, and the two of you have opened up and told each other things you'd otherwise never say out loud.
Ilya took your secrets to the grave, and you will do the same with his.
He died in December, a week before the holidays, a year after Finn. His car was hit by another one and skidded on the icy countryside road, eventually slamming into a tree. He didn't survive.
Getting that phone call that evening was the second worst thing that's happened to you. For that whole year, you were each other's biggest support, because while he was not as close with Finn as he was with you, they were still good friends and the situation hit Ilya hard; losing both of them in such a short period of time felt like being stranded in the middle of a deep, dark ocean, with no land in sight and no stars to guide you.
Those holidays were the saddest, most dysfunctional ones you've ever experienced. You had to spend time with your own family, though you didn't celebrate, and then with Sarah, because her son was missing, and then with Ilya's family because their son was dead and they knew you were mourning as well. It broke your heart to know that you were a reminder to them, a piece of their sons that was still alive.
You haven't seen them in a while, both Ilya and his parents. It came from the desperate need to cut yourself off from anyone and anything back home, to forget everything that happened; but you know it's not the right thing to do. The guilt creeps up on you whenever you think about it, about how you never came by their house when you were back for a few days, or about how you only ever went to see Finn's grave and completely forgot about your other best friend.
Maybe it's time to move forward – in starting to get over Finn, you can process the grief from losing other people important to you. It was never the time for that earlier when all of your time was spent looking for him.
[[Next->27]]
Making sure to step loudly to not alert the person sitting on the ground in front of the grave, you slowly walk up to them and lower yourself to the ground.
The person turns their head to look at you, and recognition flashes in their eyes. "$name!"
"Hey, Nads." You smile, some of the unease slipping off your shoulders.
Nadia is Ilya's younger sibling – it is 2 years younger than you, and it's fascinating to see how much it has changed since you've last seen each other. You remember when you first met them when you came to Ilya's house – back then it was finishing middle school, and now they’re close to graduating, which is unbelievable to you.
They look more grown, of course, but with age, you can really see how much it looks like it’s brother. The eyes are the same – large and dark brown, contrasting the pale skin, with the same kindness radiating from them. The nose and the mouth are almost the same; where Ilya was a bit softer, with more rounded cheeks and an aquiline nose, Nadia is a bit sharper, their nose straighter and cheeks gaunter – but you guess it's less genetics and more the result of a few rough years. Their hair is short, too, jaw length with straight bangs, but Ilya always wore his hip-long dark hair with pride.
You finally sit down on the ground next to it, letting your eyes lock onto the headstone in front of you; the dim gold of the lettering against the dark stone, the black and white picture of Ilya next to it.
You haven't told anyone, but you've always hated that choice; it's not even a happy picture of him, you're pretty sure it's the same one that was in his passport and ID, and it feels wrong. It feels wrong to take what Ilya was, warm and bright– and turn it into something bland, clinical. Nadia shared that sentiment, and it has always been vocal about it, but their parents claimed it was the proper way to do it.
"I haven't seen you in a while," Nadia comments, making itself more comfortable on the ground. Thankfully their skirt is the perfect color to not show any possible dirt.
Church bells ring out from somewhere to your left, and the memory of your latest dreams makes a shiver run down your entire body.
"I know, I just–" you stop yourself, biting the inside of your cheek in thought. If you were the same person you were two years ago, you would've lied and said you were busy, but it doesn't feel right to lie to Nadia. "I don't know why I haven't been here. I mean– I have, but…"
They exhale what could've been a humorless laugh. "Only for Finn, I know."
You wonder if they feel abandoned by you, in any way. The two of you got a bit closer in the period between Ilya's passing and your moving out, but since you've started university the contact has dwindled down to occasional texts. It's mostly your fault – yet another thing you could chalk up to not wanting any reminders of what happened back home.
"I'm sorry," you say finally, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Nadia raise their thin, dark eyebrows. "It's– there's no excuse for me neglecting everyone and everything. I guess I just want to be better."
It must sound a bit ridiculous, you having a sudden change of heart after three years, but you imagine it's better late than never. However, it's hard to tell if it's still possible for you to make things right.
It hums in response, knocking its shoulder against yours. "I guess you've talked to Finn's mom, then."
Nadia leans forward on its knees and brushes a stray leaf off the grave. When they speak next, there's a well-known hint of sadness coloring their voice.
"My parents want us to move."
You move a bit so you can get a better look at them; their eyebrows are furrowed in a deep frown as it looks down at its clasped hands, at one of Ilya's rings snug on their thumb.
"Do you want to?" You ask, gently, because you know it's still a raw topic, after all this time. It makes sense to you, why they would do it, in the same way, you understand why Sarah is doing it. But you understand why it doesn't have to be a good thing.
The wind picks up a bit, rustling in the trees; if you pretend really hard, you can claim it's like a hushed whisper.
An acorn falls onto the grave and the two of you reach out to brush it off at the same time.
//"I don't want to leave him,"// Nadia confesses, so quiet it's barely more than a thought. The tone of their voice is strikingly familiar and for a flash it makes you see the scared, heartbroken teenager that clung to your arm at Ilya's funeral.
[[Next->28]]
And it's— yeah. You know exactly what it is feeling. It's the same feeling that followed after you until you moved out, like a particularly harmful shadow, that still makes itself known on some days. It's the guilt of having the choice to move on with your life, the fear of forgetting them, the crushing reality of one day growing older than they ever were.
In your case— with Finn, you mourn what you could've had together. You were supposed to graduate together, go somewhere for the summer, live together, and have your dream life; your future was always supposed to be intertwined.
And here you are, three years later, having to navigate through life he isn't a part of.
Nadia's case is a bit sadder; or a lot sadder, you think. They were always the younger sibling, always in Ilya's shadow in one way or another. And though you and Finn were around each other for almost the entirety of your lives, it doesn't really compare; you know their relationship as siblings was different. Ilya was their hero, and he always made sure he was a good brother to them before a good friend to anyone else. You remember clearly, the first time you met Nadia was when you and Ilya were supposed to go to a party, but they had gotten sick and he asked if you'd like to come and hang out at their house instead. It was still an awkward middle schooler back then, but that didn't stop you from actually having a good time, better than you expected to.
And here it is, three years later, only a year short of outliving their older brother.
You're not quite sure what to say in this situation. Nothing in the world would make it better, and if you know Nadia as well as you think you do, mindless comfort isn't needed either.
"Staying here won't do you any good," you decide to say, straightening up a little bit. Nadia's eyes bore into the side of your face. "He's the only thing keeping you here, but Nads– you will never move on like this."
"Maybe I don't want to move on," It replies weakly, voice wavering; but you know it agrees. And you know how hard it is to accept that.
"I know." You say, reaching out to gently grab their wrist. "You know damn well I am still not over it. But life goes on whether you like it or not, and I wish I had some better advice to give you besides saying that there's no way to go but forward." You give their arm a little shake to make your point, then let go.
Nadia frowns at first but nods and blinks the tears away from their eyes. Their phone goes off, but they turn towards you instead. "Are you leaving today?"
"Tomorrow morning, I think. Sarah wanted me to come over to go through some of Finn's things."
It hums in response and gets up, pausing halfway to hug you. "Mom came to pick me up. Text me soon?"
"I'll try." You reply with a smile and send them off with a wave and a thumbs-up.
[[Next->29]]
It's getting late. Not in the literal sense, but if you want to go to Sarah's house, you should leave soon; though it adds to the overall guilt, the fact that you’re leaving so soon.
Well.
You dig the candle out of your backpack and fumble around with the lighter for a bit before putting the lid on and placing it on the grave gently. The flame flickers in the slight breeze, light reflecting around the red glass, and you frown; you kind of wish you had thought of buying something nicer, like a pack of cigarettes or that disgusting white chocolate he really liked.
He’s dead. It really shouldn’t matter.
Whatever. To you it does.
“Sorry, man.” You mumble, rearranging the candles and flowers that are a permanent fixture there, for a lack of things to do with your hands. “I just really wish you were here.”
[[Next->30]]
The walk from the cemetery to Sarah’s house feels even heavier, and you walk slowly and don’t take any shortcuts, to prolong the inevitable, but you know you need to do it, know that it has to happen.
So you walk and you walk, and you try to not think about it, mentally beating yourself up for forgetting your earbuds, because the music would’ve drowned out your thoughts at least a little bit.
But soon enough you see your own house, as well as the familiar one across the street, and your heart feels heavy when you walk up to knock on the door.
Sarah opens the door, looking a bit more in disarray than usual, like she’s been busy with something; but the smile on her face is still comforting.
“Come in, honey,” she says warmly, and you can’t help but smile as well as you take off your jacket and shoes. “I’m glad you’re here.”
The way she leads you over to the kitchen and pours you a glass of tea is comforting in how familiar it is, because the routine has been the same for years. But—
Your heart drops when she points to a chair at the table, and as you sit down, you realize that everything is getting slowly packed into boxes, pictures gone from walls, cardboard boxes labeled KITCHEN and BATHROOM standing on counters and in the hallway.
“You’re moving.” You say, and it’s nothing more than a statement. When you take a sip of the tea, it’s lukewarm, but it’s sweetened the exact way you like it; and the fact that she still remembers it makes you ache a little bit.
The smile she sends your way is only a bit sad around the edges, but she nods. “I’m selling the house, dear,” she answers, and the words hurt just a bit. “It’s… better that way. I found a nice apartment out in the city. A change of scenery will do me some good.”
And you know exactly what she means, know just how hard it was for her to get used to living in that large, empty house by herself – and something tells you that it’s still not easy.
“Mm, definitely,” you reply, because you know exactly how true it is. “Might be nice to get out of here.”
Because you know that as difficult as it is for you to be here, the suffocating weight of memories of every corner of the small town must be even heavier for her.
“Do you… need any help packing everything up?” You ask, because it can’t be easy to do by yourself.
Sarah just smiles, patting your arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry about that, $name. Your dad offered to help already, and I’ve got some friends coming over tomorrow.” It doesn’t really surprise you that your father offered, but you can’t help but smile a little, that she has someone to aid in her healing journey. “I just want you to go through Finn’s room, take anything you’d like. Maybe I’ll donate other things, so someone else can have some use of them.”
And it’s obvious that it hurts her a little, letting go of everything. Because she kept everything, in a futile hope that he’ll come back. But time passes, and we all have to move on.
“That’s good,” you say, forcing a smile on your face, but she sees right through it, because her hand squeezes your wrist in support. “I’ll see what’s there, see if there’s anything I want.”
You finish the tea, and the two of you stand up from the table. Sarah’s hand rubs your back gently, and then she goes to the living room filled with open boxes, and you walk down the hallway with a heavy heart, to the room you know all too well.
[[Enter.->31]]
His room is exactly like he left it, frozen in time; Sarah cleans it, of course, and you used to come to help her do it for the first few months, but slowly gave up as you began to realize that he might not come home. Still, there was a certain comfort in ensuring everything was in place, clean, and safe if he were to come back.
And, sure, there were also a few times when you trashed his room, desperate to look for any clues, anything that could help with the investigation; in hindsight, it just made things worse for you - not finding anything, coming to the realization that he was gone, just like that, certainly didn’t do anything good for your already deteriorating mental health.
Now, it’s odd. The room that you’ve spent so much time in, it might’ve been your own, cold and empty; it feels like a shrine to him, in a way. A memorial untouched, left to exist in a world where he may not.
It looks like Sarah has already started gathering some things up: boxes filled with textbooks and school papers, comics, and photo albums, are standing in the corner. You try not to think too much about how you two never got to graduate together.
You’re not quite sure where to start - you don’t want to take too many things (though you know for a fact Sarah would let you), but it’s difficult to decide on what you want. Well, you do know, but…
Starting off with the easy things. You walk over to the desk and look at the photos taped to the wall, letting your eyes wander as you begin to slowly peel them off.
The first one was taken on his 8th (or 9th?) birthday; he’s wearing the ridiculous red and yellow striped sweater that Sarah always made him wear on special occasions and scrunching his face in disgust as you try to put a party hat on him, which wasn’t easy because you broke your left arm falling off a swing a week prior. But there’s a wide smile on your face, and a very poorly drawn cat on your cast, next to signatures from your other friends. While you don’t remember that day well, it still makes you feel warm to think about it.
Some of the other ones you have your own copies of - the ones taken on your first day of elementary and middle school, or from the time your families went on vacation together. You leave them alone in a pile at the edge of the desk for Sarah to take.
The more recent ones still hurt to look at.
There’s one taken on the bus on a school trip - he’s grinning towards the camera, eyes sparkling and phone in hand, and you have your head on his shoulder and your mouth open, deep in sleep. You remember that trip fondly; you made fun of him the whole time because his hair was in that awkward growth stage after he buzzed it off, and he kept making awful jokes while you were in a museum, resulting in a lecture from the teachers for not behaving appropriately.
Another one was taken at someone’s birthday party, but you can’t quite remember who it was. The two of you are sitting in their kitchen, you on the floor and him on the counter, hugging a bag of chips to his chest. You’re pointing at him with your eyebrows furrowed, and he’s holding a hand up defensively; whatever the discussion was, it wasn’t serious, but it’s funny to see you so invested.
The last one was taken very shortly before he disappeared, and it’s by far the most painful one. You’re in Ilya’s bedroom, with him sitting on the bed with his guitar and you in his desk chair, both laughing at Finn, who’s laying on the floor covering his face, next to a discarded board game. In the mirror you can see the reflection of Nadia taking the picture, trying their best to contain a smile.
You blink away the tears gathering in your eyes and put the pictures away, looking around to see what else could be important to you. You hate the finality of it, as much as you understand Sarah’s decision, the thought that the house will be sold and someone else will eventually live there makes your heart break a little. The thought that this space, carefully preserved for him, will not be there anymore, it will never again be his, the last memorial of him gone, crushes you.
Maybe your father was right. Maybe it’s time to move on.
But first…
[[Clothes ->32a]]
[[Jewelry ->32b]]
He didn’t take many clothes when he left, but his favorite shirts and jacket are gone; but in the back of the closet, you can see another jacket he liked - a huge, black, denim one, with a few random band patches and sunflowers painted on the sleeves. You’ve always liked it, and always thought he looked a lot more vibrant in it.
There’s one more thing - a dark blue crewneck with the smiling face of a bear on it. It’s worn and has been washed many times, but feeling the soft fabric is strangely soothing. You take both items of clothing out of the closet and fold them neatly, putting them in your bag.
[[Next->33]]
He was not a big jewelry person, but you know there are a few things in the little ornate box on his dresser that he didn’t take with him. There’s a wide, silver ring he got as a birthday gift, inscribed with his birthday on the inside, and a necklace with a piece of amethyst that you helped him pick.
You put the two in your pocket.
[[Next->33]]You gather a few more things — a few jacket patches, a stuffed animal, some trinkets he really liked (for safekeeping, you lie to yourself), then sit down on his bed and try not to break down.
It's the end of a chapter, for you and for Sarah. As much as it kills you to think, that maybe not having this place anymore is good; it does nothing except make the grief more apparent, and keep the wound open and festering. Locking it away and leaving seems… freeing, in a way. You'll hate to see it gone, but there's no other way for you to heal.
Standing up, you find the room a very good look, committing as much of it to memory as possible. It now exists alongside all of its versions throughout the years, like when it had yellow walls with dinosaurs painted on them, or white walls with an insane amount of greenery; it looks sad now, dark green walls bare, everything packed in boxes– but that's just part of the journey. May someone else make good memories in there.
Your bag now full of items and the weight of grief coating them, you walk back out, and closing the door to his bedroom feels like closing a chapter.
“I–uh, I think I’ve got everything I need.” You say once in the living room, looking around awkwardly, making Sarah chuckle from her spot by the bookshelf.
“Good, honey.” She says lightly as she puts a stack of books into a box, giving you another warm look. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”
And you can’t possibly refuse her. Because, firstly, it’s //Sarah.// And she’s been like a mother to you all these years, and you’re home so rarely that it’d feel impolite, and also, you do want to spend some time with her. And, secondly, it’s the last time you’ll be able to eat at this house, and you think that a goodbye is in order.
“Yeah,” you say, and your throat is just a bit tight with the implications. “Sure, yeah. I’d love to.”
[[Next->34]]
You two sit down at the kitchen table, and you eat the casserole she made, and you ask her about her moving plans. She’s already gotten an apartment and a job in the nearest city, she knows some people there, and all in all, it seems like things are finally looking up for her.
Good. She deserves the best after all that she’s been through in life.
She asks about university, about your friends, about how you’re holding up– and it’s nice. She never makes you feel like she’s just asking for the sake of asking, like she sees you as an extension of Finn in any way, no. She spent years taking care of you in various ways, and you’re someone that she genuinely cares about, whether her son is in the picture or not. And it’s nice.
And you sit around, and you talk, and she makes more tea, and she talks about what’s been happening while you were gone, and before you know it, it’s already the evening.
and she knows your train back is tomorrow morning, so she sends you off with a few slices of carrot cake in a plastic container, a promise to call, a kiss on the forehead, and a piece of paper with her new address scribbled on it.
And for the first time in a long while, you feel //lighter// when you leave her house and go back home.
[[Next->35]]Your parents are both out somewhere when you walk through the door, and once again, you’re a bit saddened, but not surprised that they’re not even here, even though you’re leaving so soon; but you know your father has to work, and your mother–
Well.
You try not to dwell on it too much.
You spend the last hours being back home in your bed with your laptop, clicking between a game and some assignments you have to start doing soon, just looking at them; you’ve still got time to do them. It’s fine.
After checking three times to make sure you bought the train ticket for the correct day, you reply to a few texts from Luce and Riss, see some messages in your university groupchats about homework that you ignore, then finally put your phone down and plug it in. Only dreading sleeping a little bit, you shower, do your whole routine, take medication, pack everything back in your bag and backpack to have it ready for tomorrow morning, then lay down and hope for a restful sleep.
[[Next->36]]>> //Though you're bundled in layers of clothing and a thick blanket your teeth still chatter as you stare out into the backyard, the bare skeletons of trees barely visible against the night sky.
It's far too cold and far too late to be sitting out here, but you've done it a thousand times before. The presence next to you is so familiar it's comforting, but you know better than to trust it.
There's a bottle of wine, the cheapest one you could find, on the table between the two of you and you reach for it, hoping it'll at least warm you a bit. The taste of sulfur with a hint of cherry burns as it goes down your throat.
The click of a lighter almost echoes in the dead silence of the night.
The smell of Ilya's menthol cigarettes reaches your nose, acrid but as familiar as the smell of your elementary school classroom, invoking a deep, painful sense of nostalgia somewhere within your guts.
"Really makes you wonder," he starts, and you dare to turn your head a bit, the burning cherry just a dot in your peripheral vision. "if maybe you're the catalyst."
"Are you saying it's my fault?" You answer. It's always hard to tell if you should speak in these dreams, if it'll make things worse, if your unconscious mind will twist your words and trigger another bad thing to happen.
"''Do you blame yourself?''"
Of course. Losing your best friend, looking for him for years, dedicating life, and losing sleep only for him to truly be gone, is one thing. Having to bury your other best friend a year later—
"Are you the curse?" He asks, and there's a quality to his voice that wasn't there before; something deeper, darker, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You don't want to respond.
You pause to take a breath, then decide to turn to face him.
Ilya looks back at you, skin pale and waxy, in a crisp suit, looking the exact same way as the last time you saw him, laying motionless in the dark oak coffin. His eyes are foggy, looking but unseeing. Your throat tightens.
"Maybe it's you." He says, and his mouth moves unnaturally as if he were a puppet. You can't stand to look at him. But—
You blink, and everything shifts; it's no longer Ilya's backyard and he's no longer there. You're in your old apartment, at the kitchen table, looking past the cracks in the walls and at Luce, who's looking straight at you.
Their whole body looks mangled, face bloodied and neck bent at an unnatural angle, wheezing breaths leaving their lungs as they struggle to stay upright in the chair.
"Maybe it's you." They say, voice crackling from a crushed throat. "What if it keeps happening? Will you blame yourself?"
The question echoes. Bile rises in your throat.
''Will you blame yourself?''//
[[Next->37]]
It takes all of your willpower to keep the contents of your stomach inside once your eyes open. You stare at your lap for what feels like hours, taking deep breaths and desperately trying to think about things that aren't your roommate being dead–
Those are the worst kind of dreams, you think. The ones involving Finn or Ilya, they hurt– will always hurt – but any of the ones involving Luce, or Riss, or any person important to you that's still alive, shift your entire perception for a while; and though you try not to show it, it turns you into someone paranoid and overprotective, almost obsessive in your desire to make sure nothing bad happens to them.
Luce is used to it at this point and is willing to indulge your insanity if it keeps you calm. Riss hasn't felt the full effect of your nightmare-induced anxiety, but maybe that's for the best.
The early morning light shines through the windows, and you take a moment to stare at the dust motes in the light, dazed and nauseous, your hands shaking where they’re curled in the blankets in a white-knuckled grip.
Your hand grabs the phone and calls the number before you can really stop it, your eyes now closed and your knees drawn up to your chest, your forehead pressing into your legs.
Luce’s voice comes through the receiver, low and groggy. “$name,” they mumble, and you hear them sipping water through a straw. “It’s 6am.”
But there’s no anger or annoyance or resentment– or anything, in their voice.They just sound mildly inconvenienced at being woken up so early.
“Sorry, sorry.” You reply, a bit out of breath, voice just a little strained. “I just–”
“I know.” They cut you off, and their tone is a bit reassuring. “Deep breaths. I’m good, you’re good. Everything’s fine.”
As embarrassing as it is for you now, they’re a good friend. They’ve talked you down from enough panic attacks and sat with you through too many sleepless nights to not understand what’s happening.
And you sit there for a few moments, just focusing on calming down, listening to their breathing – steady and clear – on the other side, nodding even though they can’t see it.
“Thanks, Luce,” you say after a few minutes, the pressure on your chest easing a little bit. “I’ll–uh, let you go back to sleep, yeah? I’ll be back around noon.”
“Alright,” they mutter, already sounding half-asleep. “See you.”
And then the call disconnects and you’re left in your bed, mildly rattled, just staring at the wall until you snap out of it and rub a hand over your face in exhaustion. There’s still three hours left until your train, and the station is close enough, but there’s no use in going back to sleep; so you get out of bed, take your medication, and go to make some tea.
Your parents still seem to be asleep, so you don’t want to wake them up, and keep your movements quiet as you make some peppermint tea and toast, because taking your pills on an empty stomach makes it hurt sometimes. It doesn’t taste good, but nothing ever does after waking up like that – but it’s better than nothing.
You sit around for over two hours. Your parents don’t wake up.
It’s fine. You’ll just leave a note.
So you get dressed, leave a note, grab your things and head to the train station.
And it feels a lot like closure.
[[Next->38]]It's hard to explain the finality that falls over you as you board the train. You've felt something like it before; when Ilya picked you up from your high school graduation with a sad smile, when you sat in a field alone following Finn's "funeral", when you finished unpacking your things in your first apartment, when you sat in Nadia's room trying to process your losses. It's the nauseating, sinking feeling of not being able to control the passage of time, of the whole world moving on while your personal galaxy seems to have frozen with you in the middle of it, not ready, never ready to accept those changes.
This time it's even harder, you think, but only because it's the true ending. Soon there will be nothing connecting you to your hometown anymore apart from a grave and a name on a tombstone. Soon the house across the street will fall into disrepair, just like it was before Finn. Soon Ilya's house, always loud, always lively, will stay as silent as your own house growing up.
Sometimes you wish you weren't the only one left.
[[Next->39]]There is something so ridiculously depressing about going back home for the weekend and going back with a bag filled with your //(most likely)// dead best friend's things, and the lingering memory of your actually dead best friend. Times are changing, and the spaces carefully kept alive for them will eventually disappear, meaning you have to become that place. And somehow you never thought you would.
You'd still like to believe that Finn is out there, somewhere. Somewhere where he is safe and happy, and doesn't bother thinking about his past. But after all this time, after three entire years, something tells you that that's a bit too optimistic.
One day he was in your life, and the next day he wasn't. Simple as that.
And yet, you still can't handle it. Not even therapy and medication helped as much as you'd like it to, but maybe you were hoping for too much because you genuinely have no idea how it's something you could just get better with.
You've never been good with loss.
It was mildly easier to "get over" Ilya – his death was sudden, too sudden, and it shouldn't have happened in the first place, but it did. And at the very least, you got closure. You got to say your last goodbye to him, got to see his coffin being lowered into the ground. There was a finale. And you miss him more than you're able to describe, but you know that that's it. No matter what you do, it won't bring him back.
Finn, in a perfect world, is still alive.
[[Next->40]]
But, sometimes when you're visiting home during the summer, you go to the places you used to frequent back before everything happened. You sit on your worn out blanket, gaze at how bright the stars are back there, and try not to think of the two empty spaces beside you, or how the only sound is the quiet song of crickets.
After Finn, when it was just the two of you, it was easier. The hurt was there, bright and sharp, but sharing the burden helped.
And then Ilya was gone, and you've never felt pain quite so intense. It burned through you, a slithering form coiled in your gut, tearing at your nerves and filling you with indescribable grief. And you knew you weren't the only one hurting, hell, Sarah lost a son, Ilya's parents lost a son, and Nadia lost a brother, but you couldn't even bring yourself to care about it; sure, it was selfish, but it was insanely difficult to look at everyone drowning when you felt as though you were already underwater.
You and Nadia grew closer then. It wasn't quite sharing the burden, as it was with Ilya, but keeping each other company made it a little less miserable. The two of you stayed in your room a lot, because being outside reminded you of too many things, and Nadia couldn't stand to be in the house with just it's parents. At first you just sat there, you on your bed, unable to get out and it on the floor or in your desk chair, just listening to music in silence or drinking. That morphed into silently talking, or watching movies, which eventually turned into deciding to go outside, even if it was just to sit in your backyard and slowly finish off the last pack of Ilya's menthols that he had hidden in one of his jackets. And it went on like that until you've pulled yourself out of the water and were able to do other things, like eat dinner at Sarah's once a week and visit Ilya's parents sometimes when they were off work. It didn’t necessarily get easier, but you managed.
But you were still stuck there, in that goddamn city, the one that held so many memories because it's small, too small, and each street, each turn, and each building held memories that did nothing but burn your eyes with the acidity of grief. Yet, you stayed. For that one painful year, because a part of you wanted to stay, desperately hoping that things would go back to how they were.
And nothing did.
The heaviness settles itself right over your ribs as you look at the fields and forests whizzing past the windows, not even the soft music playing through your headphones helping. Usually it'd be easier, even after hard visits – you'd come back and lock yourself in your room for at least a day, just so you could process everything in your own space at your own pace. Now, it's everything that's happened this weekend, coupled with tomorrow's trip, meaning you won't be able to fully relax until you come back from your little trip with Luce.
You just hope, and perhaps it's futile, that you won't find anything, or that whatever happens will be light on your psyche; but there's something dark looming in your mind, and maybe it's the acidic aftertaste of fear and unease after those past few nightmares, but it makes you a bit hesitant.
Well. It's not like things could get any worse.
[[Next->41]]You make it back to your apartment a bit after noon, because public transport decided to fuck you over, as per usual, and you feel fully exhausted and ready to collapse into bed.
There’s no sign of Luce anywhere, but their door is closed, and you can hear the now familiar sounds of their mechanical keyboard clicking, and some muffled cursing – because of course they’d spend their day off war gaming. They deserve something nice, you think.
But before you collapse into bed, you take out everything, your laptop, your pill organizer, your chargers, and put them in their places, but then you get to Finn’s things, and your chest tgihtens just a little bit. You take them out, carefully, almost reverently, and place them on your desk for now, except for the pictures.
You grab them along with some tape, and walk over to that little spot above your dresser, where there’s already photos of yourself with Luce, and with Riss, and ones from your travels; and adding Finn to the mix seems just right.
In the middle of picking the perfect placement for them, the door opens, and Luce stands in the doorway for a moment, before coming up to look at them.
“You were an ugly kid.” They deadpan, but you know they don’t mean it, and you snort quietly.
“Thanks.” You reply dryly, rolling your eyes in amusement. Looking over at them, there’s a… strange expression on their face, the one they always get when they think hard about something, and it’s only mildly unsettling. “You okay?”
And an expression flashes over their face, almost like they’ve gotten caught doing something they shouldn’t be doing, but it’s so brief you almost miss it.
“Just zoned out for a second,” they mutter, almost distracted, before their eyes snap back to you. “You feeling better, at least?”
Right. That phonecall this morning.
“A little, yeah.” you sigh in reply, because your body still feels heavy and achy in exhaustion. “I just need some sleep and I’ll be fine.”
Luce gives you a skeptical expression, a teasing raise of their eyebrows. “Sleep. You. Right.”
You roll your eyes again, nudging them with your elbow lightly. “Come on. I can sleep sometimes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” they mutter, patting your shoulder in a mockingly condescending way and giving you a quick grin. “We’re leaving at three tomorrow.”
And then they leave, and you’re too surprised at the suddenness of it to bother calling after them to ask more questions. Instead, you let out a heavy sigh, finish taping the photos to the wall, give them all one last good look, then finally collapse into bed with your laptop. A bed that’s more comfortable, that has all of your favorite items in it or close to it, that feels more yours, like it truly belongs to the version of yourself that you are now. And that’s something that's comforting.
It doesn’t take you long, after you put on some random video to play as background noise, to slip into a nap.
And it’s a sleep that is light, but is peaceful and dreamless, and you don’t get much of these, these days.
You don’t wake up until what has to be around five or six, until Luce gives a few knocks on the door and peeks their head in, staring at you with the mildest hint of concern in their eyes.
“I made food?”
[[Next->42]]Luce is an amazing cook. And you’ve talked about your lives enough to know that their father is a professional chef, and they got their love of cooking and their skills from him. And it shows. You can cook as well, and you’re average– maybe a bit above average at it, when you actually put in the effort. The two of you don’t exactly cook for each other all the time – because there’s no point, and because your schedules are often conflicting, but it’s nice to do it when you’ve got the time.
Because you’re pretty good friends, but you’re not exactly good with words – neither of you grew up in an environment where words are the thing you use to show people you care about them; because you try, but it’s always been easier with actions. And it’s nice to do something nice to people you care about.
And you thank them copiously because the rice with the sauce and vegetables that you like so much may just be the best thing you’ve eaten in weeks. But as you sit down in your tiny living room, on the opposite ends of your tiny couch, watching a movie on your tiny TV, you know you can’t wait any longer.
“So,” you say casually through a mouthful of food. “Tomorrow.”
Luce looks over at you, nods their head and makes a muffled sound, prompting you to continue.
You look down into your bowl, moving the chopsticks around as you think about what exactly you want to touch on. But the logistics of it are one of your main concerns.
“How– are we getting there?” You ask first, because it’s the mountain itself you’re not that sure about. “You know I’m not exactly a hiker.”
And they give you a brief look almost like you’ve just said something absolutely ridiculous, and snort in amusement. “We are not hiking anywhere,” they reply, and you don’t have to look to hear the smile in their voice. “We’re taking the bus. And then another bus. You’ll see.”
“Uh-huh,” you raise an eyebrow. “And how long is that gonna take us?”
The actual mountain is just outside of the city, past a village or two; there’s at least one bus you can take that takes you there, but you’re pretty sure that you can’t find one that takes you further than that.
Luce shrugs, like this is just a regular Sunday for them. “An hour, maybe hour and a half.” They finish their food and take a sip of water before wiping their mouth with a tissue; their lips curve into a small smile. “Just trust me. It’ll be fine. My friend is looking forward to it.”
You wish you could say the same, but the nerves make you unable to do so.
But there’s still something in Luce’s expression, something you can’t quite name, and it’s killing you. Because you know damn well they won’t tell you anything if you ask, so you’re stuck here, uncertain, and a little worried, because there’s something they know, there has to be. And it goes way further than just their friend having a similar nightmare problem.
[[Next->43]]By two-thirty the next day, the two of you head out to walk to the bus stop – not your usual one, because the bus you need to take leaves from somewhere else, and the anxiety feels like it’s eating you alive, despite your medication, but it’s all due to another mostly sleepless night.
Last night– you’re not sure if nightmare is the right way to put it, because it was nothing more than a collection of images and feelings.
>>//Dread, suffocating, overwhelming dread. Black sand digging into the soft flesh of your palms, the sky dark and the air heavy. A lighthouse, crumbling brick, and stone, steps worn down with ages of walking. A shadow of a figure, a silhouette mildly familiar, thick horns coming out of its head. A barking dog, a flash of gold in the corner of your eye.//
And then, nothing.
The bus ride is quiet and slightly tense. You sit by the window, watching the views of the town make way to sparse, older houses and thicker trees, the sights almost nostalgic. Luce is fidgety next to you, picking at their silver nail polish absently while the loud music playing through their headphones is audible even through your own earbuds whenever your music stops.
You can't help but wonder why exactly they're that tense, seemingly more than you; if you didn't know them better, you'd think they're hiding something. Maybe they are.
But you keep sitting there, growing slightly sleepy by the rumbling of the bus beneath you and the calm music you're listening to — but your mind can't quite get over the latest vision, about the lighthouse and the golden eyes, unable to make any sense of it. It's only adding to your tension, to the low rumble of anxiety in your gut.
The scenery is beginning to change, and so is the weather — the sky begins to become off-white with clouds, and there's a slight cover of fog over the roofs of the dilapidated farmhouses and crumbling brick buildings, over broken enclosures of stables and chicken coops. The area isn't quite abandoned, but when the city began to grow, the younger people crowded there, and the older ones stayed until the rest of their lives; no one quite wants to move back here, though the bus does pass over some more modern, clearly lived in houses.
Still, the growing fog feels a bit foreboding, like something is approaching on the horizon. But you might just be paranoid.
It's fine. It's gonna be fine.
That's what you tell yourself.
[[Next->44]]
You get off the bus, and the mountain is already close by – and the mountain sounds like a mild overstatement, because it’s not really high, but it’s not a hill either. Just… a small mountain. A short hike, if we were to do it.
“Alright,” Luce says, headphones now around their neck. They lead you away from the bus stop, further down the side of the road, out of the village, away from the houses and old shops lining both sides of the road. It isn’t until you two reach a turn, that they stop under an old, slightly bent pole with a sign that has a bus on it. “Now we wait.”
You’ve known them, lived with them for long enough to see all their nervous ticks; the way they rock slightly on the balls of their feet, the way they fiddle with their rings, their bracelets, their necklaces, the buttons of their patterned shirt.
“You okay?” You ask, cautiously, as if you don’t want to scare them off.
Luce stops their fidgeting, and looks around before looking at you. They open their mouth to speak, but an old-looking bus stops in front of the two of you, and they nod their head in its direction, slipping their headphones back on before getting in.
You sigh, trying not to look too disappointed, put your earbuds back in, and take your seat next to them. There’s an odd feeling at the base of your spine, in your gut – not necessarily anxiety, not necessarily dread, just a weird sense of foreboding. And you realize, albeit belatedly, that you didn’t even see where the bus came from, but it’s a bit too late to mention that now
So you just sit there, a bit zoned out. Luce took the window seat, and as you look outside, you have a perfect view of their fidgeting form, their hands tangled in the cord of their headphones, their knee bouncing up and down anxiously. You don’t say anything about it, but it makes you feel even more uneasy, their anxiety fueling your own.
But the scenery change doesn’t help at all. There are still the smallest villages, lone houses you pass, but the longer the bus drive drags on, there are more changes, more subtle – the slightest change in the air, a certain darkening of the sky outside, the fog growing thicker over tops of buildings; and if you were not hyperfocused on it, you wouldn’t have noticed it.
Slowly, slowly, more buildings come into view, and you drive into a city.
And your heart drops, because you were fully convinced that there was nothing there.
The unease grows.
Everything is gray with fog, but run-down, dilapidated factories, houses, and old temples give way to old, but clearly frequented shops and buildings, lived-in blocks of apartments and panel buildings, lights on in the windows. It looks normal, painfully regular, if it wasn’t for the growing sense of dread in your gut, because it wasn’t supposed to be here.
And it feels like you’re not supposed to be here either.
[[Next->45]]Luce nudges you gently at one point when the bus slowly comes to a stop, and you take the hint and stand up from your seat, take your earbuds out and get off the bus, people slowly filing out behind you. The bus stop looks regular, like the ones in the city, but you can’t help but feel odd.
“Convinced now?” Luce asks teasingly, knocking their shoulder into yours, their sudden good mood almost jarring from the change from the anxious mess they were earlier; but there’s still something beneath the surface, a tightness in their smile that betrays it. But you don’t say anything, once again.
“Yeah,” you mutter, unconvinced, looking around as you walk, their arm linking with yours as they lead you further into a neighborhood lined with more of these tall blocks, most of the closest ones tall enough that the apartments on the highest stories are mostly hidden in the thick fog. “Yeah, I guess.”
The sense of dread grows as you walk past people walking dogs or just walking around the neighborhood by themselves or with friends, or partners, all of them regular, as if they’re not currently in a city that shouldn’t exist.
Luce leads you to one of the tall apartment buildings, punches in a code to open the door, like they’re too familiar with it, walks inside and closes the door behind you, and goes to a rickety elevator, pressing the button and waiting.
They look at you, then the elevator, then back at you as the door opens and they pull you inside, pressing the button for the seventh floor and leaning against the wall as it rumbles to life and the elevator starts going up.
“You’ll be finee.” They chuckle, prolonging the last syllable teasingly, nudging you with their elbow. “Think of it as just meeting my friend. Nothing more.”
“Right.” You mutter, straightening out a little bit, brushing invisible dust from your clothes, and checking your hair in the dirty mirror on the wall. You’re glad that you don’t have any sort of fear regarding elevators, because it’s making noises that make you think it might break down at any second.
[[Next->46]]
The two of you get out on the seventh floor, and Luce immediately goes to the door on the right of it, just a regular dark wooden door, but the sight of it makes your heart race.
Luce knocks twice.
There’s muffled footsteps, a latch being opened, and a girl your age opens the door and smiles at you, motioning for both of you to step inside.
She’s stunning, wearing black sweatpants and one of those black, sleeveless turtlenecks that you never quite understood, but she makes it look good. Her skin is a warm shade of light brown, her black, wavy hair chest length, full lips painted burgundy curved in a warm smile, a vertical bar going through her bottom lip, hooked nose adorned with gold nostril and septum rings. Smudged, dark eyeliner lines her eyes—
And her eyes are the brightest, most shimmering shade of gold you’ve ever seen.
And your heart drops to your stomach, because it’s the exact shade you see in your dreams.
But you keep a friendly smile on your face, because it could be a coincidence.
Right?
[[Next->47]]“Eden,” she introduces herself, reaching out to shake your hand. “Good to finally meet you, after all I’ve heard.” She says wryly, giving Luce a pointed, teasing look – they just chuckle in what could be either amusement or embarrassment.
“$name.” You reply, shaking her hand—
And as soon as you touch her, your vision goes black and you feel that familiar pull on your sternum, the same that’s in your dreams, and you see another collection of images and sounds.
>>//A flock of crows, the barking of a dog, the view from a lighthouse as waves crash against it, salt on your skin, the feeling of falling down, down, down—//
It's over before you realize it, and your hand drops to your side. It's over, but looking into her eyes feels like a reckoning. Like a prophecy about to be fulfilled.
Eden stares at you for a long moment, the briefest flicker of fear along her features before she covers it back up with a smile; and it’s a clear message, that she doesn’t want to talk about it yet, not while someone else is here.
“Come in,” she says, and there’s the slightest edge to her voice. “Make yourself comfortable.”
You follow Luce in taking off your shoes and hanging up your jacket, and you walk behind them, further into the apartment. It’s not exactly messy, but it’s lived in — the walls of the hallway, the kitchen and the living room, both of which you can see from the entrance, are an off-white, almost gray color, and there’s a multitude of plants, photos and paintings hung on walls, various trinkets on every surface. It’s cozy. It’s nice.
Still behind Luce, you walk into the living room — the furniture looks slightly old, none of it matching, the kinds of things you find thrown out on streets or in thrift stores. Somehow it makes for a coherent, comfortable collection, and it’s almost similar to your apartment. There’s a beat up, dark green couch against one wall, a slightly scratched wooden dresser with a TV on it opposite it. Rickety shelves line the other walls, plants and candles and various junk on surfaces — not in a bad messy way, just in a weirdly organized way.
[[Next->48]]Eden walks in from the kitchen, two glasses of water and an energy drink can carefully balanced in her hands, and she sets all of them down on the low coffee table in front of the couch and nod her head in the direction.
“Sit down, sit down.” She says lightly.
But before you can take a step towards the couch, a door further down the hallway creaked open, and you hear a voice so achingly familiar it makes you freeze up in your tracks, your body growing cold, and your heart racing. //But it can’t be, it has to be a coincidence.//
“Eden,” the voice says, mildly annoyed in a way that makes you want to cry. “Did you take my—”
A figure walks into the room and freezes immediately.
Icy blue eyes bore into yours, and if it wasn’t for the shock reflected in them, you would’ve believed it was fake, it was just a coincidence, that it //wasn’t him, because it couldn’t be. //
His mouth opens, but no words come out.
Your knees feel weak all of sudden, a tremor over your whole body, and if it wasn’t for Eden grasping your elbow to steady you, you would’ve crumpled to the floor.
You open your mouth, then close it, then open it, then close it again, because your throat feels tight, and you feel like you can’t breathe all of sudden.
When you finally speak, it comes out a barely audible, strained whisper.
“Your funeral was last summer,” you say. “They finally stopped looking.”
[[END->49]]
And that's the end of the prologue! Thank you so much for playing, and I really hope you enjoyed yourself, and the story. Next chapters will be released periodically, and while chapter one is in the works, there is no set release date just yet.
If there's any bugs you encounter, feel free to comment on them on itch. But, if you've got any game related, character related questions, or just things you'd like to say, you can find me on my tumblr [[here|https://www.tumblr.com/sleepingsun-if]]