Nico stepped back, braced himself—
Then kicked the door open.
The weak wooden latch cracked on impact, swinging the door wide. It hit the wall with a dull thud.
He stepped in fast, expecting—
Softie.
Maybe curled up on the tiny mattress. Maybe pretending to nap, pretending not to wait for him.
But the room was empty and dead quiet.
No blanket rustling. No kettle boiling. Just the soft creak of the floor under his boots and the wind pushing in behind him.
His chest sank a little.
"...Where are you, softie?"
He said it under his breath, like the boy could hear him.
Like saying it would pull him out from under the bed or behind the curtain like some dumb kid playing hide and seek.
But nothing answered.
The bed was neatly folded.
Nico's jaw tightened.
Then—
He spotted it.
A folded piece of paper, set dead center on the desk like it was waiting for him.
