The street curved like a question no one wanted to answer.
Jalen walked fast—shoulders hunched, head low, as if the air was trying to steal something from him. People didn't look at him, even when they passed close. A man bumping his shoulder didn't flinch, just kept walking like Jalen was part of the pavement. Like he didn't matter.
I followed.
My hands brushed the wall as I moved, fingers tracing brick and nail, every echo a flicker of heat. I couldn't see him, not really, but I felt him in the hollow of my ribs. A nervous rhythm. A child's breath pressed into an older man's life.
He turned a corner. I heard the shift in his steps—from stone to wood. A porch. Then a door creaked open. I crouched by a cracked lamp post, pressing close to the base. A window moaned as it closed.
Inside, silence.
Then:
A cough. Wet, rattling.
It doesn't feel like waking.
It's more like drowning in reverse—like the world pulls me up out of something dense and choking and sad, then dumps me breathless in a place I no longer recognize.
We're lying on the forest floor. The cavern is gone. The city is gone. Even the echoes feel hushed, like the air is holding back, afraid to touch us.
My hand is still outstretched. I expect to feel pavement. Instead, it's grass—wet, cold, trembling like it remembers what we just saw.
Antic groans beside me. "Oh gods," he mumbles. "I think I just emotionally climaxed. In a bad way."
He doesn't laugh. None of us do.
Dolly sits against a tree, knees drawn up, face blank and smeared with dirt like war paint. Her ribbon dress has lost its sheen. "He was just a kid," she says, and for once, her voice isn't sharp. It's soft. Like someone trying not to wake a ghost.
Grin stands. His scythe is embedded halfway into the ground like he dropped it mid-fall. He doesn't pick it up.
"...He thought no one would help him," Grin says. His eyes are hidden beneath his bangs. "And he was right. Until it was too late."
I try to speak, but my mouth's dry. My throat burns like I've been screaming in my sleep.
The forest feels closer now. The trees lean in.
The Breaths hover in the distance—dim, quieter than I've ever seen them. Like they're mourning.
A few steps away, Antic stumbles upright and wipes his face with the back of his wrist. "So that's it?" he asks. "We just… watched him die?"
"You helped," I whisper. My voice cracks.
Antic blinks at me. "What?"
I swallow. "You helped. In the school. With the books. With Sarah. He smiled because of you."
He doesn't reply right away. Then: "He still died."
I nod. "But not alone."
The silence that follows is not empty. It's thick. Like sap. Like time.
Dolly suddenly stands, brushing the leaves from her skirt with stiff hands. "I want a bath," she mutters. "And something that doesn't remind me I've got stuffing instead of organs."
Grin finally moves. He lifts his scythe. Not like a weapon—but like a burden.
"We keep going," he says. "We always keep going."
We don't argue.
One by one, we begin to walk.
The forest breathes with us. The Breaths follow—not joyfully, not in song, but like quiet funeral attendants.
A woman's voice, thin like a reed splitting in wind: "That you, J?"
"Yes, ma," he murmured. The answer was automatic. Weighed.
Silence again. Then the clink of metal on porcelain. The sound of a bowl being stirred. Soup, maybe. Watered down. Not enough.
His voice again. "I got your medicine."
"Price go up again?"
"…No, ma."
Lie.
I knew that lie. I felt it in my throat, tight and burning. I backed away. Something in my chest was splintering again, but I didn't know why.
Then I heard Grin's voice.
"…This illusion's too... tight."
I turned.
He stood in the middle of the street now, holding a newspaper, jaw tight. He stared at the ink like it had said something personal.
"…This ain't memory. It's breathing."
Dolly leaned against a mailbox. Her outfit had changed. She wore a little cloche hat, red velvet gloves, and a silk parasol that had no business being that clean in a city this grimy.
"I tried to stab a dog," she said flatly. "It blinked at me and turned into a tea kettle."
Antic sidled up beside her, flute case under his arm, suspenders askew. "This place is trying too hard," he muttered, eyes darting. "Feels like someone's memory of a memory. Too polished. Like a museum made by ghosts."
Grin's voice dropped. "…There's grief layered under it."
I stepped into the light. "It's Jalen."
They all turned.
"Who?" Antic asked.
I pointed toward the house. "The boy. This is his Breath."
Dolly wrinkled her nose. "So this whole city's inside his… what? Soul?"
Grin nodded slowly. "…A fracture. Big one. Grief so thick it built its own world."
Antic rubbed his temples. "Brilliant. Love a pocket-dimension built from child suffering. Real cozy."
"You're all here for a reason," I said, not even sure where the words came from. "We're inside it because we're supposed to help him. Something went wrong. We're the correction."
Antic raised an eyebrow. "No pressure."
Grin's voice went quiet again. "…You feel it cracking?"
I did.
The sky overhead twitched like film in a projector. The sun flickered for a breath too long.
"We don't have much time," I said. "Something's coming. Something worse."
Dolly squinted at the house. "We fix the boy?"
"We try," I said.
And from inside that flickering house, I heard the soft sound of someone sobbing into a pillow.
The city tried to blink me out.
That's how it felt. Like I didn't belong in the scene, like I was a loose thread being pulled tighter every second I stayed. But I stayed anyway.
We regrouped beneath a half-lit streetlamp, its glow stuttering like a skipped heartbeat. Grin was already adjusting his lapels—his illusion had chosen a black mourning coat, old and weighty, the kind people wore to burials no one attended.
"…If I'm gonna play an uncle," he said, low and tight, "then I'll be the one who shows up."
Antic's clothes were louder than a lie—plum trousers, paisley tie, suspenders with embroidered flamingos. He snapped open his flute case, polished it with the inside of his shirt, and winked at me.
"Flute tutor," he said. "From outta town. Special program. Helping troubled boys express themselves with the majesty of woodwinds."
"That's a cover?" I asked.
"I mean… it's better than my usual one."
Dolly looked like she'd stepped off a magazine cover from a parallel dimension—pencil skirt, velvet blouse, wide-brimmed hat with a feather that stabbed skyward like a murder weapon. She smoothed her gloves and tapped her parasol against the sidewalk with professional malice.
"I'm his etiquette coach," she said, eyes narrow. "Apparently, his posture is offensive to the spirits."
"…You're making that up," Antic muttered.
She smiled. Not nicely.
I didn't dress up. The illusion didn't know how to clothe me, so I remained half-there: a suggestion of fabric, boots that didn't match, an old coat from a world that never existed. I didn't need to look like I belonged.
I just needed to stay.
We made our approach.
Jalen sat on a back porch, hunched over what might've been a math book, but looked more like he was staring through the pages. His hands shook, even though it was warm out. There was a band-aid on his temple. Fresh. His lip, too, looked swollen.
He didn't turn around when Antic whistled, stepping into the yard like he owned it.
"Evening, young maestro," he said, giving a deep, silly bow. "Heard you might be in need of a musical intervention."
Jalen looked up, eyes narrow. "You… from the school?"
"That's me. Mr. Rhapsody." Antic grinned wide, his accent thick enough to stir soup. "I specialize in troubled tenors and rebellious baritones. You a baritone, kid?"
Jalen shrugged. "I don't sing."
"Well, everyone's got somethin' inside that wants out," Antic said, crouching beside him, flute resting on his knee like a secret.
Grin appeared next, clearing his throat like a distant storm. "Boy," he said, rough. "You forgot your uncle again. At least pretend you got family."
Jalen flinched. His eyes darted to the porch door.
Grin didn't move. "…Ain't nobody inside gonna miss me."
Jalen didn't speak, but he shifted—just enough to make space beside him.
Grin sat.
And then Dolly emerged like vengeance in heels. She strolled up the porch steps, parasol angled just-so.
"Your socks don't match," she snapped. "And you sit like you're trying to disappear."
Jalen blinked. "Who—?"
"Miss Daphne. You signed up for the program."
"I didn't—"
"Well, someone did," she said, brushing imaginary dust from his collar. "Because if someone doesn't teach you how to carry yourself like a person, you're going to vanish. You'll disappear and no one will notice."
He swallowed. That landed harder than she meant it to. Maybe not. Maybe exactly how she meant it to.
I leaned against the fence. I couldn't join them. Not yet. Not until the illusion bent more. Until it cracked.
Antic began to play.
Soft notes, sweet and low. Not flashy. Not showy. Just… there. Like something small that promised not to leave.
Jalen didn't speak. But he closed his eyes.
And didn't flinch when Dolly adjusted his shoulders.
Didn't argue when Grin muttered, "…Head up. No one's coming to save you, so you better learn how to see the blow first."
The notes floated through the backyard like perfume.
And I watched the illusion breathe.
The light dimmed—just slightly. The air shifted.
The world noticed we were changing it.
And it did not like that.
The air started to change
Things were shifting
And new roles were emerging
Something's wrong with the bell.
It rings too slow. Too heavy. The sound drags behind itself like it's stuck in glue. One long, low toll—then another, then another, like a funeral for time.
I stand in the hallway of a school I never went to, staring at lockers that breathe when I'm not looking. Everything smells like floor polish and sour milk. There's a line of children walking past me. They aren't real. Their mouths open but no words come out. Their eyes… blur.
I'm forgetting the name I gave myself here.
Antic brushes past, tipping his cap in a way that's too flippant for how weird it's gotten. "Afternoon, miss," he says in that put-on accent, trying to blend into the role he stole from someone else's memory. His grin doesn't reach his eyes.
Grin walks slower. His slouch is heavier now. I can feel him watching the walls like they're going to close in on him. His suspenders hang crooked. One hand is clutching the strap of a bookbag like it's a weapon.
Dolly stands near the lockers, dusting her apron off like she works here. She's not talking. Just blinking. And blinking.
"Grin?" I murmur. "This… doesn't feel like the same hallway as earlier."
He doesn't answer at first.
Then, after a long breath:
"...It isn't."
I take a step and feel the ground sink. Not really. But my bones know something I don't.
It's not that the Breath is falling apart. It's that it's tightening.
Focusing.
Jalen walks past.
He's wearing the same clothes as earlier—button-up shirt too small at the wrists, jeans with scuffed knees, sneakers with tired soles. But now there's something coiled behind his eyes. Like he's getting ready.
He doesn't see me.
He walks to his locker. Opens it.
I want to call to him. Something. Anything.
But my mouth won't move.
Behind him, Antic stiffens.
There's a flash. Something dark.
A group of boys approaches—older, sharper, shadows trailing behind them like oil. I recognize them. Barely. I think they were at that street corner earlier. They were laughing at something cruel. Now their mouths are knives.
"Jalen," one of them says, slapping the locker next to his.
He turns.
He's too calm.
They lead him away.
And all I can do is follow.
They pull him behind the building.
Jalen doesn't fight it. That's what's wrong. There's a sag in his shoulders, like he's already decided what happens next. Like he's already dead.
I follow them without my feet touching the ground.
The alley is narrow and mean. Broken glass tucked into dirt. A stink of old rain and rust. The walls lean in close like they want to hear every secret.
Grin's hand touches my shoulder. "...No Eyes," he says quietly. "I—I'm slippin'. It's not pretend anymore."
He's wrong. It never was pretend.
Dolly appears beside him, her dress spotless in this ruined place. Her face is blank, too blank. Her eyes twitch, scanning the bricks. "Someone here's bleeding," she mutters. "But the blood hasn't come out yet."
Antic arrives last, running. He's out of breath—flushed, panicked, clutching his flute like it could cast a spell.
"They're takin' him," he gasps, eyes darting. "They're gonna use him. He's thinkin' he can earn his way out—"
"Out of what?" I whisper.
Antic swallows. His accent slips. "Outta bein' hungry."
The boys circle Jalen. They're shadows now, barely faces. Just voices. Jagged ones.
"You run the package, that's it. In and out. Quick as a breath."
"You wanna eat tonight, right?"
"Your mama still need medicine?"
Jalen doesn't answer. He just nods.
The package appears. A heavy cloth sack. Too neat. Too quiet.
Dolly hisses, stepping toward it. "That's not food," she says. "That's something dead trying to get born."
"Wait," I whisper. "We can stop him. We can say something—do something—"
I reach out, trying to grab his arm.
My hand goes right through.
Like mist.
Like I'm not real here anymore.
Grin staggers. "...This place... it's decidin'. Not us."
Antic steps back, lips drawn tight. "We ain't the players anymore. We're props."
And Jalen walks.
He leaves the alley. Heads toward the street. The sun's gone cold. The sky's bleeding gray.
"Don't go," I breathe.
But he can't hear me.
No one can.
The wind changes.
It slinks down the brick alleys, low and oily. Like it already knows what's about to happen and doesn't want to be too loud about it.
Jalen walks three blocks.
He doesn't look back.
The sack in his hand grows heavier, like guilt soaked in rain. The streetlights flicker above him—new technology here, not trusted, not steady. They blink like uncertain eyes.
None of the other boys came with him. They never meant to. That was the deal.
He'd run the package. They'd watch.
"I know this," Grin says behind me, voice so low it sounds like it's being crushed by his own mouth. "This... this is the kind of story that ends under streetlights."
Antic doesn't speak. He clutches his flute too tightly. The skin of his knuckles gleams white under the city dust. His usual chaos has evaporated. Even he knows: this is sacred ground now. Not because it's holy. But because someone's about to be buried in it.
We follow the boy down into the intersection. A car pulls around the corner—sleek black, too clean for this part of town. The tires hiss.
Jalen doesn't run. He waits on the corner like he's waiting for a bus.
But the car doesn't slow.
The door bursts open. Two men in hats. A third stays behind the wheel.
Grin says, "...No Eyes."
I don't answer. I'm holding my breath, though I don't remember starting.
The men step out. One gestures. The other grabs Jalen by the collar. Rough. Mechanical. Jalen drops the sack. It splits.
White powder spills like spoiled sugar across the sidewalk.
Then everything sharpens.
The man yells. Jalen flinches. And behind it all, a woman's scream—his mother's voice, from somewhere deep in the city's belly.
The first man pulls a gun.
Grin lunges. "WAIT—"
But we're not there. Not really there.
The shot cracks.
It echoes off the walls, then fades like a secret swallowed by stone.
Jalen folds in on himself.
No cry. No plea.
He hits the ground like he always knew it was coming.
Dolly drops to her knees beside his ghost, but it's already fading.
Antic stares at the blood, his mouth moving silently. Maybe a prayer. Maybe just... shock.
And I—
I kneel.
The breath—the one we followed, the one inside him—rises like a thread of smoke. It doesn't glow. It doesn't shimmer. It just floats.
A small sound escapes it. Not quite music. Not quite a sob.
Grin stands over it, his scythe limp at his side. "...Can we take it?" he asks.
"No," I say, slowly. "We let it go."
The Breath hums softly. Like a lullaby no one ever finished.
It moves toward me—no, through me. And I see Jalen again.
Laughing. Once. Just once.
In that hallway. Looking at Sarah. Right before he looked away.
And then it's gone.
The city holds its breath. The street empties. The light changes.
And for the first time since we entered this world—
It lets us go.
It doesn't feel like waking.
It's more like drowning in reverse—like the world pulls me up out of something dense and choking and sad, then dumps me breathless in a place I no longer recognize.
We're lying on the forest floor. The cavern is gone. The city is gone. Even the echoes feel hushed, like the air is holding back, afraid to touch us.
My hand is still outstretched. I expect to feel pavement. Instead, it's grass—wet, cold, trembling like it remembers what we just saw.
Antic groans beside me. "Oh gods," he mumbles. "I think I just emotionally climaxed. In a bad way."
He doesn't laugh. None of us do.
Dolly sits against a tree, knees drawn up, face blank and smeared with dirt like war paint. Her ribbon dress has lost its sheen. "He was just a kid," she says, and for once, her voice isn't sharp. It's soft. Like someone trying not to wake a ghost.
Grin stands. His scythe is embedded halfway into the ground like he dropped it mid-fall. He doesn't pick it up.
"...He thought no one would help him," Grin says. His eyes are hidden beneath his bangs. "And he was right. Until it was too late."
I try to speak, but my mouth's dry. My throat burns like I've been screaming in my sleep.
The forest feels closer now. The trees lean in.
The Breaths hover in the distance—dim, quieter than I've ever seen them. Like they're mourning.
A few steps away, Antic stumbles upright and wipes his face with the back of his wrist. "So that's it?" he asks. "We just… watched him die?"
"You helped," I whisper. My voice cracks.
Antic blinks at me. "What?"
I swallow. "You helped. In the school. With the books. With Sarah. He smiled because of you."
He doesn't reply right away. Then: "He still died."
I nod. "But not alone."
The silence that follows is not empty. It's thick. Like sap. Like time.
Dolly suddenly stands, brushing the leaves from her skirt with stiff hands. "I want a bath," she mutters. "And something that doesn't remind me I've got stuffing instead of organs."
Grin finally moves. He lifts his scythe. Not like a weapon—but like a burden.
"We keep going," he says. "We always keep going."
We don't argue.
One by one, we begin to walk.
The forest breathes with us. The Breaths follow—not joyfully, not in song, but like quiet funeral attendants.
And then it hit me
For,
real.
I remember.
Arnold.
He was.
Like a father figure.
It unraveled slow, like a stitch coming undone in a too-tight shirt.
The air had grown still again. Not quiet—quiet would have been kind. This was the stillness of aftermath. The moment where grief hasn't yet been absorbed by the body, so it just hangs there. Thin and bitter and waiting to be felt.
I stood there, in the alley that shouldn't have been real, watching the last of Jalen's warmth fade from the crumbling buildings. His memory didn't burn out—it folded inward, like a dying star too tired to be anything more than gone.
"No," I whispered. My arms wrapped around my own ribs, as if I could keep them from breaking open. "No, no, no…"
The Breath—the piece of him trying to be remembered, trying to be saved—shuddered. It flickered above the ruined street like an injured flame. Then hiccuped. I flinched.
"Arnold's boy," I breathed.
There was a sound behind me. Like something sharp snapping. Grin. He didn't fall, but he folded. His knees buckled and his scythe scraped the cobblestone.
Dolly didn't scream. She just made a sound too soft for porcelain, one cracked note like a lullaby hitting the wrong key. Her cheek glistened where one perfect tear slipped past the pink on her face.
"The good memories…" I heard myself say, voice gone dry and hollow. "They weren't enough."
The Breath heard it too. It pulsed once—like it was bracing.
And then... it sighed.
Not like wind. Not like surrender. Something else. A sound with weight. Grief making its last apology before it floats off into whatever comes next.
The Breath shimmered, dimmed—then changed.
Its colors softened. That ugly neon hurt melted into a gentler palette: grays with blushes of gold. Lavender sadness. Blue quiet. They drifted, one last breath leaking back into the forest, the way fireflies vanish when the wind turns cold.
Antic, who'd been standing off to the side—weirdly quiet for once—rubbed the bridge of his nose like it was a migraine trying to break into his face.
"This forest," he muttered. "I swear it's allergic to joy. Every time I feel something, I wanna cry or… punch a tree. Or both. Probably both."
Dolly blinked, slow and deadly. "Maybe it's cause you're full of it," she said, her voice soft as a guillotine.
Antic raised a hand. "Objection. I'm only fifty percent full of it. The other half is grief and unspeakable horniness."
I didn't laugh. I couldn't. My hands were still trembling. I couldn't feel my fingertips.
Grin moved first. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… walked over and placed a single hand on my shoulder.
His voice came out like gravel underwater. "You… okay?"
I nodded before I knew if I meant it. "Doesn't matter. I will be."
We stood there. The four of us. Not saying anything.
There was nothing to say.
The cavern trembled once, like the city exhaled for the last time. The lights dimmed. The final remnants of Jalen's Breath drifted upward, dissolving into the stone and vines and nothing.
The pain wasn't gone. But it had… changed shape.
A shadow, quieter now.
I took a breath. It hurt a little less than the last one.
Behind me, Antic muttered again. Thought he was whispering.
"Why do I always get horny during emotional trauma?" A pause. "Gods, not again—"
Grin didn't even turn his head. "Antic."
"I'm not doing anything! I'm just saying—if I vanish for five minutes, it's biology, not perversion!"
"You're disgusting."
Antic didn't miss a beat. "Thank you."
Silence again. But this time… shared. Thicker. Not empty. Not anymore.
We turned slowly, our backs to the broken city that never was, and walked toward the place the Breath had pointed.
Forward.
Wherever that was now.