Her eyes were red. Filled with water.
Pink messy hair. A reddish nose.
Her lips were stained with red.
"Happy Birthday…"
The words left her throat — yet why?
Why were those words full of sorrow, full of dread?
Her eyes, soaked in it.
Her voice was shaky — for a moment she stood there.
She took a deep breath and smiled awkwardly.
As if those would be her final words.
The air distorted — the air thickened.
He blinked.
"What…?"
His teeth slowly vibrated — eyes heavy, fingers frozen.
She blinked.
A twisted hand held her small head.
It wasn't normal, its shape was wrong.
Fingers were bent — thin yet swollen, skin decaying around them.
The boy felt his vision become blurry — his world was ending.
Its hand was trying too hard to look human.
Her name left his voice yet nothing was spoken.
"Is this…"
His breath heavy.
Is this a joke?
A single glass drop left the girl's eyes.
The man ran and reached for her…
Yet she was gone, taken from the depths of the unknown.
No hand remained.
No figure.
No girl.
No pink hair.
No twisted hand.
Just…
A cold and lonely wooden room, with him inside.
His stomach lurched. He felt his chest squeeze like it was about to implode.
Silence filled the room.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
He raised his hand — looking at where she once was.
Fingers trembling.
"I'll… I'll—
I'll save you."
He spoke with dry eyes.
All colour in the room — gone.
Her — gone just like the rest.
His throat tightened.
He bit into his finger nails — his entire core disturbed.
I feel sick…
I feel sick…
I feel sick…
All warmth in the room — replaced with cold.
His knees — met the wooden floor.
The cold left one final trace, a trace of her lingering scent.
A parting gift for the mourning man.
That day — the canvas drew metal.
The same metal he would draw.
- - -
He inhaled — shards of metal and dust.
It hugged his tongue like stardust.
The pull up bar was rough — corroded. The wood around it was bitten by time. The first touch burnt with cold — the second with uncomfortable warmth. The sweat, heat trapped between his palms.
Autumn leaves fell slowly, sinking into the mud beneath him.
Drop.
Sweat fell — landing like rain.
1.
He pulled once — the frame rattled.
The mud under his black boot barely kissed the floor.
Yet he continued.
2.
Abynt… stay away from him.
Words that weren't new — yet he didn't remember when they started.
He'd heard them hundreds of times — yet today they stabbed deeper.
He recalled his mother's face. How youthful she once looked, skin full of milk and love. Years ago — she granted him warmth. The same warmth that allowed him to call her mother. Yet whenever he thought of her now — his stomach sank. His memory didn't picture warmth — only a lady he saw as selfish, cold and horrible.
He hates her.
He thinks.
3.
He pulled again.
Creak.
The pulling force — causing the bar to shake.
The boy… the boy — he's cursed. Don't let him near your children. They'll become ill.
His grip burnt, his forearms tight.
Shards of rust kissed his skin.
4.
The bar vibrated.
My daughter went missing after she spoke to one — now look where she is…
Gone just like the rest.
Abynt.
Abynt.
5.
His throat tightened as wind blew into his face.
Silver hair damp with sweat — silver glory replaced with gray.
The thoughts tore through him.
His father's face flickered through his mind. It was so vivid, so familiar…
It hurt.
Just yesterday, just earlier his hand held Kairo — now it was pale, lacking any life. The casket robbed all the warmth, all the love that filled their home. Now the home was cold and quiet.
6.
His eyes dried as flakes of rust dug deeper into his palm.
Calluses formed.
A black crow flew past, its wings slicing the sky.
7.
Drop.
His father was strong as a horse… Now look where he ended up — just like the rest.
The men's voice echoed in his head.
His muscles were tight — elbows faintly burning. His lungs felt like they were going to collapse from exhaustion. The air around him was dense with emotion. Even the bar felt it.
8.
Wait no —
9.
Was it 10? It didn't matter to him, he stopped counting.
His fingers slipped from the bar.
Black fabric trousers were introduced to mud.
***
He stood before his house and made himself an oath — he would never return.
The house breathed the same as before. The walls still held his scent.
He didn't know how long he had stood there — outside his home.
The longer he stood, the harder it became to move.
So he turned away.
A slow turn.
It was dark and cold.
He wandered through the isolated streets of Lagos. A shine caught his eye — near the village a glass case stood in the centre. The case was covered in dirt, cracked and neglected — inside sat a small and dull katana.
One that the people bragged about — legends and war.
A relic from an old war hero.
"All lies or real. Not like it matters."
Small cracks covered the glass. Its reflection was meant to show its honour, its glory yet none of it interested him.
He dug his hand through the cracks — glass fragments bit his palm.
Red fabric covered its handle. As he raised the katana, it slipped — revealing brown tape — like someone had been picking at it in their spare time.
The guard was uneven, dull and ordinary. The blade itself — metal that had lost its shine and excitement — if you asked it when it last shined, it had no answer.
Gray and exhausted just like Lagos. Its reflection wouldn't even stare back — only a faint silver blur that mirrored his own hair.
Fingers grasping its handle.
It didn't matter where it came from.
How legendary it was.
How ordinary it was.
The world paused its breath as the clouds hung above him…
He didn't turn back.
The wooden hut held its arms open.