"Could you tell me again why we came to this shit hole?" The man protested, kicking up the dirt at his feet as they stumbled towards the facade of the typical Arizonian suburban home. His red hair had been filled with dust from the days' work, his black clothing now a charcoal grey, his shoulders rolled forward from exhaustion, and this all seemed too mundane to him. Bile rose to the thought of him seeming almost human.

"Closure," The second man spoke, and the first fell silent. Even though he had nothing more, his friends' grief held a certain sense of gravity so palpable that it was impossible to miss. He stepped forward, dressed in all black as if in mourning. His light hair showing its sheer determination to stand out in wild tufts, despite being combed to the back. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Look," The first man stumbled behind him, trying to shake the dirt off his clothing. "This is all pointless." 

"It finally happened, didn't it?" A third man spoke as the door opened with a creek. He seemed dishevelled as if he somehow knew what the men had been there to tell him. His hair was a frizzy mess from the humidity of summer, his clothes sat untidily on his once solid form that was no weakened by the scent of whisky and his eyes, so brown and anxious, sank so deep into to his skull that the second man wondered if he could see them clearly. 

"May we come in?" Without waiting for an answer, the second man placed his hand onto his shoulder before walking, sitting down on the old sofa in the middle of the living room. The walls around them had no photos hanging on them. He must have taken them down, the second man thought. Love is a strange form of magic.

"How did it happen?" He dropped down onto another sofa, his head hanging between his knees as the weight of grief crippled him. 

"How much did she tell you about Salem?" He placed his hand onto the man's shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to console him. A tattoo of puppet strings poked out from under his sleeve. 

"I don't know," He wiped his tears. "That it's some magic place. At first, I didn't believe her... Perhaps I still don't want to believe it..."

"It all really, Mr Willows," He sighed in regret. "And, I assume you know what happens next?"
Mr Willows nodded.

"Do you wish to know how she died anyway?"

He nodded again.

"I had no choice but to kill her."

His words cut through the air like a cold knife. Mr Willow's heart ached, but he wouldn't move. He spoke calmly, his voice not quivering for a second. "I see."

The second man stood up, walking around the living room. It was a cosy home — one fit for a normal family. But unfortunately, they hadn't been a normal family. He turned to face Mr Willows once more, this time, he saw a girl no older than eight, peeking from around a corner. Her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes watered. Her face seemed so delicate and sharp that it reminded him of a child's doll or a masterpiece of a puppeteer. She had her father's brown hair, uncut and frayed. Her milk coffee-coloured skin, that seemed permanently sunburnt as if she had hated spending time indoors, had been covered in cuts and bruises that she refused to treat. Instead, she simply let it bleed and scab over. But that hadn't been what stopped the man's heart. It had been her eyes. They were hazel, like her mothers. The mother that he took from her.

"Will I forget her?" Her father spoke softly, and the man shook his head. If only it had been that simple.

"The only memories I will take is that of Salem," He walked to the man with a fox-like stalk. "You'll remember everything about her and you'll still feel the same. You'll still feel the pain."

"Okay," Mr Willows nodded before looking up to the man who placed a thumb against his forehead.

"Erase," He spoke with a gentle tone, and Mr Willows dropped back down into his seat – his eyes completely glazed over. He blinked. Then shook his head.

"How did it happen?"

"She was in a car accident."