He stood in front of me a watercolor of a person, the rain blurring his facial features and weighing down his oversized black long-sleeved shirt, a look that reminded me of melting wax. His hair was disheveled-- the rain having done its damage here as well--his blonde locks, ringlets in their natural state.

His coal eyes looked through me, to someplace distant, his face parted by an apathetic smile. An umbrella was held in his outstretched hand, one that looked more like a southern damsel's parasol than a modern umbrella for a modern teen. Though I was thoroughly soaked through by now, I was still appreciative of his gesture.

"Thank you," I said, almost robotically, still eyeing him with the same awe and wonder as when he first landed. Why did you  turn into fog? Why did you fly away from me? What was it about me now, soaked in rain, that made you compelled to speak to me?

His smile grew fierce. "I like the you in rain the best," he said, his voice frail and low.

"A mind reader too?" I asked, still taking him in. "You look like one of The Endless," I continued.

His eyes grew big, the sparkle in them spreading. We stood with only the pitter patter of the raindrops between us for a few moments.

"Obviously not a Sandman enthusiast," I said, breaking the somewhat calming nature of our silence. His smile still wore his face.

"I know what you speak of," he said, taking a pack of soggy cigarettes from his back pocket. He looked at the things, U-shaped now, tobacco clumps falling out of the ends. He laughed, a short derisive laugh, and threw the pack to the ground.

The water swept them away, with an array of fallen leaves and broken tree branches, into the sewer grates, a few feet from us. He watched the pack get stuck between the bars before a large swelling of water washed them into the catacombs undertow. He turned back to me.

"I was just fascinated by your description."

The umbrella was still over top me, a chill grasping at my bones. I wish I'd been omniscient enough to bring my rain slicker. But sleep deprivation bred stupidity.

"Well it's true. You look like you fell asleep with half your Dream cosplay still on." And it was true. Black shirt, ripped jeans, an eighties aesthetic this time around. If only he had the hair.

"I wish I could still dream," he said, in a very small voice, one that he let get drowned out by the rain. "So, Miss Peneloper Auttsley, you're quite an odd girl."

I smiled. I didn't know why. I certainly hadn't planned on smiling, but for some reason I enjoyed him saying my name.

"As are you, Mister Crispen Heavensley," I said, my voice reflecting a hint of excitement.

This was the first of the unfortunate events, a smile and a feeling of excitement. I should have stopped right then and there dealing with the boy of Mire Hill.

---------------------------------------------------

I had decided to walk with Crispen after receiving a text from Chant saying he was under the weather and would be missing class. I told him I'd bring his books and assignments to him after school.

"You never walk," I said to Crispen, our pace matched, his long limbs keeping up with my own. He was 6 ft, and one of the only boys in town that towered over me.

"Nothing gets by you," he mused. He still held the umbrella over my head, letting himself  drown in the rain.

"You love crows?" I asked, looking at his profile. His nose was crooked, but intriguingly so, and I wondered what had befallen it. A fight? A fall? A fling?

"Crows have the most interesting things to say," he said as if I should have known this truth.

"And what makes them better conversationalists than the other birds? Like owls? Or robins?"

He sighed. Perhaps I had asked the wrong questions. "Robins are dull. They mostly talk about seeds and branch collecting. Owls only ask questions, never answer any. You would like the owls. But crows, by their very nature, are observant beings, and they see things others cannot. And those things are far more interesting than anything in this world."

"So you're saying crows traverse the worlds?"

"Not worlds. This world. The layers of this world to be precise. Crows have always been more accepting of the unnatural and that's what makes their eyes see far and wide."

"Say this to any of the girls at school and I'm sure you'd have them swooning. Even more than you already do."

I could just picture the flocks of girls listening to his words, finding nothing odd about his manner of speech, categorizing him a philosopher and deep thinker. You could get away with all manner of things when enough people found you attractive.

He stopped to stare me in the eyes.

"But not you, eh, Auttsley? You don't swoon, do you?"

I smiled again. This time, he was wrong.

"I do swoon, just not for inhabitants of this world." And then I added, "Or its many layers."

-------------------------------------------------------

I was enjoying our walk and the nature of our talk. It brought forth far more questions than Crispen wanted to answer and not wanting him to find me more of an owl than I already was, I stopped after the tenth. He was supernatural in some way, a magic in him I always wanted in myself, but I didn't bother to ask what kind.

Was he a sorcerer? An enchanter of the dead? Perhaps he was a magical creature or faerie. Whatever Heavensley was, I figured I would find out at some point, and since he didn't seem malicious, I let this question fade into obscurity.

We walked the streets of Potter Oaks, the old and new  ducks, the same prying eyes on us as a pair as were first on him.

"Your face looks like a peach," he said as we passed Mrs. Brokinn's fruit and vegetable stand. She was the best farmer our town had to offer and year after year she had taken blue ribbons from all of the county fairs with her vivid plump tomatoes, overgrown pumpkins, and sweet juicy peaches. I looked over to Crispen as he eyed a bushel of my favorite fruit. They looked just as delicious as they usually did, their fuzzy skin dimpled with a few blown droplets of rain. My stomach growled.

Crispen chuckled and produced a five dollar bill from his wallet. He placed the bill next to a sleeping Mrs. Brokinn. She was in her seventies, though as spry as someone in her forties,  but had never been an early bird.

She was a stubborn woman who insisted on running her own stand and so at dawn, she'd set up and when content enough with her display, sit down in her mother's chestnut rocker, pull out her crocheting needles and begin to work on her blankets.

Inevitably, at a quarter to seven, her eyes would grow heavy and she'd drift off to sleep, crocheting needles in her lap, her rocker moving back and forth. She relied heavily on the honesty of the townsfolk and  I'd never witnessed a fruit theft in all my years. No one found it necessary to lift a bushel of apples or a pound of sweet corn when Brokinn's prices were already a steal.

Crispen reached a bony, porcelain hand into the brown wooden barrel and grabbed five peaches. He checked their ripeness by pressing a thumb gently again the peach skin. They were all slightly soft, the perfect ripeness, and he tossed one of them my way. I caught it awkwardly, running my hand over it, wondering if it was really okay to accept his kindness.

"Go on," he prodded, sinking a glistening white set of teeth into one of the peaches, juice running down his chin. "They're just as delicious as they smell."

I did as I was instructed and as my teeth pierced the peach fuzz, a feeling of unease washed over me, a blush marring my complexion.

This was the second misfortune, accepting Crispen's act of kindness. It brought to light a sense of self-awareness I could have gone my entire life without ever knowing.

-------------------------------------------------------

I told you, I'd tell you of my beloved story and so I shall. It's a high stakes pirate tale, one of hardships and adventures, canon fights and rum guzzling.

Captain Stormholden-my beloved- is a man in his twenties. Beholden to fits of passion, he is a  man with clear determination, profound wit and dare I say, just a sprinkling of sex appeal. He has luscious chestnut hair; soft ringlets of the stuff that fell below his broad shoulders. His eyes are a calming blue, one soft like a robin's egg. (Though by no means are his conversational skills of that of a robin).

He is in dastardly good shape; a thin musculature and rough hands that speak of years of hard labor. He commands the loyalty of his crew and because of this, they are more than willing to sacrifice their lives for their Captain.

A lost wife led him down a dark spiral and it was only because he had drank himself to the deepest depth that he was able to climb free. He sails the seas rescuing damsels, wrestling with the corrupt nobility of soo many port towns and fights other pirates who see violence as their only option.