Back to the old house

The days go by, the same routine as always: college, work, home; college, work, home. The anguish of grief is an inexplicable and, at the same time, terrifying feeling. Losing my grandfather was one of the most painful things in my life; Levi not remembering me too, but it doesn't compare.

I arrive late for college; it's the first time in four years. Mr. Skyle is just the same, his suit impeccably impeccable, his hair combed to the left side, just the way it always was.

I notice Levi hasn't arrived yet; for a moment, I think he won't come. But I bite my tongue a minute later when he arrives late for class — again —. I foresee Mr. Skyle already saying, "If you're late again, you're totally failing my class, Mr. LineMoon". But that doesn't happen; he just walks in through the door and climbs the stairs on the left side of the room; the only ones that give access to all the desks.

For the first time, Levi doesn't sit above and to my right. He sits beside me. Soon, he greets me:

— Hi Daany, how are you? — he says with a long smile on his face. For a moment, I remember the long smiles Levi used to give me when we were kids and went to play. I always made him smile a lot; I guess he loved me for that —

For a moment, I feel strange receiving a greeting from him; before, we had never exchanged a word in the classroom.

I respond almost immediately:

— Hi, Levi. I'm fine, and you?

My voice is almost faltering; for the rest of this week, I have no more energy for anything. Then, everything goes from bad to worse. I couldn't run this morning, as I usually do. I didn't read yesterday, nor today; probably, I'm going into an involuntary literary slump.

— I'm fine. But... — I notice a delay for him to continue what he was saying; I think he noticed something strange in me. Levi has always been a good observer; he could capture all the information from the environment and the people around him — are you sure everything is alright?

For a moment, I hesitate to continue this conversation, but... I feel the need to talk to someone. I've been living alone for 4 years, I don't have any close friends, no college friends, and no friends at the office. My parents only came to visit me on the day I moved, because they helped me with it — I think, to get rid of me once and for all —. But other than that, I'm totally lonely. The only one who listens to my complaints is the bartender at Pub Moon — I have to increase my tip when I go there because he deserves it. Who can stand twenty drunken people crying and complaining in their ears all night long?! —.

With all these things I've been feeling for years; the pressure to graduate, my parents' apathy — this has been since childhood —, the loneliness in a frighteningly large city, the absence of friends, and now, the loss of my grandfather; the one who was everything I had. I decide to open up to Levi:

— To tell you the truth, things are not good. My grandfather died recently, and I'm feeling a void that I can't explain, a pain that tears my heart apart — I feel my eyes invaded by tears, but I contain them because I don't want to cry in front of Levi and the whole class.

Levi with a compassionate look, waits a few seconds before resuming his speech:

— First of all, my condolences. Secondly, I have no words to try to help you because I know it's a very delicate and difficult situation. I lost my grandmother Lesley a year and a half ago. I understand your pain, I'm here for whatever you need.

For a moment, which seemed to last for hours, I felt a pain in my chest. Levi's grandmother had died too. Lesley was a very nice old lady. She lived about two blocks from my house in Downcity. So whenever Levi was there, he would grab his bike and come to my house, where we would spend the whole afternoon playing. He always waited for his grandmother to fall asleep so he could go there, even though his parents allowed him to come to my house. I think he did it for the thrill of escaping from his grandmother's house, on an exciting adventure through the winding streets of Downcity. She adored me, just as my grandfather liked Levi. I remember when Levi and I used to sleep over at his grandmother's house, we would build a fort in the old gazebo in the backyard. It was a magical world for us; where we battled against the most terrible of monsters: The giant ice dragon; which spat huge freezing flames at us. "The noble knight Sir. Levi LineMoon, mounted on his horse with his spear made of the heart of a giant asleep in the hot caves of the Sahara desert. He wielded his spear, and ran towards the huge dragon, tearing out its heart, thus saving the kingdom and King Sir. Daany Starstrock". To those who watched from outside, we were just two boys turning on and off flashlights while wildly shaking the sheets around the gazebo. It was easier times, easier times...

It takes me a while to continue speaking to Levi:

— My condolences for your grandmother. Grandparents should be immortal.

— They should indeed — I hear fear in Levi's voice, as if he had just rescued all the grief he felt from a past time —

After this brief dialogue, Levi and I remained silent to pay attention to Mr. Skyle's words.

His class, which always seemed to last minutes, now — I don't know if it's because of the moment I'm going through —, seemed to last for hours. Mr. Skyle's mouth seemed to move in slow motion, Bianca Campbell's and Eric Devon's laughter and conversations seemed eternal. Everything took too long, it was too dull... I couldn't stand all that atmosphere and decided to leave the room. Passing by Levi, without saying anything, not even goodbye, and leaving Mr. Skyle behind, as he gives his SPLENDID TECHNOLOGY MANAGEMENT EXPLANATION and BLAH, BLAH, BLAH...

My steps to the door are quick and almost inaudible. Outside, it feels like all the air that was taken out of my lungs before is now returning to them. The outside environment is cool, even though summer is punishing all the residents of Loftheaven. So I decide to walk through the hallways of the college. It's all very beautiful, the trees, the benches, the way the entire structure of the college was built. It's all very well-preserved.

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Once, I had read that Loftheaven College was built in the mid-1930s. It's almost 100 years of this entire structure. I think about the notable people who could have studied here; like the glorious actress Dude Hall, who starred in Love is Queen in 1950; or even Johnny Dorner, who played the legendary Mr. X-Ray, a superhero with radioactive powers; his movie was a hit in the 1970s.

The entire college has a very artistic feel, from the paintings that adorn all the rooms and corridors; to the theater classes, which have more than 1000 students.

During all the years I studied here, I had never been to the auditorium to watch rehearsals of the plays. About 2 plays are performed per week, one on Saturdays and the other on Sundays. I always receive an email informing me that the plays are being presented. Since I usually sleep all afternoon on Saturdays and Sundays, I never had the opportunity to enjoy them.

I decide to go to the auditorium to see the students from the theater and performing arts classes rehearsing. The path there is simple: I descend from the 2nd upper pavilion to the ground floor, where I walk about 329 ft and reach the fountain square, where there is a beautiful fountain that lights up at night and has some benches around it. After the fountain square, I walk about 33 ft and reach the grand staircase of the gallery; in this gallery, numerous handicraft works by students and former students are displayed. Here, you can find hand-painted paintings: Renaissance, Baroque, Realist, Surrealist... Sculptures, some made of clay, stone, wood, and even metal.

I take a walk through the gallery, observing all the works, now protected by a huge glass. All of them contain the name of the author, date, and name of the work. I stop in front of one that catches my attention. It's a portrait of an old man, made with pieces of glass. Now, I can discern the long white hair and the sparkling blue eyes in the image formed by the set of glasses... The name of the author is given as Anthony Charles; date of the work: September 9, 1964; name of the work: The Shard of Age.

Indeed, aging is to shatter a bit. In life's decisions, in frustrations, in the loss of loved ones, in how everything, sometimes, doesn't make sense. At the moment we find, that or that which reunites us again in something, we transform and show the world that we are true works of art; that's the true meaning of our brief passage through this plane, through this earth, through this air, through these memories that, in the end, is the only place we remain, in memories. Because beyond that, there is nothing, just nonexistence; to not exist; to not be.

I walk a few more feet through the gallery, observing each one as much as I can; I can see a sculpture that appears to be a woodpecker, made with some stones. I see the name of the author, date, and description: Livia Dante-Johnson, May 8, 1996, description: Animalea, Chordata, Picidae – beak and part of feathers in white calcite; eyes in citrine; crest in red jasper; feathers and feet in onyx stone.

I'm enchanted by it, I stop for about 5 minutes as I stare at all the details, the shine of the stones invades me in a way I can't explain; it's as if I'm teleported into that sculpture, and it is me. The eyes shine through all the citrine, and for a moment, I feel like I'm floating. However, soon another work catches my attention. It's a mosaic made of mirrors and some other reflective materials. It depicts the mythological god Cronos, along with his wife Rhea. It portrays Zeus tearing Cronos' belly to save his siblings, instead of making him regurgitate, as is said in Greek mythology. The name is given as Lucile St. Clair, dated August 1, 2010, description: The end of paternal tyranny and omission by Zeus.

For a while, I analyze the entire mosaic and try to understand everything described and included in it. How the use of mirrors can affect the observer. I observe myself through one of the mirrors, trying to fit into that piece, into that art. On one hand, I felt that I was it, that I was in Cronos' belly, and that I, at the same time, was Zeus. That, on one hand, I was so fragile that I managed to be swallowed by Cronos, but that, on the other hand, I was as strong as Zeus and could free myself. But not only free myself, end the tyranny, as the work says.

I wonder if it's some resentment I hold against my father, or both; they were indeed negligent, and I can't deny that. I needed them one day, yes, but they weren't there; it was as if I didn't exist to them. Just another child — "why him, when we have two more? So let's ignore him" —.

I walk a little further through the gallery without caring much about the time. When I realize it, I have only 20 more minutes until I leave college and go to my internship. This is my last week of mandatory internship for graduation, today, in question, is my last day. Mr. Carson, who is in charge of HR along with Lucile, contacted me to inform me about the end of the internship contract and, perhaps, a possible promotion to the administrative part. I wonder if they can't just leave me in the internship part, since the salary on the administrative side is not much compared to that of an intern — the working hours are also shorter as an intern —.

I know the position I put myself in. College entrance exam for administration, college majoring in administration, internship in administration, permanent position as an administrator. I'm not happy where I am and being who I am. I feel like I should be somewhere else, away from here, away from everything; being someone else, with a different identity and a new personality. Maybe, not so sad. A person who smiles often, who is loving and loved often. Being everything, but not being who I am now.

My mind is in a whirlwind of information now, but I'll worry about it later. Before I leave, I decide to go straight to the auditorium to see the rehearsal. I leave the gallery through the long corridor that is to the right of the staircase where I entered.

When I reach the end of it, I enter through a door and notice about 20 people — I don't think I've ever seen them here — on the long stage of the auditorium; they seem to be as comfortable as a person could be. Wearing light, comfortable clothes and totally "disconnected from society's standard". They make weird sounds and noises, walk back and forth without caring who sees them and how they see them. They spin and jump back and forth. They are being free, I think.

I'm hypnotized looking at all these movements that, once, didn't make sense to me, but now they do. When I'm practically petrified looking at them, a short lady, I believe with her 4'7" in height; golden brown hair; wearing a long black dress with some red embroidered flowers, takes the microphone and speaks loudly:

"Alright, alright. Now that you're properly warmed up and stretched, I need you to start a 'dancing chorus'. Where the girls stand behind, and the boys in front."

I don't understand anything about what she says about a "dancing chorus". I try to imagine what it could be in every possible way, but nothing comes to mind. However, right after the order, the students take their pre-established positions.

In a second, the girls start making deep lyrical sounds and the boys some kind of "spinning circle" around them. Then, the boys start singing high-pitched lyrical sounds, and the girls spin, just like them, but in the opposite direction. Until, at a certain point, everyone starts making the same sound. For a moment, none of it makes sense, but then everything found its proper place. The voices that once meant nothing, now meant everything. The rhythm that seemed strange and offbeat found its rhythm amid the sounds echoing from everyone's mouths. There was meaning, and I understood it.

After standing still for a few minutes, still at the entrance of the auditorium, I notice a presence beside me; I get a big fright, but I don't let it show. It was the lady who led the theater group. She soon comes to talk to me:

— Are you enjoying the rhythms and voices? — her voice is serene and peaceful, like I've never heard before. It's as if the melody coming out of her mouth accesses a part that brings me peace, just that — This is what we call the 'sonic watermill of the misunderstood'.

At first, I find it strange to be standing at the door of the auditorium watching them, practically petrified. I reply in a tone that doesn't want to seem strange:

— Hi... hello — the words almost don't come out of my mouth, they choke on each other —. I was just observing.

She speaks in a understanding tone:

— It's okay, theater, music, sounds, art... they're for everyone. Feel welcome to follow our work. We're always here. My name is Elizabeth, what's yours?

— My name is Daany.

— Pleasure to meet you, Daany — for a moment, she observes my entire expression and stares into my eyes. It seems like she knows what I'm feeling, and she's going to draw out everything my tired heart feels —. I want to tell you that the theater is always open for you to be whoever you want to be. I hope everything your big heart, now empty, feels, is healed. And that you live the best life can give you.

She says this with a strangely specific and penetrating tone, something I've never heard from anyone before. It's as if she's known me for years, and I'm here to find a shoulder to cry on and cuddle up to while I fall asleep.

Before I can say anything, she points to a poster behind me, and says:

— We have new theater classes. And now, at the end of the classes, we'll have auditions. Three people will be chosen to be part of the new play "The Hideout of the Unfocused"; which will be fully produced and performed in London. So, if you do well, you might go to London, and maybe become a great actor in the future — me, an actor? Me, who doesn't have a knack for anything. Being an actor requires much more than I could ever be one day —.

I reply:

— I don't think I have a talent for acting. Everyone on stage seems to be so professional. So much more than me.

— Theater is an open and welcoming place; perhaps you won't find yourself here. But where else will you find yourself, if not by losing yourself a little through life's cracks, right?

— I'm afraid of finding myself, and not being who I expected to be — after saying that, I notice that I've opened up to a stranger even without knowing her. Her tone of voice led me here, I'm sure —.

— In life, we can be everything we ever wanted to be. From a cowboy who herds a million cows, to a miserable grain of sand on one of life's beaches; or, on all the beaches of life. Being nothing in a vastness of other things. If you want to know more about it, just scan the QR Code on the poster. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to coordinating those little people over there. I hope you'll be okay. See you later.

She leaves and I can hear her calm and serene steps. I take a photo of the poster before leaving the auditorium.

I resume the path I took earlier: long corridor, the gallery, the staircase, the fountain square, and the external corridors of the college. Before heading towards the exit gate, I decide to put on some music on my headphones; I don't see what it is, but the rhythm is slow and gentle; everything around me falls silent. By the time, the corridors are crowded, with students going back and forth. It's noisy, so the music helps.

Now, outside the Devon Administration & Co. building, I seriously consider not going in. Just staying out here, and when it's time, or even before, leaving. It's my last day of internship, I think about the two years I've spent here, all the experiences — traumatic —, everything... I haven't made friends here, just converse as the polite person I am. People, particularly here, are very closed off; they only talk to those they're used to, but other than that, it's each to their own.

Before coming to Devon, I worked in two other jobs. The first in a shoe store, where it was terrible. People were awful, the boss was awful, the salary even worse. My second job was in a fast-food restaurant, where I fried burgers, fries, nuggets, etc. My skin was shiny for 6 months due to the grease. Then I ended up here, where, so far, it's been the most normal and least worst possible.

My calling for administration doesn't exist, simply doesn't exist. What do I do here? I don't know either, I'm just where the tide brought me.

After long minutes bargaining with my brain, I decide to go in and play my role as an intern. Remembering that today is my last day, and maybe I'll never have to step in here again. Would the fast-food restaurant still hire me?

After a long internship day, it's time to go home, and this time, maybe for the last time. I clock out, take the elevator down, and reach the ground floor. Where I head towards the exit. No one talked to me in the office, nothing about being hired full-time, nothing. Not Mr. Carson, not Lucile.

My body is dangerously tired, I could barely sleep last night, and after a long day, all I need is a shower and a bed. I already imagine myself coming home, taking a nice cold shower, and sleeping snugly in my duck duvet. I bought a duck duvet, it seems childish, but it's adult-sized, so I can't judge myself.

I really want to sleep, but I can't, not when I get home. Because, as soon as I arrive, I have to pack my bags. I'm going to Downcity for my grandfather's wake and burial. I think at times that I forgot about this fact, but no, it still hurts, a lot.

I see my bus appear on the horizon as I wait. It comes, and luckily, there's a seat available. Universe gratitude, I tell myself.

Arriving home, everything is calmer than usual. There's no neighbor's dog barking next door; there's no loud sound from the neighbor downstairs, nor the moving of chairs from the neighbor upstairs. Eerie silence, it strikes me.

I decide to pack a few things in my bag, like three shorts, two pants — one black for the wake and burial —, some t-shirts, and my old denim jacket — how I love this jacket.

I bought the ticket for 10:00 PM, so I have about an hour and a half to take a shower, grab something to eat, and then head to the bus station — yes, the bus station. Airplane tickets were too expensive, and I need to pay my rent next month —. I do everything in less than 30 minutes. I'm restless, and that's normal. I've always been like this, since I was little. Things that take me out of my comfort zone and normalcy bring about restlessness in me.

I take the old building elevator down to the ground floor, hoping it doesn't break down because, if it does, I'll miss the bus and, consequently, lose my money, as the bus company doesn't refund. Everything goes well. I reach the ground floor and, this time, after years, I'm going to take a taxi. The last time I took one was when I arrived in Loftheaven because I didn't know my way around here at all, and I know I'd easily get lost.

It takes about 5 minutes for a taxi to pass. I signal to it, and it stops shortly after. It's a short ride, 10 minutes, and I've arrived already. The bus station is a strange place, particularly for me. It has a gloomy atmosphere that pervades it, I can't explain it. Walking through the boarding area, I see the bus I have to catch from afar. It's quite large, two stories tall, and it seems fairly new. I quickly check-in and board. As I enter, I go straight to my seat, where I stow my carry-on luggage above my seat.

Traveling by bus has always made me nauseous, and this time wouldn't be any different. I feel a huge lump in my stomach as it starts moving, but, as a precaution, I already have motion sickness medicine with me. So, once I take it, everything will "magically" pass. However, drowsiness is one of the side effects, so I'll probably sleep the entire journey. It's about a 12-hour trip, Around 498 miles.

Through the window, I can see the entire city twinkling with its lights until they dim and fade into the horizon of total darkness. The bus is practically empty; besides me, there's a lady in my left corner and a hooded man two seats behind me. Time passes, and my eyes grow heavy at an absurdly fast pace. Soon, sleep takes over.

I wake up with a strong pressure in my head, realizing it's because I had pressed it against the bus window. I can see it's already morning; now I feel my bladder urgently needing relief, I rush to the bathroom at the end of the aisle. After coming back from the bathroom, I notice a very familiar landscape to me, we are officially in Downcity territory; how I missed it — not at all.

I can see the small river that starts at the city's entrance, the Tulyo River, named after Downcity's founder, Sir Patrick Tulyo — I could have very well ignored the existence of this small piece of land and focused on somewhere else —.

It doesn't take long until I see the houses and some historical monuments of Downcity. Like the Downcity Cathedral, the old elementary school. The houses are still the same as they were when I left four years ago. It doesn't take long to reach the bus station; I didn't inform my parents or my siblings who were coming today, so I'll have to either call a taxi or walk to my parents' house.

Downcity isn't that big, so I decide to walk, to "reminisce" a bit about "home". I follow the same path I used to take when I lived here: I walk down the main avenue in front of the bus station, about 0,28 miles, until I take the first left, then I walk another 0,30 miles and turn right, where, at the corner, there's an ice cream parlor; its entire facade is purple — I used to frequent it as a child, the pistachio ice cream is the best; I'll definitely try it before leaving —. Then I continue down a straight street, for about 0,12 miles, until I take a left turn, and "voilà"; the house where I lived for 17 long years... I see there's an abnormal number of cars on the street, I believe they're from people who came for my grandfather's wake. I walk slowly until I stand in front of the house. It's the same; except they've repainted it because the old white paint was in a deplorable state, and they added some yellow details. I also notice they fixed the mailbox, which used to fall with the wind, now it seemed more reinforced; apparently made of metal.

It's a typical American house, two floors, a small porch in the front, a green lawn that extends for about 66 ft. In front of the house, a main door and two windows, one on the left side and one on the right side. On the second floor, two windows as well; when I lived here, the one on the upper left was mine, and the one on the right was my older brother Sean's. Sean was everything I wasn't; strong, athletic, the typical popular guy. He dated for the first time at 15 years old, with Jolie Hampshire, the cheerleader from Downcity high school. They were the sensation couple of the school, everyone wanted to be like them. They were dating each other, but they loved more what they saw in the mirror — cough, cough, narcissism, cough, cough —. Amazingly, they're married now and have two children; my nephews, who are twins, Theo and Lysa, who are 4 years old. My brother is my parents' pride, he married the right person — in their eyes —. He has a good job; he's a football player, has a certain level of fame, not so much that he can't leave the house peacefully, but he has his fame. A good salary, $250,000 a year. Two beautiful children, a perfect house, and a perfect family.

In the backyard, which I can't see yet, there are two more windows overlooking the tree that, when I was younger, I used to swing on a tire swing. My parents' room has a large glass door that leads to their private porch. As for the other window, it's my younger brother Aaron's room. Aaron recently graduated from high school, and amazingly — at least, to me it is — he got married. He married Ellie Ross, who is pregnant with my parents' third grandchild — the world population won't decrease if it depends on my siblings —. He, who is now studying medicine, will graduate in 3 years; then he'll specialize, I believe. He has always been my parents' "favorite", besides being the youngest, the one everyone loves, he always had the best grades in school.

For some time, I stand at the door of "home", gathering courage to enter, but I don't. Until a man with medium-sized blond hair, which now reflects a certain grayish tone, comes out through the main door and walks to the car parked in the garage. Throughout the time I stood here observing, I didn't notice this car parked; by its color and style, it's very new. Probably, they sold the old one — I loved it, by the way. It was the first car I ever drove in life; I cherish good memories of it — and got this one. The man walks slowly from the door to the garage; I notice he never takes his eyes off me, and then I realize who he is, my father, Mr. Morpheus Starstrock; the one everyone says is my father but never fulfilled his role.

He watches me every moment, gets into the car, backs up, passes by me without saying anything, and drives off. At that moment, I feel an enormous wave of dread pass over me; he simply didn't remember me — HOW CAN SOMEONE FORGET THEY HAVE A CHILD... A CHILD!!! —. I don't let this shake me because it's not abnormal for this to happen to me.

I think about going towards the house, greeting everyone, then going up to my old room and just sleeping until the time of the wake. But, I don't do that. I decide to go somewhere else.

I walk along the street I'm on, then turn right and walk about 0,50 miles before turning right again. It's a very clean little street, compared to the ones I passed before. I notice the lawns in front of the houses; all well-kept and trimmed. Flowers everywhere — this would be a typical street I'd like to live on —. I walk a bit more until I come across a house that, unlike the others, seemed to be in a state of abandonment. It wasn't broken or anything, just the lawn dry and lifeless. It's a cutout of the other houses on the street, so it's something to think about. The paint and finishing, from the outside, seem very new; as if they had been painted recently.

A large "For Sale" sign, followed by the name of the realtor, The Flinnes, is placed on the dead and dry grass. It's Lesley LineMoon's house, Levi's grandmother's. The one I used to visit so often.

Because the house is uninhabited, almost abandoned, I decide to go to the back to check something. I'm not afraid as I enter the property, even though I know it's illegal. As I walk, I can only pay attention to my steps and the sounds that Downcity emits; it's a very quiet city, I can't deny that. Because this neighborhood is inhabited by older people, like Levi's grandmother, I believe it's even quieter.

I walk for about 2 minutes until I reach my destination; there it was, the old gazebo that Levi and I used to play in. It's the same, except now it's deteriorating; they invested in keeping the facade beautiful, but the old gazebo was forgotten. The color that was once white is now yellowed; the roof, once firm and resistant, seems to be collapsing at any moment. I walk slowly, observing every detail of the backyard that hasn't changed at all, except for the fact that the tree next to the gazebo is 10 times larger than the last time I saw it.

I enter the gazebo, being as careful as possible because with the slightest slip, it can come crashing down in seconds. I stand in the center of it, trying to retrieve as many memories as I can. It used to seem so big, but now, it's a normal size. That's what I hate about adulthood, the "normalcy"; it's dull, exhausting, simply everything that childhood isn't. Childhood is colorful, full of rainbows and sparkles. Adulthood, on the other hand, is whitewashed, gray; for a moment, I think it's going to turn black and white, and never return to normal.

I remember the time Levi and I put on a show for the incredible audience of 1 million people — actually, it was 3 teddy bears and 2 wooden horses —. We were the biggest popstars in the world, doing over 100 shows a month. We were the biggest hits in the world. Or the time we played "the floor is lava", and the only safe place was the gazebo; we jumped from stone to stone on the ground; in that game, Levi almost broke his arm — I've never felt such great fear —.

I decide to sit on the floor of the gazebo and observe the backyard and the back of the house, which in other times, was so lively and full of joy. Mrs. LineMoon brought happiness to this house, to Levi, to me... to the whole street. I remember when she made cake and lemonade, and called us to eat. We stopped playing immediately because no one wanted to miss cake time. I remember her with her pink apron, white hair curled in rollers, big glasses that covered her whole face. I saw Levi in her face, somewhere he was there. Just like I also saw a lot of her in Levi.

After a few minutes sitting, I decide to have an immersive experience in the memories of the past; I open the photo of Levi and me as children in the gallery on my phone. At that moment, vivid flashes of memory come to my eyes; now I see Levi and me running back and forth, hanging on the gazebo — if we did that today, it would definitely come crashing down quickly —, hiding behind the trees, in the bushes... those were good times.

A thin tear runs down my face, I try to hold it back, but it's not possible. A great sob overwhelms me. I can't contain myself, all the memories, everything I've been through, the apathy in Levi's absence of memories, the death of my grandfather, the death of Mrs. LineMoon, my father not even recognizing me... It was a huge emotional burden, I don't blame myself for crying, because I needed to. I was very sensitive, and in the last 4 years that I lived alone, I cried only twice, and for irrelevant reasons.

Now, everything that has been stored has exceeded the limit. For a moment, I think about lying down and curling up until someone finds me here and helps me. The crying that I thought would linger, doesn't, it dwindles until it's just sniffles. I get up, brushing off all the dust I acquired from sitting on the floor. I look at the gazebo one last time; I touch it with my hand and mentally say goodbye and thank you for everything it meant to me.

I leave the property that once belonged to Mrs. LineMoon and head towards my parents' house.

I arrive at the front door and ring the bell, hoping that no one is home, so I can just catch the first bus to the end of the world. But soon, someone opens the door, and I notice it's Aaron — he looks different, with a thin beard on his face. I can tell he's been working out because his arms now look like two logs of wood —. As soon as he sees me, he exclaims:

— Daany!!! — his face lights up with happiness at seeing me, but at the same time, there's sadness in his expression because of the whole situation we're going through. He hugs me with the most genuine embrace I've ever seen from him — It's been so long! I missed you. I missed you so much. I couldn't reach you, Mom said you had changed your number — I didn't change my number, I've been using the same phone number for years. Besides, they are not present parents, and now they want to keep me away from my siblings —.

I'm genuinely happy to see Aaron; all the issues with my parents only concern them. I love my siblings, even though we're not together. With the same intensity with which he hugged me, I reciprocate:

— 'Shorty', I missed you so much — when we were younger, we used to call each other that —. I missed you a lot, really. I love you, man, I love you — I'm not one to say "I love you" often, but I felt the need to say it. Because I really do love him, just as I love Sean, I love my parents; even though the latter don't love me. Because I see love as a two-way street; sometimes it's one-way.

After a long hug, we let go, and he invites me inside and leads me to the living room, where, to my surprise, only his wife, Ellie Ross, who is now Mrs. Ellie Starstrock, was there. She hugs me and offers her condolences for my grandfather. I thank her, and I notice the belly that has already protruded from her shirt — sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have kids —.

Aaron takes me to the room where I'll be staying, and unsurprisingly, it's my old room. As we walk through the corridors together, all I can notice is how similar he, Sean, and I are, with the only difference being that Sean and Aaron are giants, and I'm a skinny guy without muscles.

Arriving at my old room, Aaron leaves my backpack at the door and says:

— Sean hasn't arrived yet. He called earlier saying he'd be late, but he'll be here in about 3 hours. Mom and Dad went shopping because more people are coming for Grandpa's funeral in the next few days. So, since you must be tired, rest for a while.

I reply:

— Thanks, 'Shorty'.

— If you need anything, I'll be downstairs.

— Alright, thanks.

Aaron closes the door, and I can hear his footsteps descending the stairs.

Now in my room, I can see that everything has changed; the old dresser that used to be here has been replaced by a huge wardrobe, my single bed is now replaced by a huge double bed. Everything has changed, the carpet that used to be dark brown is now lighter, almost white. The walls that were a soft blue have been painted a dark gray — they want to erase me completely from their existence, and destroy all traces of my presence here —.

I change out of the clothes I've been wearing for over 12 hours; I leave them in a laundry basket next to the bed. I put on the lightest clothes I have because just like in Loftheaven, here in Downcity, the heat is also more intense than ever.

I lie down on the bed, which feels strange to me. My brain tries to process the environment I'm in. Was this, at one point, my room? Because it doesn't feel anything like I remembre?

Now, in this "new" environment, I try to adapt. One positive thing about this complete makeover is that this new bed is very soft. I feel like I'm being lovingly embraced by it.

It doesn't take long for sleep to come; I can finally sleep peacefully in my home sweet home...