Real Heroes

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING.

He awoke to darkness. 

Piles of manga tilted like crumbling Jenga towers around his feet. Posters curled up on themselves, plastered over each other on all four walls. An old game console buried beneath the slopes of laundry. Blackout curtains that'd remained in place for much too long. 

He followed the ringing—past the piles of books, past the laundry—to the desk in the corner. 

Unopened tax envelopes. Dust-smeared figurines. An old flyer—"MISSING GIRL – AGE 12."  

A pink phone. He picked it up slowly, and pressed down—

Click.

He waited for someone to speak. 

“Took you long enough," a familiar bubbly voice said from the other end. "I was getting bored."

"...Hey," he replied.

“You sound older," she said.

“I guess I am.”

“How long’s it been?”

"I don't know," he whispered. “I stopped counting.”

There was a pause, as if both ends reflected on years forgotten.

“So, Chosen Hero,” she finally spoke again, lighting up once more, “are you coming back? The townsfolk are waiting for you.”

But he didn't speak. Instead, he looked around the room again. 

His tomb of RPGs and fantasy maps of places that didn't exist. Heroes, dragons, plastic idols. Everything he’d ever escaped into surrounded him. 

His kingdom of clutter. His mess. His world.

He closed his eyes. 

“I think…” He breathed. “I think I’d rather stay here this time.”

Another pause, then the voice whispered from the other end. “…You always were the stubborn one."

“Be good, okay?” she said, a smile in her tone. “Real heroes don’t get continues.”

"Yeah..." he said. "I know." 

"You always keep your promises," she whispered. “Now promise this ending will be a good one.”

The line clicked for the last time. 

Seiichi thought about opening the window curtains.