Chapter 6- Fear Eats the Soul

One of the creatures reached across the table. A bright green paw, tipped in soft claws, offering Ydoc a sugar-dusted tart on a flower-shaped plate.

He blinked at it, slowly reaching—

CRASH.

The sound rang out like a bell struck wrong.

Ydoc flinched.

Porcelain shattered.

The tea party gasped.

Heads turned. Laughter stopped.

The piano skipped a note.

And then—like a curtain ripped from its rod—the entire world peeled away.

No time to say goodbye. No name to call.
Just the sharp, awful sound of something precious breaking.

He woke.

The light was dull again. Orange, yes, but faded—flickering against the windowpanes as rain traced slow, weeping rivers down the glass.

He was still at the table.

But it was cold now. And empty.

His cup was shattered.

Ceramic shards lay across his plate, soaking in ink-stained pasta and a few uneaten bites. He reached for it instinctively—his fingers trembling—but it crumbled further under his touch.

A jagged piece still bore the strange little nick on the rim. That tiny imperfection he always looked for when pouring tea.

That little curve that made it his.

Gone now.

He stared at the pieces as if willing them to reform. But they didn’t. Of course they didn’t.

His chest ached.

Something deep, something quiet and shameful. He hadn’t even realized how much that cup had mattered. But it had. It had meant something.

His eyes burned again, though no tears came.

He looked around.

Edwards was gone.

The table had been cleared. His plate, empty. The food—what little was left—thrown out. No crumbs. No dishes waiting in the sink. No note.

Just the echo of silverware and the faintest citrus in the air.

He was still so hungry.

His stomach curled, small and sad, but he didn’t move.

The cabin’s warmth had returned in the same way it always did—like a mask pulled tight over a corpse. The fire glowed low in the hearth. The lights flickered politely.

But it was raining.

Outside, yes. But inside, too.

Inside Ydoc.

A cold, creeping rain he couldn’t dry off.

He closed his eyes again, but this time no sweetness waited.

Only silence.
-------

Ydoc hadn’t moved.

He still sat there, surrounded by nothing. His fingers rested on the broken cup, one thumb brushing the edge of that familiar nick—now cracked and jagged. It felt like holding the last thread of a dream already gone.

Then—footsteps.

The floor creaked once, then again. A light patter followed, and from around the corner came Edwards—his fur slightly damp, a rolled-up sleeve pushed lazily above one elbow, a bag of kitchen trash no longer in hand.

“Well then,” Edwards said, voice casual, “somebody got clumsy.”

Ydoc flinched.

Edwards’ eyes fell to the shattered cup still in Ydoc’s hand.

“My cup,” he said, not unkind, but not warm either. “Shame. I really liked that one.”

He didn’t sound angry.
That was the worst part.

Just disappointed.

Ydoc said nothing.

He didn’t have it in him to explain—what it meant, why he always chose it, how it felt like his when nothing else was. He didn’t want to see the look Edwards would give him if he tried.

So he stayed still.

Silent.

Edwards sighed dramatically, and his tone shifted.

From flat to cheerful—just like flipping a page.

“Well!” he said brightly, clapping his hands once. “Enough moping! I’ve got something better than tea.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a slim envelope—bright red, sealed with a tiny golden star.

He opened it with a theatrical flourish and fanned out three tickets.

Festival tickets.

Thin parchment, printed with swirling silver ink that shimmered faintly in the warm cabin light. Each bore the emblem of the Divide’s twin moons, crossed together in a blooming star.

“Ta-da~” Edwards sang, as if pulling candy from thin air. “Guess who’s going to the Festival of the Stars?”

Ydoc blinked slowly. His eyes stung.

Edwards sat across from him, folding himself into the chair with a casual grace—placing the tickets on the table, precisely where the broken cup had once rested.

“Tomorrow,” he said with a grin. “They brought it back. Can you believe it? A whole event to honor spirits—peace between mortals and the Divide. It’s sweet. Almost brings a tear to the eye.”

He leaned in, resting his chin on his palm. “You’ve always loved it. You remember that, right?”

Ydoc stared blankly. His hand curled into his lap.

No.

He didn’t.

But something about the name did feel familiar.
And that made it worse.

“I got three tickets,” Edwards continued, tapping the top one. “One for you. One for me. And one for a surprise guest~”

He winked, waiting for Ydoc to ask.

Ydoc didn’t.

Edwards’ smile faltered just slightly, then returned full force.

“It’s going to be lovely,” he said. “Food, lights, music, dancing… all those happy little families pretending the world isn’t on fire. Just like old times.”

He laughed.

Ydoc still didn’t speak.

The room felt warm again. Orange glow. Soft rain outside.

But inside him, it was cold.

Edwards slid the top ticket closer to Ydoc.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “It’ll be good for you. For us. Maybe you’ll even remember something sweet this time.”

His voice was syrupy now, a spoon dipped in honey. A parent after a slap, offering candy.

Ydoc stared at the ticket.

It shimmered faintly.

He didn’t move.
--------

Ydoc stared at the ticket.

The ink shimmered gently—twin moons curled around a star, silver lines that swirled like calligraphy. It was pretty. Sweet. He should’ve smiled. Should’ve said thank you.

But instead, a strange pressure started behind his eyes.
A little fog.

Like a thin cloth had been pulled across his thoughts.

He blinked, trying to shake it off, but it clung.

His hand hovered near the ticket, not touching it.
“Who’s the third one?” he asked, voice low.

Edwards lit up—too quickly.
Like he’d been waiting for that question.
Like it had been rehearsed.

“Oh, her,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair. “Sweet girl. White fur, short, tiny thing—real graceful. Delicate voice. Smells like crushed lilies and ink. You know her.”

Ydoc furrowed his brow.

Edwards leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lowering into something more intimate.
“Lucy. A florist in Deep Lilac. Beautiful girl. Been asking about you for ages.”

Ydoc shook his head slowly.
“I… I don’t know her.”

“You do,” Edwards said, gently but firmly. “Or did. Before you got sick.”

There it was again.

That word.
Sick.

Ydoc’s throat tightened.

Edwards smiled, eyes twinkling with false innocence.
“She said you used to visit her every Tuesday. Would sit on that little stool by the counter while she tied bouquets. You brought her coffee once and got flustered when she brushed your hand.”

Ydoc opened his mouth.
Then closed it.

He didn’t remember that.
Any of it.

But the way Edwards said it—so smooth, so certain—made it feel real. Like a memory seen through someone else's eyes.

And what could he say?
What could he say?

He couldn’t argue with something he didn’t know.
His memory was a cracked mirror, and Edwards always handed him the pieces he wanted him to see.

“She accepted your invitation, by the way,” Edwards added casually, pouring himself more water. “To the festival, I mean. Before your… spell. Said she’d be honored to go with you.”

That stung.

More than he expected.

Ydoc’s fingers curled in his lap. His face felt hot, but his body was cold.

He didn’t remember ever inviting anyone.
He didn’t remember falling ill.
He didn’t remember a damn thing about a florist or a girl or a Tuesday morning with lilies.

But Edwards said it like fact.
Like gospel.

And there it was again—that pressure behind the eyes.
The fog rolling in.

Every time Edwards said something sweet, something “true,” Ydoc’s thoughts drifted off course—as if they had no spine at all.

He felt…

Trapped.

The room felt smaller.
The ticket gleamed brighter.
His voice shrank smaller.

He forced a laugh.
It didn’t sound right. “Wow. That’s… that’s nice.”

Edwards smiled again.

And the fog pulled tighter.
--------

Ydoc shifted in his seat.

He tried to smile.
Really, he did.

“That’s… really nice to hear,” he said, voice uneven. “I’m glad. She sounds… sweet.”

He looked up.
Edwards was watching him.

And in his eyes—just for a second—was something Ydoc almost never saw.

Joy.

Not the smirking, teasing performance Edwards always wore like perfume.
But something close to real.

It made Ydoc hesitate.
It made him feel guilty.

But he had to say it.

“I just… I don’t think I’m interested.”

He smiled faintly, hands in his lap, trying to sound light.
“I mean—she sounds lovely. But I don’t feel ready. Or… or something.”

The change was instant.

Edwards’ smile didn’t falter.

Not yet.

But his paws—his perfect, dramatic hands—slammed onto the table with a crack like thunder.

The silverware jumped.
The tickets fluttered.

Ydoc flinched so hard his spine lit up with pain.

Edwards leaned forward.
And then—

His face broke.

Not in fury.
Not in violence.

In disgust. In exhaustion.

He groaned deep in his throat, a noise that rattled like something coming undone.
His eyes squinted shut, his lips peeled back in a scowl as if the act of holding his disappointment had finally rotted his jaw.

“Fifty-eight,” he muttered, barely audible.
“Fifty. Eight. Times.”

Ydoc didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His arms… hurt.
His sides… ached.

But Edwards hadn’t touched him.

Not this time.

Still, the pain knew. The body remembered what the mind wouldn’t.

Edwards straightened slowly.

Smoothed down his shirt.

Shrugged.

“Fine,” he said, voice clipped and bright. “Waste it. Again.”

He turned, walking toward the hall without a second glance. His tail lashed once, sharp as a whip, then stilled.

Ydoc’s heart beat like wings against glass.

From somewhere deeper in the cabin, Edwards’ voice rang out—sharp, echoing:

“Just go to your room, Ydoc.”
A pause.
“Go. Away.”

Ydoc stood.

He moved slowly.

His legs were stiff, unsure if they’d betray him.

Each step toward the stairs felt like walking in wet sand. His arms throbbed as if bruised—but the sleeves hid no marks. Not yet.

Up the stairs.

The house creaked beneath him like a throat trying to swallow.

He passed the faded painting in the hall. The one he’d never liked. The one that had always been there.

He didn’t look at it.

He reached his door.

His room was cold. Not from temperature—but from absence.

There was no bed.
Just a fraying rug in the corner.

A wooden table with nothing on it.

And a chest.
He knew what was inside—hand-me-downs. Nothing he’d chosen. Nothing that smelled like him.

Ydoc stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.

The room didn’t greet him.
It simply was.

No warmth. No ghosts. Not even anger.

Just a grey, lifeless corner of a house where no one truly lived.

He knelt down onto the rug, arms folding around himself.

And sat in silence.