chapter 8 - Windows to our Heart.

He woke with a snap.
Not a slow blink, not a stretch—
But a snap—like a noose breaking.
A gasp torn from his throat, damp and sudden.

For a second, he didn’t know where he was.

The red was gone.

Only gray remained.
And silence.

He was already half-standing, pressed against the cold wooden wall of his room, fingers trembling, back arched like something had thrown him there.

He didn’t scream.

But he cried.
Without sound.

Thin black tears dripped from his chin, a dark and syrupy ink from his nose.

Not fast. Just a few heavy drops.

His chest tightened, shallow breaths moving through him like cold soup. He couldn’t quite sob. There wasn’t enough left in him. Just shaking.

Wordless.

Tired.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand—then swiped at his nose.

Smear.
Black on gray.

His fingers, tacky with ink, reached for the wall.
He pressed them there.

Left four streaks.

Thin. Dripping. Like brushstrokes in a dead language.
He didn’t know why he did it.

Maybe to say “I’m still here.”

Maybe just to mark time.

He whispered something beneath his breath—
A half-spoken wish.

"I wish..."
A pause.
"...there was fresh air."

And then—

There was.

Light.

Soft, golden sunlight.

Peeking through leaves and warped tree branches.

A window.

He blinked.

The wall that had once been unbroken now held a tall, crooked-paned window—fogged slightly at the edges.
It had rusted handles and dustless glass.
He swore—he knew—there had never been a window before.
Not in this room.
Not for as long as he'd been here.

And yet...

Maybe it had always been there?

His body didn’t move to run.
He should be alarmed.
But the sun—
The smell—

It drifted in like citrus and crushed pine needles.
Like blackberries and honey-water.
Like the Divide itself.

It was sweet.

A breeze caressed his tired skin, cool and soft.
His hair moved.
His clothes rippled slightly at the collar.

Ydoc chuckled.
A soft one.

Delirious.
Maybe even amused.

"Clearly," he muttered to himself, "this is a delusion."

The smile faded as quickly as it came.
But the air...
It stayed.
-------

He stood there a long time.

Just…
Breathing.

Slow.
Careful.
As if his ribs might crack from the effort.

The air slid into his lungs like an old lover’s touch—cool, patient, unjudging.
There was no dust.
No mold.
No smoke.

Just... air.

And something else.

Ink.
He could taste it at the back of his throat.
Familiar. Not bitter. Not sweet.
Just his.
Thick, iron-heavy—like milk stirred with charcoal.

His lips were stained with it.
Not bleeding anymore, but still marked.
It clung to the corners of his mouth like forgotten poetry.

He licked it away without thinking.
Let the strange flavor of himself soak into his tongue.
It was better than being numb.

He leaned into the wind.

Eyes still watery.
Fingers loose.
Body aching with a thousand ghosts of sleep that never came.

And the sun—if it could be called that—spilled through the strange new window like syrupy glass.

Not golden.
Not warm.
Not bright.

It was pale.
Shimmering.
Colorless, like candlelight in grayscale.

Like a forgotten dream of summer.

It pressed against his face.
And for the first time in…
Who knows how long?

He didn't want to move.

Out there—
The forest.

The Divide.

It stretched in all directions.
Far and wide and deep.
A painted sea of ink-black trees, their limbs long and thin, like brushstrokes gouged into the sky by a trembling hand.

The forest was not empty.

It watched.

Not with menace.
Not like the eyes he sometimes felt in his nightmares.
No—these were different.
He couldn’t see them—not really—

But he felt them.

Eyes.
In the thicket.
Behind the trunks.
Beneath the canopy.
Nestled in shadow and nestled in kindness.

They were watching.

Not to catch him.

But to hold him.

They had seen him cry.

They had seen him dance, once, in delirium.

They had seen his blood on the wall, and they said nothing.
They had seen his nightmares—but did not blame him.

They were not afraid of him.

They were waiting.

Not with judgment.

But with warmth.

The kind only the forest remembers.

The kind only the wild can offer.

Ydoc closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the glass.
His breath made a small fog there.

And for a moment—
One moment—
He didn’t feel quite as hollow.

He whispered without knowing why,
“…I hope you’re still out there.”

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

He leaned back from the window, head still against the cool glass.

A sound caught in the branches.
No… not just a sound.

Music.

So faint.
So thin—like it had been playing for a long time but only now remembered to reach his ears.

First, a flute.

Rustic.
Folk-like.
It danced like a bird weaving between frost-kissed leaves.

Then, a guitar.
Old and heavy, the kind your grandfather would play barefoot on the porch while telling stories no one believed.

The two instruments braided together.

And then—

Words.

Soft. Whispered.
But not in his head.
No, they carried on the wind.
They swam in through the impossible window like perfume.

"I see the trail of shoulders I’ve climbed over, but—
By god, I’ll bloody up my hands...
With everything I am.”

Ydoc’s fingers twitched.

They moved of their own accord.
Felt the beat in the floorboards.
Let the melody trickle down his spine like warm tea on a winter’s day.

He didn’t mean to smile.

But he did.

A tiny, crooked grin.
A fragile flower blooming in the ash.

And then—

CRASH.

A door slammed below.

Ydoc froze.
The spell shattered.

“I’m leaving!”
Edward’s voice, sharp and bitter, barked up the stairs.
“I’m going to the damn festival!”

Another noise—clattering dishes, maybe.

“I’ll be back whenever, I guess. Don’t wait up.”

That tone—
Soaked in guilt and gasoline.
He wanted Ydoc to stop him.
He wanted Ydoc to chase.

But—

The music.

The music hadn’t left.
Even through the shouting, it stayed.
The guitar plucked stubbornly on.
The flute danced around Edward’s fury like wind skipping over waves.

Ydoc stepped back toward the window.
If he stayed, he could still hear it.
Still pretend he belonged in a world where people played songs in the forest for no reason but love.

But—

But what if he went?

What if he could see the ones who made it?

What if the people with button-eyes and fur-covered arms, and honey-laced voices were real?

What if the warmth he remembered—that dream from the tea party—was just around the corner?

Something in him cracked.
Not broke—
Cracked.
Like thawing ice under a single ray of sun.

He turned.

He ran.

Yanked the door open so hard it shuddered on its hinges.

And with a breath that felt almost like laughter, he screamed—

“WAIT!!”

Feet thudding down the stairs, slipping on the rug, arms flailing, half-falling, catching himself on the wood frame—
Another breath—

“Don’t go without me!”

“I—I want to go to the festival!!”

The front door was half open.
Edward stood just outside.

The rain had stopped.

Or maybe it hadn’t.
Maybe the music made it feel that way.

Edward turned.

His sharp coat was buttoned high.
His fur slightly damp.
Eyes low.

And then…

A glance.

Up.
Toward Ydoc.

Not annoyed.

Not smug.

Just—
Puzzled.

As if—for a moment—he forgot who Ydoc was.

As if he was looking at someone new.
Or someone long-lost.

“…huh,” Edward muttered.

And then, a flicker of a smile.

Just surprised.

“…Well,” he said. “I’ll be damned.”