Ms. Vann, a friend of the Family.

The apothecary door swung shut behind him with a soft creak, leaving Nimdok standing on the slick cobblestone street. The morning was gray, the kind of wet, lingering cold that clung to the skin. Mud streaked the stones, pooling in shallow depressions, and the sidewalks fared no better. A light mist hovered in the air, wrapping around the buildings like a half-hearted shroud.

Nimdok pulled his coat tighter, cradling the small package of medicine against his chest.

Darcia’s playful words echoed in his mind. “She’s not as old as you think, you know. Maybe she’s waiting for a charming young man to brighten her day.”

He gave a faint smile at the thought, though it didn’t reach his eyes. His steps were measured, his boots squelching faintly in the mud.

No one greeted him. No one waved.

He was unburdened by the weight of his family’s name. The legacy of his father, once great and imposing, had faded into obscurity, leaving Nimdok to wander like a ghost in the town where no one cared to remember him.
His mind drifted as he walked, slipping away from the wet morning and into a world of its own making. The gray streets began to shimmer in his mind’s eye, the dull cobblestones transforming into vibrant mosaics of blue and gold. He imagined music—soft and lilting, like a distant violin playing a song only he could hear.

“Good day to you,” he murmured, tipping his hat to a street sign. The wooden post stood silent, unmoving, but in Nimdok’s imagination, it tipped its nonexistent hat back to him with a jaunty flourish.

A stray cat darted across his path, its fur matted from the rain. “Ah, the Marquis of Puddles,” Nimdok greeted it with a nod. The cat paused, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes before slinking into an alley.

He smiled faintly. Charming fellow.

Passersby glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes, their expressions a mixture of pity and discomfort. They whispered to each other, though not so softly that he couldn’t hear. “Poor boy... a product of that terrible asylum.”

The words didn’t bother him. Not anymore. They were just part of the backdrop, a dull hum in the symphony of his mind.
_______
[little bird little bird]

He turned a corner and came to a sudden stop. There, perched on the edge of a shallow puddle, was a cluster of small birds. Their feathers were a riot of color—bright reds, deep blues, and sunny yellows. They chirped and hopped, pecking at the wet ground as if the world wasn’t gray and heavy with rain.

Nimdok froze, his breath catching in his throat. The colors burned into his mind, searing and painful. He gripped the package of medicine tighter, his knuckles whitening.

The chirping grew louder, sharper, until it became a shrieking cacophony in his ears. His vision blurred, the cobblestones beneath him seeming to warp and twist. His chest tightened, and his knees threatened to buckle.

“Sing, little bird. Sing for us.”

The words slithered into his mind, unbidden and unwanted. His hands began to tremble, and the world around him dimmed, replaced by a cold, sterile cell and the scent of damp stone. The birds weren’t birds anymore—they were shadows with sharp beaks and cruel eyes, pecking and tearing.

A shudder ran through him, and he stumbled back, his heel catching on the uneven cobblestone. The birds scattered, their colorful wings flashing as they disappeared into the gray sky.

Nimdok stood there, staring at the empty puddle. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding against his ribs. Slowly, he brought a hand to his face and wiped the rain—or was it sweat?—from his brow.

He didn’t move for a long moment, his mind struggling to quiet the echoes of the past. When he finally took a step forward, it was hesitant, his body heavy with the weight of memories he couldn’t escape.

-----------
[Come out to play]

As Nimdok resumed his walk, the birds returned. Their colorful forms flitted in the edges of his vision, their chirping now words that pierced his fragile sense of calm.

“How are you today?” one asked, its tone sharp and clinical, like the voice of a disinterested doctor.

“Have you eaten?” another chimed, fluttering close enough that its shadow crossed his path.

“What is the color of your urine?”

Their questions grew louder, overlapping, a cacophony of interrogation that drilled into his skull. He clutched the package of medicine tighter, his pace quickening, but the birds followed. They danced along the cobblestones, their tiny claws clicking against the wet stone, their voices turning mocking.

“You’re not good enough to be loved,” one declared, its feathers flashing a brilliant blue as it hopped onto a low fence.

“No one loves you but the doctors,” another added, its tone syrupy and cruel.

Nimdok flinched as the words dug into him like barbs. His mind raced, trying to drown them out, but their voices grew louder, more insistent.

“Sing, little bird,” they jeered. “Sing like you did for them.”

His steps faltered, his legs heavy with the weight of their taunts. The rain seemed colder now, the streets darker. His breathing quickened, and he felt a sob rising in his throat.

Without realizing it, he began to hum—a soft, trembling melody from his childhood. His voice wavered as the song formed on his lips, a sad tune that had once been a comfort in the darkest moments of his life.

The birds mimicked him, their chirping twisting into an eerie harmony. They encircled him, their tiny bodies a riot of color against the gray morning.

“Chip, chip, chip,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

The birds repeated it, their voices a cruel echo.

“Chip, chip, chip,” they mocked.

Tears blurred his vision as he stumbled forward, his feet moving as if by instinct. The melody spilled from his lips, broken and haunting. The cobblestones beneath him seemed to stretch endlessly, the bakery a distant beacon through the haze of his mind.

Finally, he reached the small door of Mrs. Varn’s bakery. The warm scent of bread and spices wafted through the cracks, a sharp contrast to the cold, mocking presence of the birds. He stopped, his trembling hand reaching for the doorknob.

The birds circled him one last time, their voices soft now, almost pitying.

“Sing, little bird,” they whispered.

Nimdok took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. The song stopped. The birds vanished, leaving only the sound of the rain and the faint hum of life inside the bakery.

He opened the door and stepped inside, his face pale, his hands shaking. The warmth of the bakery embraced him, but the chill of their words lingered in his heart.