chapter 35. HyperPhantasia

Froosta is still there.

Curled.
Clutching his tail.
Not speaking.

He doesn’t even blink.

Like a poor child frozen before a fire that might spark again.
The tip of his tail trembles in his grip, slow and rhythmic—like a heartbeat felt through fear.
He’s breathing fast now. Soft huffs. Like he’s trying not to cry.

Ydoc doesn’t speak either.

He just stares at Froosta.
At what he’s done.
At what he is.

His throat aches, raw from yelling. But more than that—
A new hurt. Low and twisted.

“…What the hell am I?”

The words fall out. Barely a whisper.
Not to Froosta. Not even to himself, really.
They just drop, lifeless, into the Divide.

Froosta doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

His eyes are wide, unfocused. He’s gone somewhere deep inside himself, and the way he’s shaking—quietly, rhythmically—suggests he isn’t ready to come back.

And that’s when Ydoc knows.

He’s hurt more than himself.

He turns away, shame now like iron around his spine.
His feet crunch softly against the frost-covered path as he steps back.
One pace.

Two.

Then a slow walk—away, just away.
Not running, not storming off.

Just… tired.

Too tired.

The Divide watches.
Doesn’t speak.

The silence is long and full.

Ydoc stops only when he’s far enough that Froosta is a small thing in the fog again.
He closes his eyes.

His fingers twitch with a phantom memory.
A warmth, maybe. A laugh.
A kiss on the cheek.

But then—

Pain.

A new one.

It strikes sharp beneath his skull, just above the neck.
A distant ache, like something pulling.

And then—

Windchimes.

Soft.

Tinkling.

Almost beautiful.

Ydoc opens his eyes—
Looks around.

The Divide is still.
No wind. No houses. No decorations.

But he hears it.

The windchimes again.

He whirls—frantic, confused.

Where?

They grow louder.

But there’s nothing.
No trees with ornaments.
No metal. No hollow glass.
No wind to stir them.

Just frost.

Just mist.

And yet…
The chimes are there.

And they sound like—

A memory.

A warning.

A song.

Ydoc’s heart races.

“Where’s it coming from…?”

The Divide doesn’t answer.

Only the chimes remain.

And the very faintest whisper of someone’s voice…
Just beyond the frost.

Calling him.

Or mourning him.

He can't tell.
--------

The windchimes curl through the trees again—higher now, like silver water running through empty cups.
Ydoc staggers, knees nearly buckling as the melody climbs. It’s no longer just chimes. There’s rhythm now, low pulses like bowed strings beneath a starless sky. A cello again, distant… longing. Familiar.
A sadness in sound.

“Why does this keep happening…” he asks—voice cracked, not expecting an answer.

He can feel it now. Not just in his ears.
In his bones.
His chest.
Behind his eyes.
The music isn’t around him—it’s within.

And then—

Soft footsteps.

Light and timid.

Froosta—still holding his tail like a plush toy—scampers forward, close enough now that Ydoc can hear his breath hitching. The boy doesn't dare touch him, not yet. But he leans just close enough that his warmth cuts through the cold.

His voice comes like a whisper under a blanket:

“You hear it again, don’t you…?”

Ydoc jerks—half turning, stunned.

“Again?” he breathes. Then—louder, hope springing from despair—
“Wait—Froosta, you hear it too!?”

It’s a spark. The first he’s had all day.
His hands tremble, not from cold now, but something close to joy.

But Froosta…

Froosta just smiles—softly.

And he shakes his head.

No.

“Only you ever could,” he says. Quiet, apologetic.
“Ever since I met you, you’d stop in the middle of talking… or walking… and your eyes would go all glassy like you saw something no one else did.”

He chuckles, but it’s sadder than it should be.

“Once, you cried… because of a song that wasn’t there. I always wondered what it sounded like.”
“I always wished I could hear it too.”

Ydoc’s spark flickers.
And then goes dim again.

The windchimes rattle faintly, then dissolve into something like a flute.
It dances at the edge of hearing—never quite whole. Never truly there.

Ydoc lowers his head.

“Then why me…?” he mutters.
“Why am I the one who hears ghosts?”

Froosta doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t know.
But he inches closer—just barely brushing his shoulder to Ydoc’s arm.

It’s not an answer.
But it’s company.

The music plays on.
--------

The music dips again—its peaks fading to a gentle hush. The chimes return, slow and hollow, like laughter too far away to catch.

And—

A touch.

Froosta’s fingers, careful and trembling, press against Ydoc’s shoulder—just enough to be known. Not commanding. Not begging. Just… here.

“Could you tell me… what it’s saying?”

Ydoc opens his eyes halfway. He blinks at the forest, then at the faint white specks drifting down from above.

Snow.

Only just.

He frowns, confused by the question, turning his head slightly toward Froosta without pulling away.

“What the music is… saying?”

Froosta nods—but it’s small. Timid.

His other hand curls around his own tail as if grounding himself, but his voice finds its courage.

“You don’t always notice it, but… when the music starts… you kind of go somewhere. Not far. Not in body. Just…”
“Gone.”
“And when you come back, you’re sad. Or you laugh. Or cry. Like you heard something only meant for you.”

He exhales, breath fogging lightly.

“So I was wondering… maybe this time… if you could tell me what it says.”

The snowfall grows softer, silkier, each flake barely landing before melting. The world hushes, listening.

Froosta’s tail vibrates, twitching like a violin string plucked with giddy tension. He tries to stay calm, but he’s leaning in slightly now—eyes big, hopeful, glimmering with something more than curiosity.

Closeness.
Longing.
That tender, hidden wish.

And Ydoc…

He doesn’t answer with words. Not right away.

Instead, he closes his eyes.

Slowly.
Warily.

And lets the music take him.

Just this once…

For Froosta.

For himself.

For whatever that voice in the frost has been trying to say all along.