The door groaned as he pulled it open—and his heart followed.
He sat there, hand shakily vibrating over the latch, the jitter of rusted metal squealing in his ear. Moments passed; moments that felt like hours. He listened for every sound he could possibly hear, jumping at old creaks and muffled grating that permeated through the stale air.
A wash of discomfort began to flood his mind, but still, he mustered what little strength he had remaining and fully tilted his head out the frame.
It was a corridor he had yet to recognize, unable to shake the droning feeling that something was wrong. Everything came with the taste of rotting wood and frothing dust, faded beams of light echoing through the grime-caked windows that followed the opposing wall. His room was only one of four, a sequence of identical doors, all silent as if pretending to sleep.
The left was notably a dead-end, only a singular iron door that capped it like a tomb. The right, however, visibly descended down a withered set of stairs, a single curved arch to present its arrival.
Still, what ended up catching his eye was possibly the thing that he dreaded to see the most—the outside.
No curtains. No bars. No pins. The only thing that took away from his freedom was the dirt masking its surface, yet even then, he failed to care.
As far as he could see were trees. Endless, unorganized trees like the scattering of spilled paint. From inside his chamber, he could tell he was still somewhere remote, but he had no knowledge of still being stuck in the middle of a whispering forest.
In the end, he didn't care. Never in his days would the refraction of the golden sun give him so much joy. So much pleasure. For only a brief moment, he felt an undeniable warmth he had been yearning for for so long.
Then, it was gone. It was quick to fade, like an echo falling into the distance.
Once again, he was alone.
That being said, his steps moved with a re-found vigor. He was still nervous, but the fear had slightly subsided; now only a heavy stone weighing on his conscience.
Gently, his hands slid against the faltering rail by the edge of the stairs, though the wood was rough and ancient. He could feel it bite into him, a loose thorn prodding at the base of his palm.
Still, he held on—pain an odd method which helped calm his nerves, even as shallow blood began to drip from the wound.
The stairs whined under his weight, but only once. For the following steps, he moved with such care that only a low thud could be heard in its place. He stopped, waited, listened. Then moved again. Stopped, waited, listened.
Soon enough, he was at the bottom.
What waited below was no monster, no man, no savior. Instead, a meager room which looked like a home yet felt like a faded memory. Nobody had been here for decades.
A dust-covered bar followed the furthest wall, shelves behind still stocked with all sorts of unknown vials and concoctions. Rounded, lifeless tables were scattered and slightly damaged, perhaps rotted from age or lingering wounds from a time long passed.
Naturally, his vision paused over the front door just to his left, two windows pairing either end of its central frame as their light illuminated the countless specs of dust that filled the void within. He took note of the boards that were nailed over their faces, the subtle stains that had long since seeped into the wood. He could still smell it here; the scent of drinks. The scent of laughter. The scent of joy.
He wanted to experience it for himself—one last time before he inevitably died, felled by a great beast or the vicious tugging of hunger. He began to yearn. Began to dread. Began to wallow.
He took a step forward. Then another. Another after that. He imagined he was there, with people he could trust, and people who cared for him. People who respected his name, people who respected his talent and tone, and would never abandon him like his parents or the strange man he had yet to truly know.
He closed his eyes; immersed in every sound, every appearance, every detail. He wanted to feel it all. He wanted to become it. To know it.
But all of a sudden, he began to feel cold. Unnaturally cold.
At first, he didn't question it. He was too lost in fantasy to care. The only thing that snapped him back was the firm placement- a hand pushing and squeezing against his shoulder.
Instantly, his heart fell. He tried to pull away, but the hold was just too strong. Unexpectedly, another swift movement from the strange figure boomed down, squeezing his wrist with such force he felt as though it'd snap.
"You're up..." A voice murmured, one oddly familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. The only thing that confirmed it was the turning of his head, peering up to see none other than the strange man. "What happened to your hand?"
The boy didn't speak—perhaps too scared by his sudden arrival—perhaps an understated hatred that welled up from inside, still hurt by his unannounced disappearance.
They stared at each other for a while, reminiscent of their countless encounters where not a word was muttered. There was a coldness in the air; one that the boy had never felt before. This was different. Something felt different.
After an eternity, the man exuded a subtle sigh, gently loosening his hold over the child. "What's your name, boy?"
He was still too hesitant to speak, now gripping his freed wrist as if it'd just been torn off.
The stale silence had returned.
Soon enough, however, the boy could feel it. Gradual, yes, but present. The shivering cold he'd once felt started to subside, now almost an empty, hollow remnant of warm air filling the void.
Once more, the man sighed. He turned his back, the same cloak he'd worn that fateful night wafting trace amounts of air into the boy's face. His footsteps were hardened, akin to a low earthquake that shook the very core of the boards. He leaned over the bar's counter, pulling out a small mug and a leather satchel right beside it.
He walked back over, the boy half-expecting to receive said items, though he simply walked right past with no recognition whatsoever.
It was only when the front door creaked open did the man finally spoke. "Let's go."
The boy glanced over, eyes warily tracing over the mans face, all in an attempt to discern his true intentions. That being said, nothing could truly be found. It was the exact same form that night. Soft. Kind. Calm.
At the same time, he felt as though he could trust him. Like he should trust him. Either way, he didn't have much of a choice.
So silently, he lowered his head. He tried to keep it to the floor as he stepped forward, though the man's presence made him look back in recognition.
He was too curious.
In truth, it was in his heart to thank him. He wanted to apologize and provide the highest praise possible to the man who saved his life, though the right words just couldn't form in his head.
No words could.
So, rather than finally admitting his gratitude face-to-face, he simply turned away. In a sense, he would repay the man's kindness by listening. Obeying.
To him, that seemed like the last thing he could do in this world, anyways.
Still, walking past the man and out onto the padded dirt beneath his feet nearly put a hole through his chest. He wasn't sure if he was ready to re-face the world. To re-face the terrors he knew of, but never truly understood.
The only thing that managed to comfort him was the glistening sun. So warm. So kind. So giving. The wind gushing against his face, the scent of pine and sap filling every subtle crevice in his nose. It all gave him a sense of purpose. An odd, thinning will to live.
He took this moment to do nothing but breathe—to close his eyes and let everything envelop him. The wind between his fingers, the shy movements of his ruffled hair. The thumping of his heart against the chirping birds that sang in the air.
For the first time in a long time... he felt at peace. At ease.
The resuming sound of the man's footsteps regained his consciousness, snapping out of his self-indulgent trance and back to the matter at hand.
The man slowly moved to a nearby water pump jutting from the ground, grabbing its aged handle and sternly tugging it down. He could hear the metal clamouring back to life as he did so, a high-pitched screech as if gears were churning back to life. He placed the mug just beneath the spigot, a stream of crystal-clear water billowing out from its edge.
Its sight almost made the boy froth at the mouth, and much to his pleasure, the man was quick to shove it into his hands once it was completely filled to the top.
He didn't hesitate, chugging down the entire cup before the man could provide his next item; The small bundle he walked out with. The boy gripped the small twine lace by its top, shuffling it open to see the roundest, most perfect bits of bread he'd seen in his entire life.
Now, he went feral. He dropped the empty mug to the floor, both hands reaching in and pulling out several handfuls before stuffing them into his mouth.
One bite, however, and he was quick to regret his decision... they were putrid.
He nearly wretched as he spat them from his mouth, rubbing the edges of his lip as if that'd do him any favors. Out of instinct, the boy cried out, "What the hell!?" in utter surprise.
Only after did he realise what he'd done, head swiveling to the man who stood just behind him, an indifferent expression on his face. "That's what the water was for..." He murmured, "To wash it down."
The boy sighed, slightly distraught over his own actions. Still, there was a benefit to this; he had spoken. A minor phrase, yes, though a step towards exiting his shell.
Now that the barrier had been broken... perhaps now the conversing could begin.