Chapter 9: The Picture-Box World
Days slipped strangely inside the house. Sometimes it felt like time ran quick, leaping from one moment to the next; other times it stretched like gum, long and slow, every sound echoing twice.
The mansion itself seemed to notice the change. It no longer hummed with staff footsteps or clinking dishes, no longer smelled of roasted dinners drifting from the kitchen. Now it carried only the faint sweetness of sugar Ari clung to and the steady thud of Ace's heavy steps behind her.
They began to build a rhythm without meaning to. Ari would wander the halls or curl up in the sitting room, dragging him along with her questions. He would follow, silent but watchful. She would chatter about nothing and everything, while he listened as though learning a foreign language.
One morning she stood on tiptoe, peering into the refrigerator, its pale light washing over her face. "Mmm," she hummed, eyes roaming the shelves. Then her shoulders slumped. "It's smaller again."
Ace frowned. "What is smaller?"
"The food," she said, matter-of-fact. "There's less bread. Only two apples. No milk." She tapped the carton with one finger, then looked up at him with wide green eyes. "Do you think food shrinks when you're not looking?"
He stepped closer, studying the shelves. What had once been stacked was now only scraps and bottles. He didn't need Ari's strange way of explaining to knownthey were running out.
"It does not shrink," he said. "You are eating it."
Her mouth fell open in protest. "But not all by myself! You eat too." She poked his arm accusingly. "Big people need more food, so maybe it's you."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He could tell her the truth that food needed replacing, that humans went to places called markets to buy more but he'd seen her fail even with the so-called rectangles. She had no way of keeping the house alive on her own.
Still, she didn't look worried. She just shut the fridge with a soft click and skipped toward the sitting room. "Come on. I'll teach you about people things. Then maybe you'll know how to make food appear."
He followed, curiosity pulling at him despite himself.
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The sitting room was large enough for banquets, but Ari made it small by spreading herself across the carpet in front of the giant television. She patted the floor beside her. "Sit. Lesson time."
He lowered himself stiffly, cross-legged, his horns catching the glint of the chandelier. The screen reflected red in his eyes as Ari fumbled with the remote. A burst of static gave way to a cartoon—bright colors, squeaky voices, creatures bouncing across a painted meadow.
"See?" Ari pointed proudly. "That's a picture-box. It tells stories. You don't even have to read them. It just shouts at you until you understand."
Ace's brow furrowed as the cartoon characters began singing. "This is nonsense."
"It's fun nonsense," Ari corrected. "Like candy for your eyes."
He stared at the screen, unimpressed, while Ari narrated. "That one's the silly one. He always falls. That one's bossy, but everyone still listens. That one eats too much cake and gets in trouble."
Ace tilted his head. "Humans watch this?"
"Uh-huh."
"For what purpose?"
"To laugh," she said simply.
He fell silent. The idea seemed foreign, almost wasteful. Yet the corners of her mouth curled as she giggled at the screen, and he found himself watching her more than the moving pictures.
When the cartoon ended, she flipped the channel to a cooking show. "Okay, now this is important. That's how food is made."
Ace leaned forward slightly, watching hands chop vegetables with speed. Sizzling filled the room. He understood more here: fire, flesh, tools. "So… humans burn their food before eating it."
Ari gasped as though he had said something rude. "Not burn! Cook. It makes it yummier. And safer, I think. Papa always said raw chicken would bite your tummy."
His mouth twitched. "Your father said this?"
"Mhm. He was very serious about tummies." She nodded as if this explained everything.
They sat through half an episode before Ari lost patience and clicked the television off. "Okay, enough picture-box. I'll explain things my way. It's easier."
She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands, curls spilling like pink clouds around her. "Bread is happy food. It's not sweet, but it makes your tummy warm, like a hug. Ice is shiny water candy and it crunches but then it disappears. Candy is… well, candy is better than hugs."
Ace's expression remained unreadable.
"Lights," she went on, pointing at the chandelier above, "are fake suns that live indoors. Shoes are foot prisons. Baths are swimming pools that don't let you splash too much. And the fridge—" she gestured back toward the kitchen "—is a treasure chest that gets emptier every day."
That last part carried a softness in her voice, a shadow. She twirled a curl around her finger, glancing up at him. "Do you think we'll run out?"
He didn't answer right away. He could have lied, said no, but the truth pressed heavier. "Yes," he said at last.
Her lips pressed into a small line, but she didn't cry. She just rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. "Then we'll just have to figure out where food comes from. Maybe the picture-box knows. Or maybe the rectangles will stop being stubborn."
He studied her profile alongside the calm in her innocence, the way she trusted solutions to appear. For the first time, he wondered if it would fall to him, a stranger in this world, to find them both a way to survive.
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Later that night, Ari padded barefoot into the kitchen again. She opened the cupboard, rummaged through the remaining bread, and brought a piece back to the table. She broke it in half, sliding one piece toward him.
"Here," she said softly. "You're not scary, so you can share."
He accepted it, the smallest crack of warmth tugging in his chest.
And as they ate in silence, the shadows in the mansion felt a little less heavy.
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