Mrs. Halden was a narrow woman with sharp features, as though her face had been carved from angles rather than curves. Her hair was always pulled back so tightly it looked uncomfortable, streaked with gray she refused to acknowledge. Her eyes were small and calculating, the sort that flicked to clocks, receipts, and people's mistakes without missing a beat.
She moved through the house with clipped, efficient steps, as if every sound Sage made was an inconvenience she hadn't budgeted for. When she spoke, her voice carried a constant edge of irritation, like something pressing against her teeth. She smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals and strong tea, and no matter how tidy the house became, she always found something wrong.
To Mrs. Halden, Sage was not a boy so much as a responsibility one that paid just enough to be tolerated.
Mr. Halden was broader, heavier, and far lazier than his wife, spending most of his time sunk into chairs that groaned under his weight. His thinning hair clung stubbornly to the sides of his head, and his face was often red, either from exertion or temper—sometimes both.
He spoke less than Mrs. Halden but with far more volume, favoring grunts, scoffs, and sudden bursts of laughter that made Sage flinch without knowing why. His eyes rarely settled on Sage for long; when they did, it was with the detached look of someone inspecting a faulty appliance.
Where Mrs. Halden was sharp and watchful, Mr. Halden was blunt and careless—quick to threaten, slow to follow through, and completely convinced that taking Sage in had been an act of great generosity.
Sage learned early that it was better to be quiet.
Quiet meant the floorboards didn't creak beneath his steps. Quiet meant the people upstairs forgot he existed for a few blessed minutes longer. Quiet meant he could finish his chores without being reminded—loudly—that he could always be sent back.
The basement smelled of damp concrete and old things that had been forgotten on purpose. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows across stacked boxes and a narrow mattress pushed against the wall. Roaches scattered when Sage shifted his weight, disappearing into cracks he'd learned not to look too closely at.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, tying the leather straps of his sandals.
They were worn thin, the soles smoothed by years of use. The robe he wore—simple, gray, and too plain to belong anywhere—fell loosely around his shoulders. It should not have fit him anymore. He knew that in the distant, foggy way he knew many things.
But it did.
It always had.
Sage finished tying the straps and stood, brushing dust from his sleeves. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. That meant Mrs. Halden was awake. Which meant the kitchen would need scrubbing again, even though he'd done it the night before. Mr. Halden would want the trash taken out, the yard swept, the garage reorganized for reasons Sage never understood.
He climbed the stairs quietly, opening the basement door just enough to slip through.
"Boy."
Mrs. Halden's voice cracked through the hallway like a whip.
Yes, Sage said at once.
She stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp and assessing. She always looked at him like she was counting something—minutes, money, mistakes.
You're late, she said.
I just woke up, Sage replied.
"That's not my problem," she snapped. "Sink. Counters. Floors. And don't miss the corners this time."
Sage nodded and moved past her. He worked quickly, hands moving from habit rather than thought. Soap. Water. Scrub. Rinse. His reflection flickered in the metal of the sink—dark hair falling into his eyes, face thin but unmarked, eyes older than fifteen should be.
He tried to remember when he'd first come here.
The thought slipped away, like it always did.
Memory was a strange thing for Sage. His days blurred together, chores stacking on top of chores until weeks vanished without leaving a mark. Sometimes he'd blink and realize hours had passed. Sometimes he'd forget finishing a task, only to find it done anyway.
Once, when he was younger, he'd asked about it.
Mr. Halden had laughed. "You should be grateful we took you in at all."
So Sage stopped asking.
As he wiped the counter, the sponge slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He sighed and bent to retrieve it
and froze.
The sponge hovered inches above the tile.
Sage stared at it.
Slowly, carefully, he reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the air near it, the sponge dropped, landing with a wet slap against the floor.
His heart pounded.
That wasn't the first time something like that had happened. Doors opening on their own. Objects moved when he was angry or afraid. Cuts heal too fast. But whenever he tried to think about it for too long, his head ached, and the memories blurred until he wasn't sure what was real.
He picked up the sponge and finished cleaning, hands shaking just slightly.
By the time he returned to the basement that night, his arms ached and his stomach growled. Dinner had been leftovers again, eaten standing up while the Haldens watched television.
Sage lay back on his mattress, staring at the ceiling.
The lightbulb flickered.
For a moment—just a moment—the shadows on the walls shifted, stretching into shapes that didn't belong to boxes or shelves. Symbols flickered at the edges of his vision, sharp and glowing, gone before he could focus on them.
He blinked.
The ceiling was bare concrete again.
Sage exhaled slowly.
"Something's wrong with me," he whispered to the empty room.
The words didn't sound frightened. They sounded tired.
Days were lifeless like this for sage, Sage never grew with other children around since he was homeschooled, every once in a while the Haldens would force him to go outside and play around the playground so the neighbours wouldn't suspect that theres a child that sits in the house every day and they would definetly report it to the police therefore getting the government involved.
Sage always had these weird daydreams or visions of magic places, like He was there fulfilling some greater purpose yet every time these visions would come, Sage would hurriedly dismiss it and get back to his duties.
Maybe I could run sage thought go somewhere far where the Hadleys could never reach me, but where would I go? Sigh, will this really be my life, cleaning up their messes, reaching no greater heights... just.. existing....
I must go to sleep before they come into my room and shout at me for still being awake.
Goodnight world.
As he drifted toward sleep, the robe around him warmed slightly, as if responding to his breath. Somewhere deep in the basement, something old and unseen stirred—patient, waiting, aware.
Above him, the house settled into silence.
And far away, in a place Sage had never heard of and could not yet remember, a name long thought lost was spoken for the first time in fifteen years.