in the distance, he heard a hum, one of industry and of machinery, and at the center, he saw its heart—

the repeal had been made, all that flowed now, where should have flown blood, was a void. The tears of some bird in the distance flowed into his being, in the form of a gaping void; a clawing, hulking presence. The coldness erupted from within, surrounding him until all he saw was the blackness of the void.

Then a blanket of fog appeared.

The boy opened his mouth to breathe, then touched his neck— gently with three fingers— and guided his fingers to his brows, tracing a delicate path if ever there was one. he rubbed the beads of perspiration from his cold brows, extricating his hands to reveal the red that had so innocuously smeared itself across his palm.

a foghorn sounded its requiem in the distance, sounding to him the furthest thing from dismal; it was frankly quite comforting and sound spoke rather like a mother calling her children to bed would.

then the fog cleared, and he saw a river, on it were flowers floating and blooming. His eyes only came up to the trees that were partially soaked in the fog, obscured by the grey cloud, before the black ship arrived for him.

the sounds, the unholy sounds,

the blackness- or the lack of white-

the thirst for water.

he felt himself jump

From it, emerged a man with red hair, straddled to a horse whose breath froze the air, a pale mare with the eyes of midnight. the eyes beckoned the boy to enter, so he glided inside, without a word or a thought passing by him that would suggest a disagreement.

Inside, what awaited him?

A memory, a solitary piece of a happening in a time long passed, covered in a chamber of white paper, with lines drawn; perhaps to imply the remnants of memories long forgotten, or maybe to showcase all the opportunities he ruined of creating any. Or were they all depicting his failures? he wondered as scribbled lines on pages half torn began to flock around him. He felt his right arm, and then he felt it shaking, flailing very much like that animal he had seen being slaughtered so long ago; was that another memory that came to him? No, that was merely another ephemeral remnant, the light created by that memory had already been snuffed out.

The pages fluttered in the wind and approached him accusingly.

We do not recognize you.

Neither do I. Said he.

Our Home does not welcome you.

I never welcomed you into my own abode properly. Though it was my task to raise you like my own child, to fill you with the best and the worst of everything, not just the hopes of it, not promises. To give you all was a duty I had been begotten for, so when the time would come for me to let go of all I had penned down, we’d have an outpouring amount of story to tell to the worlds that awaited us. But I fear the foghorn has blown for me, and I have but one story with me.

The bearer of the foghorn awaits you, carry all you have and find him, we will not aid you, nor shall we speak ever again.

A foghorn sounded in the distance.

He felt aware of the air running through him, cold and invasive, they penetrated him from everywhere and entered through his mouth.

A silent scream was all that left his mouth, then—

In the distance, the humming beat of the black heart quickened.

Then it died out.