Once a month, on the fourth Friday, Crys goes to a counseling room in Darwood.

  For him, it is almost the only remaining link to the outside world.

  Losing his mother Amelia at nine was something neither his devoted father, Cillian, nor the young Crys could accept.

  Anger, fear, anxiety, numbness—

  they came and went without order.

  Often, before he realized it, Crys would find himself staring at a single point in the room, unable to move.

  Cillian began to notice something was wrong about six months after Amelia’s death, just as he himself was beginning to accept the loss. The first counselor Crys was taken to had a strong reputation. But Crys couldn’t stand the room thick with burning sage, or the way the counselor tried too hard to dig out “symptoms.”

  After they moved, life became just father and son. Around that time, Cillian began taking Crys to a small counseling room near the park their family used to visit together. That was where he met Trina Nash.

  Nash was young, newly independent.

  But she had what mattered most:

  she didn’t interrupt, didn’t deny, and simply listened.

  Even after Crys stopped talking much with Cillian, he slowly opened up to Nash.

  Their connection continued even after the sessions ended, more like siblings than patient and counselor.

  ?

  Nash’s counseling room sits in a leafy corner, just a short walk from Shady Grove Station, the end of the Metro Red Line.

  When Crys knocked on the pale green door, Nash greeted him with her usual wide smile, pink-rimmed glasses framing her face. They shared a brief hug at the entrance, then she led him into a room wallpapered the same color as the door. As soon as he stepped inside, Nash widened her eyes and looked up at him.

  “Sorry to jump right in, but I have a favor.”

  “What is it this time?”

  Even when Crys deliberately frowned, Nash didn’t seem bothered. She pulled out the chair by her computer.

  Crys picked up two or three chocolates from the round table and sat down.

  “It’s Halloween next month, right? I installed a font for the flyers, but I just can’t get it to work.”

  “…First question. Where did you get it?”

  “No technical terms allowed.”

  Nash threw her hands up in mock protest.

  Crys hid his mouth, holding back a laugh.

  —That’s basic stuff. Even an elementary schooler would know.

  He popped a chocolate into his mouth and looked at the screen. As expected, the problem was simple.

  The warm, slightly sweet-and-sour scent of the herbal tea Nash had brewed filled the room. As he moved the mouse, Crys reached for another chocolate without thinking.

  “So?”

  “Can’t use it directly. But I made it workable.”

  “As expected of my little genius!”

  Nash hugged him without warning. The soft scent of vanilla perfume drifted over him, but it didn’t bother him.

  She pulled back, said, “Wait right there,” and returned from the kitchen with a long, narrow box.

  “Do you know Do or Donuts? You have to line up forever. This is a thank-you. Let’s eat together.”

  Crys accepted it and took a bite before Nash did. The pistachio cream wasn’t too sweet—lighter than he expected.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “So—how’s high school?”

  At that one question, Crys swallowed his second bite whole.

  “Up until yesterday, it was normal. Today was the worst.”

  He talked—

  about seeing Cillian again after a long time,

  about an annoying classmate,

  about getting tangled up with a delinquent—

  a little exaggerated.

  Nash listened in silence. Then she said, quietly,

  “He doesn’t sound like a bad person. That delinquent kid.”

  “No way.”

  Crys shuddered, remembering Junaid’s sour expression. He could’ve ended up as a punching bag over one wrong word.

  Nash only said that because she didn’t know Junaid.

  “You don’t like people judging you based on rumors, do you?”

  Crys couldn’t answer. Too many careless stories about his mother’s death—about Amelia—

  came rushing back to him.

  “You don’t have to force yourself to understand people you’re not interested in,” Nash said.

  “Just remember—everyone has their own life, their own way of thinking.

  Like you.”

  She winked, as if proud of herself. But her face scrunched up, both eyes squeezed shut, like a comedian biting into a lemon.

  Crys almost spit out his herbal tea.

  “I told you before—you should really stop doing that.”

  “What? Everyone loves it.”

  Nash laughed mischievously, took a sip of her tea, and set the cup back on its saucer.

  After a brief pause, she cleared her throat once, softened her voice, and carefully began to speak.

  “Come to think of it, it’s been a while since you talked about your father,” Nash said.

  “Still can’t forgive him?”

  “Still? I’ll never forgive him. Not someone like that—never.”

  His parents had been very close. So close that even things without shape—love, care—felt tangible between them. Like an agate split clean in two, it sometimes seemed they had once been a single stone. That was why, when Amelia died, Cillian fell apart so completely. Now, Crys could understand that.

  —Now.

  Back then, he had no such space. Even adults need time to accept loss. And at the hardest moment of all, he had been left alone.

  When he needed someone beside him.

  When he should have been protected.

  No one was there.

  Facing grief alone, Crys stopped expecting anything from Cillian.

  Nash crossed her legs and spoke quietly to Crys, who was still staring down at his cup.

  “I’ve told you before. Forgiveness isn’t for the other person. It’s for you. Forgiving is a kind of release—so you can move forward.”

  Crys bit his lip.

  “Not being able to forgive your father,” she continued,

  “means that, inside you, your mother’s death hasn’t really ended yet.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  His hands trembled with anger. He had just enough control not to shatter the tea set, but he dropped back into his chair roughly, folding his arms.

  “So even if you say it’s ‘for me,’ it still means forgiving him, right? The man who left a kid crying after losing his mom? So I’m the one who’s supposed to endure it again?”

  “I’m not trying to force you,” Nash said gently.

  “I just want you to live a little more easily.”

  “I don’t need that. I’m just stopping by here. As long as I don’t see him, we can live in the same house. There’s no problem.”

  “There may not be a problem,” Nash said.

  “But—”

  She gestured with her eyes toward his smartwatch.

  “The fact that you’re able to live without trouble—

  that is your father’s love. There’s no mistaking that.”

  “No. It’s just obligation. He just sends money.”

  Even as he said it, Crys knew what she meant. To hide the discomfort, he tugged down his hoodie sleeve, covering the watch.

  “…Is the session over?”

  “Yes.

  No—sorry. This part doesn’t count.

  This was just talk. I pushed too far.”

  Nash stood with a smile and poured more herbal tea. She picked up a piece of chocolate, then asked, as if remembering—

  “How have the dreams been lately?”

  “Yeah. I saw it again today.”

  A few days after Amelia’s death, Crys began having strange dreams. They were nothing like ordinary ones. Not dreams that simply began, but dreams he knew were coming.

  When he closed his eyes, he felt a pull at the back of his head, and sank into darkness. The air was heavy. His body resisted, like falling into water.

  It always ended the moment his feet touched the ground.

  He had been having the same dream for four years now.

  Nash stayed silent for a while. Then, seeing Crys sitting there without even blinking, she picked up the mallet.

  Pong.

  A sound like fine rain spread through the room, and Crys looked up.

  “Your dreams,” Nash said softly,

  “feel different from ordinary dreams—just like you say. That’s why I worry. That one day, you might not wake up from them.”

  “No matter what kind of dream it is, it’s still just a dream. You don’t need to worry.”

  He said it firmly and stood. He drank the cold herbal tea in one go, slipped the chocolate into his pocket.

  “Next month’s Halloween-themed,” Nash said, waving.

  Crys returned the gesture lightly and headed toward the crowded station.

  To avoid running into Cillian on his way home, Crys quickly stuffed a hamburger into his mouth at the station nearest his house. He barely tasted it. Once home, he showered, shut himself in his room, and stayed there.

  The backpack he tossed onto the bed was heavy with today’s assignments. An exhausting amount, as always. Still, it was far better than facing Cillian, now kept at a distance.

  He put on his headphones to block out the world and started his work playlist. Math first. Then science. Copy the answers, and it was done. The history report was on the colonial era—something he’d already covered in middle school. No thinking required.

  Only the poetry reading report remained.

  Reluctantly, Crys picked up the assignment sheet. It felt like touching a sock he’d forgotten to wash.

  ?

  Do not be afraid

  I am with you

  On the day the sun is reborn

  The true world is opened

  The youth descends upon that land

  And sets out on a journey to change fate

  Red of Awakening — color, to know the self

  Orange of Insight — number, to know the world

  Yellow of Radiance — spirit, to know form

  Green of Breath — soul, to know healing

  Blue of the Higher — stars, to know position

  Indigo of Mystery — dreams, to know reality

  Violet of Transmutation — arcana, to know truth

  Black of the Abyss — darkness, to know power

  Clear of Clarity — light, to know forgiveness

  Silver of Stillness — sensibility, to know the small

  Gold of Enlightenment — the sacred, to know the great

  The youth returned bearing three treasures

  and founded a kingdom

  They were called Morning —

  bringing light to the freezing dark

  They were called Day —

  reminding the youth of who they were

  They were called Night —

  lifting the veil to reveal the sign

  There was evening

  and there was morning

  And thus, the youth reached the highest

  ?

  When he finished reading, Crys frowned slightly. A journey. Treasures gained. A return. A hero’s myth you could find anywhere. There was no rhyme. For a prose poem, it felt unfocused.

  What was he supposed to feel from this?

  If he’d asked Nash—who treated every day like Halloween—she might have given him something to say. The thought came, and he clicked his tongue. Too late now.

  Switching gears, Crys picked up his phone. Just as he was about to search the poem’s opening line—

  to see if someone else had already explained it—