Archive of Our Own ^beta

Going home was always accompanied by a feeling of dread and a feeling of anticipation. A sickening contradiction to be sure, but some would call it understandable. Not that Ren understood the understandable.

It had nothing to do with disliking his job. He liked working, actually. Not much was expected of him. Carry this here. Stack this there. Set that there. Back and forth in repetitive, mind-numbing motions. But being productive, no matter how petty the actual impact, was a stark relief to the way he ‘lived’ before, if it could be called living.

But eventually the shift ended and that blissful purgatory would dissipate. He would always need to go home to eat dinner, wash up, go to bed, and in the morning, he would return. No matter how much he offered and pleaded, his boss refused to let him work overnight again.

Which was his own fault. The three, four, several times he worked overnight in a row ended up making a mess for everyone else. There hadn’t been much of his blood split, but it was more than enough for his coworker to scream like a character in a horror movie. Or so Ren had been told by his boss when he was drifting in and out of consciousness at the hospital. He didn’t really remember much. The only words that mattered to Ren at the time were, “you’re never working overnight again.”

And so, Ren had to go home whenever his shift ended. And going home was always accompanied by dread and anticipation. Wretched, contradicting, complicated emotions. And yet ‘home’ could not be avoided no matter what Ren wished.

And sometimes, those wishes would be answered, for on the train ride back, he received a text from Kafka asking if she could drop by with dinner. Ren hated texting, his fingers protesting the strange and fumbling motions, but he answered in the affirmative as quickly as he could manage.

Kafka’s presence wouldn’t make everything okay. She couldn’t make Ren normal no matter how much she tried. But she could distract him from that abnormality for at least a little while.

It would be much easier to ignore it when preparing for her arrival. Oh, it wasn’t completely effective. It would still niggle at him, still call to him, still croon and cajole him with all the destructive allure of the railing on the upstairs balcony, attached to a room Ren wasn’t allowed in. But because Kafka was on her way, Ren could ignore it a little better than usual.

And he could ignore it even better when she did arrive, all warm smiles and enigmatic refinement, cast in a crimson light from the setting sun.

“A-Ren.”

Her voice was husky; one could almost think it seductive. If she had thought to devour him, then he would’ve cut himself into pieces for easier consumption. But their relationship was one of dependence, not lust.

Kafka wouldn’t ever take advantage of him. Sometimes, he wished he would if only because it would explain her willingness to put up with him and especially her kindness towards him.

He lets her inside, offering to take her coat with trembling hands. Because his wretched hands were trembling, she held up her hand to signal he needn’t bother. Because his expression must have fallen, she offers a smile. One that doesn’t meet her compassionate gaze.

Ren felt every movement, every gesture, every interaction between them get picked apart and analyzed. It was worse than having ants crawl all over him. And just like those ants, it was devoid of any true malice. It would have been easier if that wasn’t the case.

“Is everything alright?” Kafka tenderly asks, and Ren snaps his attention back to her, trying to repress a sharp intake of breath. She still noticed. “A-Ren,” she says patiently. “Perhaps we should talk.”

He wants to say no, but the word won’t come and he can’t even bring himself to shake his head. Silently, sullenly, shamefully, he goes to sit at the table.

Kafka is back to smiling warmly, but she’s much more attentive now. She still unpacks the food. Dumplings for him, rich and silky pasta for herself. It was almost as if she went to two different restaurants, but Ren didn’t question it, still trying to play at being a little more normal. And failing miserably as he felt a grossly tender gaze on his nape.

Before he could tear into his meal, Kafka spoke up.

“Has something happened?”

That she didn’t wait meant he couldn’t brush her off. But what was he supposed to say? The truth sat in the pit of his stomach like lead. He felt it approach, drawn in by his fear and uncertainty.

Dread. Anticipation. Anxiety. Wanting. Revulsion. Desperation.

These emotions smothered his appetite. A crushing, merciless weight.

Ren couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d re-commit him. And he couldn’t go back because it would follow him. That was where it started.

A half-truth, then, as despicable as it was.

“I had…a nightmare.”

Kafka’s smile downturned into a more pensive line.

“Are you having trouble sleeping, then?”

He wasn’t, so he shook his head. He didn’t want to think about why that was the case.

“Well, nightmares aren’t that strange,” Kafka hums, lacing her fingers together. “A dream is an unreality sometimes born of reality, no? Of course, it can just as often be nothing more than nonsense firing of the synapses.”

Kafka’s expression was inviting. Ren says nothing. It draws closer, footsteps lighter than air.

“So?” Kafka prompts when she knows that Ren is being purposefully difficult. “What was it about?”

“A…” Ren does hesitate, irrationally uncomfortable now. This was supposed to be a distraction and yet. “A monster, I suppose.”

“A monster?”

“A…monster.”

Kafka’s head tilts ever so slightly. Her eyebrows raise.

“I suppose that’s not completely accurate,” he concedes. “More…a monstrous place. Fire lapped up my limbs, and it felt more akin to a beast slobbering over my flesh…”

His arms raise to wrap around himself.

“I felt something slithering around under my skin… Something like…roots.”

Kafka waits for him to continue. He trembles.

“A blade… A blade of ice and hatred carves into me again and again. Over a thousand times. It’s a punishment. I do not remember what for. My blood pulses and convulses. My body tears itself apart and reshapes over and over.”

He had begun this as a distraction and yet, he quivered, holding himself together as if this ridiculous nightmare really had shaken him so.

Hah. Haah. There was. So much wrong with him.

“Oh, Ren.”

Ren flinches. Kafka’s eyes go wide with worry and she reaches out for him before thinking better of it.

“So?” She finally speaks. “Is that how it ends?”

“If only it was,” he couldn’t help but blurt out, a mirthless smile spread across his face. “As I lay there, broken and unable to die, an angel approaches me. Looks upon me with pitying eyes of nectar-gold. And, and…”

“And?” Kafka asks, voice quiet. But Ren cannot hear her too well anymore.

Not when his heartbeat is thundering like this from the slender arms wrapped around him.

“Oh, Ren,” that voice sighs into his ear again as he’s embraced so very securely and sweetly.

Just like he was in the wretched ending of that nightmare.

A small bedroom. A single bed. A window with blinds, the glass glazed, laminated, and shatterproof. The courtyard outside, various flowers blossoming along the grass like vibrant, multi-colored seafoam. It was a plain room with a nice view.

And in his earliest memories, it was his world. He was to be kept isolated for a time as per the court’s agreement. Kafka had presented the room kindly, but she kept touching his back and arm as if in apology. As if there was anything for her to apologize for.

Ren didn’t hate his room. One might call it a prison but when the sun dipped towards the horizon, the light would turn gold and crimson, and he thought it striking and beautiful.

At first, all he really did was watch the flowers grow. He became fascinated, almost obsessed, that obsession turning to distress when one of the flowers would wilt and sink within the sea of the garden.

His first true possession was a potted plant. It was a curious thing set in the corner. He was encouraged to name it, but Ren was terrible at names. He just settled on calling it Plant.

Plant required watering, which Ren could do with a single cup and access to the sink. It was a simple routine. But as Planet grew leafier, Ren would brush his ruined fingers along the vibrant green and he’d feel a little bit better.

Ren kept potted plants in his apartment as well, spraying them diligently each time he returned. It wasn’t necessary, mind, he had them all situated with a water dispensing system for if he ever needed to be out for a time.

Sometimes, he thought about breaking everything. But Kafka would re-commit him if he did.

Kafka, who regarded him now with some wariness. She didn’t look at the succulent that Ren had on the table. The lilies by the window. The daisies in the hallway leading to his bathroom and bedroom. She only looked at Ren.

And not the thing wrapped around him like a vine, softer than any flower’s petals.

“An angel?” she echoes and the so-called angel responds by holding Ren a little tighter. “You’re having nightmares about an angel? Is that all?”

She sounds a little confused. Ren couldn’t blame her. Her expression shifts back into bland, unassuming patience.

“Angels,” she muses. “A symbol of purity, innocence, goodness… Sometimes mercy. Sometimes even death itself. It’s not so surprising that you’d dream of one, A-Ren, but you seem to dislike the role that angel played. In your dream, it seemed to be…mm, a symbol of forgiveness. Do you detest the idea of being forgiven that much?”

“I do.” Here, he didn’t hesitate. “It feels…dirty. Less like dirt under your fingernails…and more akin to rot infesting the surface.”

“I see.” Kafka hums. “Well, a dream can also just be nonsense. What do you think, A-Ren?”

His hand trembles, twitching for reasons other than muscle damage.

“I…don’t know.”

“Perhaps you should take up journaling?” she suggests. “I know you struggle with your hands, so I can get you a device that records your entries. How about a tape recorder? Something more charmingly retro? I’m sure Bronie wouldn’t mind lending you anything~”

Back to playful and considerate. Ever unreadable and enigmatic, but Ren appreciated her all the same. Even as he responded with the same pitiful words.

“I don’t know…”

“Are you worried about someone else listening to them?” Kafka asks. “I can promise to keep them secret so long as you behave, A-Ren.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you…”

He did trust Kafka. He also knew that she would find a way to listen to those tapes even if he stomped them to pieces. She and Bronya both were forces to be reckoned with.

Even so…

“It might not be a bad idea,” the angel murmurs into his ear. Its voice is melodic like a wind chime, and it sends countless shivers down his spine. It keeps speaking. “I’ll make sure no one listens to them, Ren.”

“I…” Feeling his mouth go dry, Ren forces out a response for Kafka and Kafka alone. “I should…practice my handwriting… So… A journal… A journal is fine.”

After all, that can be burned into a crisp. Which might not even be necessary. Ren’s penmanship is as wretched as it is uneven. Would even Kafka be able to read it?

She’s not to be underestimated.

“Mm, okay, A-Ren. If you get too frustrated, you can use your phone to record messages, too. And again, Bronie will lend you anything if you ask.” Kafka shrugs her shoulders, letting him be as she stabs through the noodles with her fork, twirling them into a bundle with elegance. Each tendril stuck together in a slick amalgamation that she raises oh so delicately to her lips so she can tear it apart. Piece by piece.

Ren picks at his dumplings.

“It’s hard eating like this,” he says.

“Hm?” Kafka raises an eyebrow.

“Ah, sorry.”

The angel pulls away so Ren can take a bite out of his food. The skin is tender, the meat sweet.

Kafka looks at him quizzically but as he’s eating now, the matter is dropped. Every chewed up bite clumps together in his stomach to sit and disintegrate.

He doesn’t remember life before being admitted. He heard the words retrograde amnesia and mental breakdown thrown around, but the more he thought back on it, the more his head began to ache like someone was driving nails through his skull. Kafka assured him that it was fine to not think at all.

So, he tried not to think.

As far as he was concerned, his past life and relationships might as well have never happened. He was simply born a broken person, so the mental institution wasn’t a bad place for him to be.

For a time, it was peaceful. It was him and Plant with the occasional visitor. Kafka, of course, and sometimes she’d bring one or both of her ‘sisters’ Bronya and Firefly. Both were eccentric girls and neither resembled Kafka or each other for that matter, but that was none of Ren’s business. Eventually, there was a third, a girl named Stelle, but Ren never knew what her relationship to Kafka was.

Ren didn’t talk much, and he didn’t ask questions. Anything he learned about the other girls could be considered against his will, such as Bronya’s video game obsession, Firefly’s philosophies on life, or Stelle’s opinion on every trash can in the facility. Such moments were fleeting but so unbearably lively that Ren felt like collapsing into a lump of flesh and meat after.

It wasn’t uncommon for Ren to be viscerally uncomfortable with being alive. His body, twitchy and graceless with its thick limbs and uneven flesh, sometimes seemed like an abomination. The hammering in his chest, the squirming of his insides… All of it was repulsive.

The flowers outside his window. Plant in the corner. Those were much simpler and purer. They asked for only sunlight and water. Life at its simplest. Even death could be a kindness, nourishment for the next, rather than a gaping, wretched loss.

There were times where Ren lightly rested his cheek against one of Plant’s leaves, and he wondered if nature could ever make a sound like this. Without the wind rustling through the greenery. But the only sounds nature ever made were the rumbling of clouds above…and the chirping of birds.

“Don’t follow me to work. I’ll always go home when I’m done… So please do not follow me.”

It was madness making such demands of a hallucination, wasn’t it? But the reality was that it helped a little. Ren did not see the angel outside of his home, so outside could be a reprieve.

A reprieve he would not have if he got re-admitted. Which is why he cannot let anyone know, not even Kafka.

If journaling inane matters such as dreams could prolong that fate, so be it.

Even if Ren felt rather foolish standing in front of the convenience store, squinting due to the scarlet sun.

It should have been a simple task. Go in. Pick up a journal. Pay for it. Step out. And yet, Ren is stuck on the first step, instead gawking at the tacky sign. What the hell was a Charmony?

“Yoohoo! Kind sir! You over there! Yes you, kind sir!”

He had been standing there for so long that fucking obviously, the woman who had set up a nearby booth was calling out to him.

“Such a glum face!” she laughs, her smile like that of a mischievous fox. She waves him over eagerly, undeterred by the surely pitiful look of exhaustion on his face. “Come here! Come, come! It can’t be good for one’s health, sulking around like that~! Let this kind sister assuage your woes. I have all sorts of charms! I even do palm readings!”

Ren’s gloved fingers twitch at that last remark, and he hides them behind his back. Away from this woman’s clever verdant gaze.

Ever one to be easily cowed, he still trudges over to her table, much to her delight.

“Quite the obedient one, I see,” she purrs. There’s a playfulness to her that reminds him of Kafka but it’s a different flavor. Like comparing a sweet pastry to a sweet wine. “Or simply one that dislikes conflict, perhaps? I understand. I also prefer to make friends rather than foes.”

He says nothing to that, only looking at her with resignation.

“Isn’t the weather lovely?” she asks next. “Not too warm, not too dry. Not so humid that it makes me too fluffy. On such a day, what is it that has you so down, kind sir?”

Her attempts at small talk were irritating, but Ren couldn’t begrudge her for being friendly. Saleswoman or no, it made things easier on everyone to be amicable.

“I do not want any kind of reading,” he says slowly, because speaking with strangers is still difficult for him. “If I…buy a charm… Will you not ask any further questions?”

She smiles up at him, her green eyes twinkling with amusement and a hint of intrigue. But like any professional, she gives an easy nod. Agreeable.

Ren looks at her selection and he’s already at a loss. There are several generic charms for good health, for wealth, for love, for studying, so on, so forth. A variety of materials were used, including from tassels to carved stone. Although…

“The jade is fake.”

“Oh?” She perks up at that. “Goodness, is it?! I swear, I had no idea! Aah, so I was scammed…” She droops. At worst, it’s a good performance. Ren can tell the jade is fake but he’s not so good at surmising a person’s sincerity.

To his surprise, she then snatches up one of the bracelets on the table and offers it to him.

“This sister’s in your debt, so please accept this gift!” she explains. “From Tingyun, who tries so very hard to be trustworthy!”

“T-That’s not necessary,” he hurriedly says, waving his hands. “I can pay for it, I was just…”

“I insist.” He couldn’t say no to an expression like that, so he meekly gave his wrist for her to wrap the bracelet around. “When I saw your expression, I did think this bracelet would suit you. Obsidian on red string, for protection. Including a phoenix charm as a bonus. For hope and rebirth.”

Ren stares at it, barely feeling the heat of the obsidian that had soaked up so much sunlight. The phoenix was engraved on a silver coin. A more simplified design but artfully done nonetheless. And when bathed in orange light, it was striking enough to give Ren a headache.

“I… Um. T-Thank you.”

After all that, Ren had to flee, turning heel and hurrying away. She calls out after him,

“May you be protected so dearly from all the evils in the world, kind sir! Live the most wonderful life you can!”

He completely forgot to pick up the journal. It was fine. It was fine. He’ll just. He’ll just go to a different store.

He ended up buying the first journal that caught his eye, which was a plain beige save for the colorless floral linework. It appealed to him even as it provided little comfort to his racing heart as he finally returned home.

“Welcome back, Ren,” said a voice full of golden warmth, a voice that could be considered home.

Ren felt the extra weight of the protection bracelet on his wrist. Warm, golden eyes no doubt noticed but Ren tried to ignore the presence as he brushed past. He still felt that gaze on his back, tender and visceral, and he stubbornly kept quiet as he looked for something to eat.

He hadn’t finished the dumplings, so there were leftovers. Good enough.

Ren doesn’t bother heating them up, just eating them cold. They still tasted good. Kafka wasn’t the type to bring substandard food. Hell, that was the first thing Kafka complained about when it came to the health facility. The main thing, in fact.

As he tried to think more about that, he also tried to ignore the presence. Thankfully, he ate in relative, merciful silence.

“Angels,” he remembers Kafka’s words. “Sometimes a symbol of mercy.”

The next bite he swallowed felt like more of a lump. As the so-called angel loomed over him, he stubbornly tried to keep his head down.

Mercy. That word mocked him relentlessly. As if anything about such a being could be merciful. The kinder it acted, the more Ren was sure.

And he tries (with much less success) to not shiver terribly when feather-light fingers reach out to stroke the crown of his head.

He stares down at the bracelet, he stares and stares and those feather-light fingers retract without actually touching him.

Ren lets out a sigh of relief.

Day after day, he watched Plant grow. Kafka brought him some books on plantcare, pressing a finger to her lips as if they were doing something wrong.

(Indeed, Ren knew his privileges within this place were supposed to be rather limited. Kafka, perhaps as an apology, would find ways to extend those privileges and convince the nurses to look the other way.

The nurses often regarded him warily and fearfully. Like sheep guarding a wolf.

Ren knew that what he had done to earn being committed here was violent and hateful. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t want to remember. But sometimes, he woke up gasping from nightmares where he was drowned in crimson pools that burned in his lungs and singed his flesh. His head would feel akin to being battered by cruel boots until he took pills that would instead suffocate him in a fog.

Despite being surrounded by the flowers he was partial towards and despite Kafka often visiting with a friendly smile, Ren knew his situation was a deeply unenviable one.)

Still, Ren read through the books eagerly even as Kafka turned the pages for him. He couldn’t keep the books, sadly, as his ruined, clumsy hands would tear them to shreds, but Kafka offered to visit more often so that he could read these books again and again.

He could’ve kissed the ground she walked on for that, but Kafka would just pat his head and tell him not to worry so much. She was the only person who ever touched him kindly, so he found himself longing for contact more and more.

It wasn’t the same thing as love, at least not of the romantic sort. It was a deep, primal need. As humans needed to eat and sleep, so too, did Ren need to be touched.

Ren didn’t need to love, and while he was very partial towards Kafka, he knew that she didn’t need his affection. His obedience was reward enough, and it made him easier to deal with. A smile here, a fond touch there, and that was all there needed to be between them.

Sometimes, wretchedly, Ren did find himself wanting. But his wretched, base desires did not cling to the image of Kafka. Instead, they festered into something more abstract and strange, a writhing mass of roots and tendrils, muddied by blossoms of red, red, red smothering the verdant greens.

He’d wake to gold burning beneath the crimson, to a sky vibrantly dyed by the sun’s descent, heart hammering and body aching. In such moments, he felt like something twisted between human and inhuman, and he knew not what to do with himself. Sometimes, he’d fantasize about having those books in his hands and slicing his flesh along its edges again and again until red bloomed across the pages.

All the while, Plant stood in its corner. Silent and steadfast. Its presence made Ren so emotional sometimes that his eyes burned with tears. He really wished he could see Plant grow in the world outside, right with the rest of the flowers. It was the only thing he could fathom wanting.

Last night, I dreamt I was a writhing mass of tendrils, digging around to entwine myself with any roots I could find. The soil was slick with blood, and I could barely make out muffled screaming above. The screams didn’t sound human. It was all so…dirty.

Ren has a routine in which he checks on every plant in his house. And there are many. Many flowers, many succulents, many plants.

Ren moves them around so that they can all get enough sunlight, and he has long since memorized how much water is needed to keep them hydrated.

Golden eyes follow his each and every movement, but Ren needs to focus.

A spray here. A spray there. He plucks away a few withered leaves and petals. Move this pot to that window. That pot to this window.

Bronya had suggested creating a sort of plant room with artificial lighting. It sounded incredibly expensive and beyond his meager budget, but Bronya insisted that Kafka wouldn’t mind paying for it. She was likely right about that, but hadn’t Ren burdened her enough?

“Careful, Ren,” the gold warns. Even in the midday, that thing burned with such radiance. “Don’t fall.”

Ren needs to move slowly. Not because he doesn’t want the other to worry…although it would be easier if the other didn’t worry… But because he doesn’t want to break anything again.

The last time he broke a pot, he cut up his hands in his rush to move the plant and there had been so much fretting. From Kafka. From Bronya. From Firefly. From that thing.

A part of him knows it is a wonderful thing to have people who worry about him. That heavier than the guilt and shame should be a sense of relief and euphoria.

His memories of before are muddied and jagged, soaked so thoroughly with crimson that no sparkle remained. Everything before is unclear…and yet. The feelings remain.

Of companionship. Of abandonment. Of love. Of hatred.

The feelings remain along with a sense of unease.

That gold tracks his every movement. Whether he’s careful or reckless, it tracks his movement. Imbued within that gold is an unsettling warmth.

Ren plucks away dead leaves, crushing them idly in his trembling hand.

“I really do love watching you care for your garden, Ren.”

He crumbles them to dust, doing everything he can to ignore that voice, only for it to go on, seeping with adoration.

“I love it more than anything.”

At the very least, ever since he started wearing that bracelet, that thing only speaks to him. It has not tried to touch him again.

“Penny for your thoughts, A-Ren?”

“Mm?”

“You always look out the window so morosely.” Kafka paused for a moment. Her expression didn’t change, but Ren knew there was much on her mind. “Do you want to go outside?”

Ren didn’t answer, knowing it would be wrong of him to be honest. Instead, his gaze flickered between the window and Plant. He worried his lower lip for a bit before forcing him to stop as Kafka reached out for him. Another bad habit. Another reason why he was in here.

“I…” His voice was hoarse, in part due to lack of use. He didn’t speak when Kafka wasn’t here. What would he even say? Just a glance was enough to put the workers on edge. He didn’t like causing more trouble than necessary. “I just think…”

It would be wrong of him to be honest. His window was sealed shut for a reason. He was meant to stay in this room away from the rest of the world. Even Kafka shouldn’t be visiting him as much as she did, but Kafka always did as she wished.

“It’s alright,” she coaxed now. “You don’t need to force yourself.”

He doesn’t. He shouldn’t. He knew that. And yet. And yet.

“Plant,” he mumbled, miserable and wretched. “I think… Plant would be happier if it was outside…instead of…in here.”

Kafka’s eyes lit up in a way he hadn’t seen before. He hadn’t understood then, and he wouldn’t understand now.

“You think so?” she asked, smiling more and humming thoughtfully as she looked over Plant. “It has everything it needs in here. Water. Sunlight. Gentle hands caring for it.” Her voice turned a little teasing. “What else could it want?”

“I don’t know…” He trailed off into an even lower, sadder mumble. “Plants…should be outside, maybe…? So Plant…should also be outside.”

Kafka nodded as if this was a wise statement and not a stupid mangled line of words.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps you’re right, A-Ren. But I do think that if we moved that plant outside… It would perhaps be a little sad without you to continue caring for it.”

Ren doubted that, and Kafka saw that doubt in his expression.

“If I were that plant, I would be very sad.”

“Mm…” Ren wondered about that. “Your eyes…always look sad, Kafka.”

Her expression then had been indescribable, and he didn’t say a word for the rest of her visit.

I dreamt I was in an open grave. Dirt was being piled onto me from above. I looked up to cry for help and I stopped myself, because those piling dirt onto me were people I loved. So I dutifully kept quiet as I was buried. I woke up sensing I still upset them somehow. Even though I no longer remember who they were…

He’s been playing with the bracelet lately. Rubbing the beads, pulling at it so that those beads smack against his skin. He does that over and over, leaving red imprints along his wrist. It was becoming a bad habit and he needed to stop.

But Ren struggled.

“Everything alright there, Ren?”

Ren breathed out through his nose, trying not to grimace at the gruff voice of his coworker. He was still getting used to the presence of other men, although he wasn’t threatened.

This particular man, in spite of his fiercely red hair, was careful around him as well, albeit more from worry. Ren couldn’t blame him. It had been his kid who walked in on the bloody mess Ren made after several days of avoiding sleep.

It was…embarrassing for a man close to him in age to also eye him warily as though he were a quivering fawn trying to cross a frozen lake. But Ren only had himself to blame.

What was this man’s name again? Ivor? Igor?

“Ren?” Igor’s hand clamped on his shoulder. “Everything alright? If you’re not feeling well, you should head home.”

Ren shook off that hand, just a little flustered. “No… No, I’ve been sleeping…well.”

Far too well. If he gets too stressed, that thing sings him to sleep and Ren’s powerless to resist. Ren didn’t want to think about that, looking around helplessly until he found a box to carry from point A to B. He needed to take his mind off things.

Unfortunately, Igor matched his pace with ease, a box in his own hands.

“A few beers can help sometimes,” he offered. “And, uh, I don’t mind buying you a drink or two…”

This man was always trying to be friendly with him. Ren didn’t really understand why. Was it just because of what happened?

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Igor laughed. “We’ve worked together for quite a bit, y’know.”

“I know,” Ren said slowly. “How, exactly, do I look at you?”

“Like I might bite your head off. For a guy your size, you’re…skittish. It’s no wonder people worry.”

“Mm… I see…”

No wonder, huh.

He was right. Many people worried about him. Ren didn’t understand that, either, but he couldn’t help but wonder why, specifically, Igor worried.

There had been a time… That…thing had followed him to work. Ren tried to ignore it, but when Igor came near him, it had stiffened and even hissed. It had been such a strange sight that Ren tripped over himself, and how quickly that thing’s expression had changed…

Ren hadn’t been able to forget… How stricken both it and Igor looked. It had just been an accident.

Perhaps it’s best not to think about it.

“Ren?”

“No, it’s nothing… Really, it is nothing…”

“Ren, how was work?”

Ren shucked off his shoes, idly rubbing over the red imprints in his wrist. He knew better than to play with his bracelet when in the presence of that thing.

“You didn’t get hurt, did you? Did that…man approach you again?”

Ignore it. Ignore it.

Ren hung up his coat, heading to the fridge to heat up a frozen meal. Kafka hated when he bought frozen, but Igor recommended this, so it couldn’t be too bad.

“That man isn’t a bad person… But he might not have your best intentions in mind.”

Ren shoved it into the microwave, punching in the numbers and staring.

“I know you don’t trust me either… I just want you to be…”

Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it.

The microwave beeped.

 I dreamt of clouds dissipating into an endless blue sky. I thought of oil paint and the way it took days to dry. The way you often had to lubricate it with more oil before it would mix and spread. Could happiness truly be found in the hue of yellow? I dreamt of eating it to see.

Kafka pulled a few strings. Like a spider spinning web, she had everything and everyone at her fingertips. Some would find that terrifying, but she only ever acted kindly to Ren.

Far, far kinder than he would ever deserve.

“They said you can go outside,” Kafka announced, all smiles. “You don’t have to be stuck in this stuffy building or this stuffier old room.”

“Is that…wise?” Ren didn’t deserve this. He knew he didn’t. “I do not…wish to cause unnecessary trouble.”

“It’s hardly trouble,” Kafka reassured him with a wave of her elegant hand before she took his wrist. “A-Ren, you love flowers, don’t you?”

He did. He loved them more than anything.

“Then, how about we go outside and look at the flowers? If you like them… Why not take care of them? We can also move that plant.”

Ren quivered at the prospect. In that shameful, wretched moment, he couldn’t deny happiness blossoming within his heart, small and pitiful.

“I… Okay. That…doesn’t sound bad at all.”

He really should have known better. He should have known.

After finishing his meager meal, he went straight to bed. Because of his curse, that thing followed him, all radiance and misery.

Ren wondered what he did, to make it so upset, and then he wondered how he sunk so low as to start worrying about it.

But truth be told, while he always thought of it as incomprehensibly terrifying, he never attributed malice to it.

Perhaps he was just too broken for such things. How could he know? He didn’t know much of anything.

Why others worried for him. Why he was always looked after. Why so many gazes upon him were gentle when he’s dreamt so many times of people he once loved looking upon him coldly and cruelly.

None of it seems right. None of it seems fair. That…thing is the encapsulation of it. Ever since that day, Ren has become frightfully aware that no matter how much he shrinks in on himself or tries to hide away, he will always be perceived and seen.

Someone such as him shouldn’t even exist in the first place, and yet here he was.

What could he do about that?

I dream I’m back in the mental institution. I dream that an angel is watching over me. That angel is not Kafka. Kafka always looks after me. Some call her an angel. Others call her a devil. To me, she is simply Kafka. She is not that angel at all. I don’t know who that angel is.

Taking up gardening is easier than Ren expected. Once he replanted his faithful Plant outside, he had planned to leave it at that, but…

The soil had been dry. Some of the flowers looked a little faded. There was even a caterpillar chewing away on one of the leaves. Surely… Surely caring for them would be fine?

So Ren took up gardening outside, and the staff looked the other way. Ren spent a lot of time in the sun, watering the flowers, checking the soil, plucking away deadened bits, and shooing away any bugs.

It was repetitive. Many would call it tedious. But as Ren tended to the flowers and to Plant, the breeze would rustle through the leaves and petals and even through his hair, which he had carefully tied back. Soft and chilled like Kafka’s gloved touch.

The sun shone down in a sea of endless blue, the clouds fluffy and rippling like foam. Seeing it like this was very different from gazing through his window.

Ren let his eyes fall shut and he sank into a sensation that could only be called peaceful.

Plant took well to the outside, even Kafka noted as much. Its roots rifled through the soil in pure fascination of the now endless depths. It had grown taller and more vibrant, its leaves taking on more of a sheen. It even began flowering, the petals a striking hue of violet, mingling with silk white.

“How lovely,” Kafka remarked, and Ren puffed a little with pride. She chuckled. “Ah, not just this flower, of course.”

Right. There were other flowers as well that Ren was taking care of. As fond as he was of Plant, he didn’t wish to neglect the others so he moved to inspecting them for any issues. Imperfections he could handle as long as they were healthy.

Kafka giggled under her breath again, the sound rich and yet, there was an undercurrent of lament.

“You really do have such gentle hands, A-Ren,” she mused, kneeling down. “Perhaps I should take you back to my place and make you into my own personal gardener, hmm? I have a few flowers that could ah, use a loving touch like yours.”

She was teasing him, but her offer wasn’t made in complete jest.

“I have to stay in here to atone,” Ren mumbled, but he felt warmth in his cheeks. From the sun, surely. “That was…what was said in court.”

“Oh, A-Ren,” Kafka sighed. “I think you’ve behaved well enough for some lenience. Wouldn’t you like to visit us? Bronie would be thrilled to have another person to play one of her games with.”

Ren shook his head, firm on this.

“I…may not remember what happened… But it was made quite clear to me…that what I did was unforgivable. Retribution can only be attained…if I stay here.”

“Hm.” Kafka clicked her tongue disapprovingly. But it was what Ren had been told, not that he ever relayed the full tale to Kafka. That memory, too, was fuzzy, but he remembered an endless maelstrom of hatred and resentment, so thick in the air that it was suffocating. Even with the lack of clarity, it had been branded onto his bones and soul, and he felt the weight of his sins with every twitch.

No, Kafka was far, far too kind to him. It was despicable enough that Ren didn’t dissuade her from such charity, not that she would have listened.

“I…” Would admitting this make him even more despicable? Was it even allowed? “Someone should…stay here and take care of these flowers. I hardly mind doing that.”

Kafka’s gaze softened.

“You know, A-Ren.” Even her voice grew quiet. “Should you ever go out into the world, you may find it full of people who will see you the way I do. Not all of them, but more than you might be able to handle.”

Ren did still for a moment.

“Then I do not think I should ever leave. That…sounds like far more than I can take.”

And deserve, he didn’t say, but the words hung in the air regardless, heavy with regret.

He left it at that, all the while Plant flourished, adored by the sun and soil both, vivid and lovely in the corner of his gaze.

The days passed with ease. Each and every day, Ren tended to the flowers, lingering by them and watching over them. He read up on gardening and botany. Anything he could get his hands on, and he was even given seeds to cultivate and nurture.

It became a simple life, but a fulfilling one.

Truth be told, there was an underlying reason for why Ren stayed in this prison. No doubt Kafka already knew or at least suspected, even if she was too kind-hearted to confront him.

Namely that he feared the outside beyond this garden he made his own. He still avoided the staff, he still avoided other patients. It wasn’t just by design and confinement that his world was kept small.

Ren was at his most comfortable tending to the flowers and otherwise isolated. Perhaps he was far too comfortable and it was only a matter of time before there’d be consequences.

Kafka still visited him. Sometimes, she’d bring her sisters. Bronya kept trying to show him those strange, bizarre games. Firefly liked to talk about life philosophies. Stelle was prone more to unreadable staring, and whatever she decided to say was about as predictable as a worm’s next move. They were more than enough. He didn’t need anyone or anything else.

And yet, sometimes…

Sometimes, he shamefully felt a little lonely. Even though he knew better, he sometimes yearned for just a little more.

It was only a matter of time before he’d be punished. It was always only a matter of time.

Why? Why?

The start of the end had been something so small, so insignificant. A baby bird, quivering under Plant’s leaves. It chirped at him, its wings fluttering.

Ren blinked a few times, but the little bird remained. Even after he finished tending to the rest of the flowers, it stayed on the ground, bundled into a small ball by Plant’s stem. It picked idly whenever an insect crawled by, but otherwise, it did not move much.

Ren should have approached a nurse, perhaps. Or just. Anyone. But he thought that it would be quite a chilly night with the upcoming winter, so he approached the little bird instead, cooing softly so as to not frighten it.

That didn’t work, obviously. It pecked at his hands so he ended up placing it in the box for his gardening tools. It wasn’t perfect, and the bird puffed up in either apprehension or annoyance, but he brought it inside all the same.

Perhaps he thought he was doing a great deed. He couldn’t explain his actions.

He fed the bird seeds and bugs he caught and picked apart for easier consumption. He tried stuffing the box with bits of fabric so that it could be a warmer makeshift nest.

The bird chirped away and would still peck him if his fingers drifted too close. But its liveliness and the brightness of its beady gaze was nonetheless endearing.

Winter came. Despite everything he did, the flowers still died. Plant, too, wilted and shriveled. Ren’s mind was blank after he had finished reaping the remains, but when he returned to his room, the little bird was still chirping.

“And it still hasn’t flown away?”

“Mm… Its wing might be damaged.” Ren watched as it pecked at his finger irritably just for having the gall to nudge a few uneaten seeds closer. “It’s quite lively, but I worry. Can you get a vet?”

“I suppose I can look for one,” Kafka said, her smile not reaching her pensive gaze as she looked over the pitiful ball of feathery fluff. “It may take some looking, I’m afraid. Do you know what kind of bird this is, A-Ren?”

“It’s…” Ren tried to think, as if an answer would ever come to him. “A bird.”

Kafka laughed, but Ren couldn’t help but suspect that if she were able, she would’ve cried.

“It is quite the adorable little dove,” she mused, watching as it cocked its head at her. Kafka did pull out her phone to take a picture. “I’ll look for a proper doctor, A-Ren. No worries.”

Ren nodded before hesitating.

“Until then… I do not think the nurses appreciate it being…around. I overheard them muttering about it.”

“Did you, now?” Kafka didn’t seem surprised. “Well, A-Ren, as long as you keep handling it with gloves, it should be fine.”

He wasn’t that foolish, even if he did sometimes eye the bird’s fluffy little feathers with longing.

“That said,” she went on, more serious. “Birds are very fragile. You know this, right?”

“I’m aware…” His frown deepened. “Of course I’m…aware.”

Was he? Was he really?

Kafka’s gaze remained serious but she touched his cheek, fond as always.

“I’m sorry about the flowers, A-Ren. More will come again in the spring.”

A pang in his chest, deep enough to reach his very marrow. One only alleviated by the bird’s chirping.

“More will come in spring,” he repeated dutifully, like a reminder.

For now, the bird took up all his attention. He made sure it was fed and its area clean. He listened to it chirp. He watched it sleep.

Kafka informed him that she had Bronya do some research. Apparently, the bird was some kind of dove, although the name escaped Ren after it was spoken. It was more important that Kafka knew, anyway.

Finding a vet would be difficult, she warned. The species was apparently rather exotic and rarely seen. Apparently they were a symbol of good fortune, once beloved by the divine. Kafka relayed that information with more amusement; her relationship with spirituality was complicated.

At least, Ren got the impression. He never pried. But he did arrange for nuts, fruits, and insects into a more proper-looking offering, and the little bird seemed quite pleased.

More by the selection than the arrangement. It plopped into the center and messed up all of Ren’s careful work, even though his fingers had quivered through the process of making sure it was all laid out perfectly.

Ren was a little exasperated, but in watching the bird eat, he felt something more akin to endearment.

He wondered if he should name it as well. He still missed Plant dearly. But he already called it ‘little bird’ when speaking to it, and it seemed to have memorized his voice. A name seemed rather redundant, then, since he couldn’t think of anything else to call it…besides Little Bird.

It almost felt…self-important, so he forwent the process. Kafka hadn’t suggested naming the little bird, either. He had a sneaking suspicion as to why, but he was swift to stamp it down.

He was foolish. He was acting foolishly. He knew this, but he also found it difficult to think.

Sometimes, the bird hopped around. It fluttered its wings but struggled to take flight. Ren had to catch it more than a few times before it could crash into the ground. Finally, he stripped his bed to cushion the floor, allowing for safer landing. He still caught the bird when he could, but he wasn’t always successful.

And his insides would twist almost violently when he saw the bird quiver from yet another failed attempt at flight. Such sensations didn’t last long. Animals knew frustration, yes, but more than anything, they were stubborn until they weren’t. There was a purity to them in that sense.

So the bird would pick itself up, hop around, and it would try and try again until it got too tired. It would then chirp at Ren for food. He would bring its plate and water dish over dutifully and it would flutter its wings not with frustration but delight as it pecked away at the seeds and splashed about in its dish.

Ren always watched it keenly, taking in its thoughtlessness, its innocence. Such a curious thing this creature was, and yet, he found it so very captivating and endearing.

Kafka arrived with a carrier to place the bird in. It was padded with blankets and even a heating pad. While the bird avoided her hand, it did allow Ren to tentatively pick it up, only chirping at him. Whether it was curiosity or annoyance, Ren couldn’t be sure, but he placed it inside the carrier and the warmth from the heating pad seemed to lull it.

He felt Kafka’s sharp gaze on him as he clumsily zipped it up. For once, he almost didn’t notice, distracted by how easily the little bird had relaxed.

“I do not think I’m allowed to have heating pads,” Ren mumbled, a little dismayed to think it. “This room… It’s rather miserable, isn’t it.”

He hadn’t minded when it was just himself. But with Plant and then with this little bird… It was surely miserable.

Outside was currently full of snow. Plant had already withered away into nothing. It wasn’t safe for the bird. It was better to stay inside, but… It was still miserable.

“Perhaps you both should stay with me instead,” Kafka offered, sweet as always.

Ren did wonder if the little bird would be happier there. The request that Kafka keep it hung on his tongue, but for one despicable reason or another, he didn’t ask.

He was still far too much of a coward, perhaps.

After Kafka left with the bird, Ren cleaned the room. He carried the sheets and blankets to the laundromat. He avoided others’ glances.

He went into the graveyard that used to be a garden. He’d burn incense if he had been allowed to have a lighter or matches. Or even an incense stick. Instead he knelt before where Plant once stood.

It truly had died so utterly. Such was nature. It thrives, it dies, it is reborn to begin the cycle anew. Would Plant be the same? Ren wondered if he would recognize it, if it was ever reborn.

Perhaps Plant had ascended to an even higher plane of existence. Ren could never know.

But, he did ponder death sometimes. Perhaps… Far too often. His own life… What value did it hold?

Kafka always tried to ward him from such thoughts. But Kafka wasn’t here. Nor was the little bird. It was just Ren. In the snow. The chill biting through his flesh but struggling to reach the heat of his blood, pumping through his heart and running through his veins.

Ren felt it like needles on his flesh. Which in turn made him think of hatred and malice. Which in turn would lead to him shivering uncontrollably, but not from the cold.

Why do I live? Why do I remain?

He didn’t have an answer. He wouldn’t get an answer. All he heard over his uneven breathing was someone demanding that he return to his room before he caught his death. As if death could ever be grasped like an animal.

An animal like that little bird, allowing his gloved hands to tentatively cup its small body.

“You really should go back inside,” a nurse whispered to him. Ren was too dizzy to do anything but try to obey. He stumbled a little, and careful hands steadied him. “Come on.”

Ren was guided back to his room, back to his bed. The moment he fell into a slumber, all memory of that encounter dissolved like ice over a flame.

Kafka returned after a couple of days. For once, she seemed rather lost in thought. The little bird was still chirping away in its carrier.

Ren greeted them both, and it was only then that Kafka’s lips curved back into their usual smile.

“Unfortunately, it was as you suspected,” she explained, opening the carrier so that Ren could gingerly take the bird into his hands and carry it to its plate and water dish. “Its wing is damaged, so it’s unable to fly.”

Ren couldn’t say anything to that. He only watched the bird pick at its food without a care. He wondered if an animal could comprehend such an injury. He tried not to think of his own clumsy hands. Deep down, while he didn’t fully understand it, he knew something about him was…broken. Perhaps a great many things within him were broken.

“I wasn’t sure what else to do,” Kafka sighed. “So I just brought it back… I didn’t want you to worry, A-Ren.”

He had worried. He worried so much that it went beyond his meager capacity for words. He worried to the point where he hadn’t realized how much of it weighed on his shoulders until he saw that bird again and felt like he could breathe without much trouble.

Still. Kafka didn’t bring him good news. He should…think of something, then. What could be done for a bird that couldn’t fly? He had no idea.

Plant wasn’t so complicated, but Plant was gone. This little bird was all that remained.

“I do not mind…continuing to care for it,” he mumbled. “But I do think…more should be done.”

Kafka seemed to agree, even if she didn’t state as much.

“I’ll look for a sanctuary that can take it in,” she offered. “Make sure it lives happily among its own, the best it can.”

With the best care it can get, she doesn’t say, but Ren still felt those words like an itch. He wasn’t sure how to compartmentalize this feeling. He was…reluctant, in truth.

But he knew this would be for the better. No matter how much the bird chirped at him and responded to his calls, his voice… The life he lived that he had dragged this little bird into… It wasn’t a good one at all.

“Oh, A-Ren,” Kafka sighed, brushing his hair back. “Are you sad?”

“No… I do not think so…”

Resigned would be the better word, perhaps, but Ren decided against trusting himself to speak further.

He watched the bird hop around as always, but he felt a little… Just a little listless.

The bird chirped, flapped its wings uselessly, and then it turned to face him. Its head tilted to the side, its innocent expression almost…inquisitive.

It was ridiculous to think that. Animals were curious, yes, but not inquisitive. Not in the way people were. And yet.

“I don’t remember,” Ren found that he was talking anyway. “Not really. But… I believe… I was an artisan once…”

He looked from the bird to his hands, which even now shook against his wishes.

“After…what happened… I cannot hold a utensil very well. It took months before I could even drag the graphite down the page without breaking the stick in my hand. My handwriting is still dire.”

Aah, what was he doing? What did a bird care about pencils or words on paper? To them, a writing utensil was likely just another perch.

“I’ve tried other arts. Painting… Sculpting… Even knitting. I cannot…” Ren swallowed. “I am incapable of creation. But… I can care for flowers. And creatures such as you. That must count for something, surely?”

The little bird chirped.

Chuckling softly and mirthlessly, Ren knelt down, taking it into his hands and placing it on the window sill, showing it the merciless world beyond the glass.

“It’s still not very much,” he admitted wryly. “I know that better than anyone.”

The little bird pecked at the window. It fluttered its wings again but before it could collide with the glass, Ren caught it with his hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I suppose… Rather than the ice and cold… All you see is the endless blue of the sky. Which is still…quite beautiful.”

Perhaps he had acted cruelly. Ren took the little bird, and this time, it did struggle a little, chirping and squawking, flapping those useless wings.

He placed it back down, watching as it hopped around…seemingly in a direction that avoided him.

The days continued to pass by. The little bird was perhaps too innocent or too simple to hold grudges, so it resumed acting as it did before. It would eat happily, flutter its wings, play in its water dish, and sleep with ease.

Ren continued watching over it as before, unsure of what to do in that budding darkness within him. Kafka still visited on occasion. Her other girls also visited, just to see the bird. Firefly cooed over it. Silver Wolf hadn’t been too impressed. Stelle had to be deterred from eating its food. Yes, including the bugs.

Such eccentric, lively girls. Ren wasn’t ever sure what to do with them, but he was even less sure of what to do with himself.

He envied them sometimes, in truth. He knew their lives were not without struggles, even if Kafka was predictably not forthcoming about such things. He also knew that he didn’t slot into that easygoing sense of camaraderie they had. There were both obvious reasons and more nuanced ones.

Their visits were like that window during spring. Through them, he could glimpse life and beauty and endless possibilities, but there would always be a barrier.

Ren didn’t mind that much. It was more than he deserved. More than he would ever deserve. Shouldn’t he have been grateful? Shouldn’t he have been ashamed?

He didn’t know. He really didn’t know.

It had been just like any other insignificant day. He woke up, for once not to any chirping.

Because that little bird had perished and would sing no longer.

He wordlessly carried its corpse outside. He buried it where Plant had once been, even though the ground was hard from the cold. It must have taken some time.

Someone called for him. Was that really what happened? He did not answer. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think at all. He just buried the dead without a word.

Perhaps he had gone mad. Or perhaps he had always been mad.

The doors leading to the roof were locked. It was easy to break said lock, especially with gardening tools. Ren stepped through, feeling the unforgiving chill of winter and the wind blew in his hair, piercing and almost accusatory.

No fences. No barriers. Ren wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner.

Aah, the sky really was endlessly lovely. How many times had he looked at the sky? Had he adored it then as he did now?

Ren stepped forward and then again. And again. And again. And again. In long strides, he finally reached the edge. He looked down at the hard ground below. The building was just high enough, he thought.

The wind whipped through, lashing out and so very cruel. He remembered, now, the hurt he caused and what he deserved. It was not to live out in a padded cage, to be cared for. No, it was much simpler, much more straight-forward.

Ren closed his eyes and leaned forward to embrace his retribution.

Only he fell into a very different, very unexpected embrace. His heartbeat stuttered wildly, and he heard the fluttering of feathers.

“Not yet,” was murmured into his ear. “Let me behold you for just a while longer. After all…” That voice lowered, harmonious like a choir, rich like the sweetest cake. “You are just so very marvelous.”

The words. This warmth. This scent. None of it made any sense at all.

Ren lost all semblance of the peace he found, his heart still racing and his breathing growing sharper and shorter, like each inhale was a stab to his throat. His vision blurred, but he lacked the strength to push himself away.

Then delicate fingers carded through his hair and Ren quaked. It wasn’t from the cold. He couldn’t even feel the cold like this.

“Such a wonder,” the strangeness crooned to him, voice still sweet and musical. “Yes… I need you to persist in this world. Oh, Ren.”

His name, imbued with such warmth that it didn’t even sound like a name anymore.

A hand covered his mouth, just as he would’ve mustered up everything it took to scream, and he was pushed back, just a little. Just enough to see it.

An angel, with eyes of nectar gold, with features so delicate that they could’ve only been shaped by the most careful of hands. That impossibly lovely face framed by soft strands the same color as clouds carrying rain. And oh, within its gaze…

Within its gaze was Ren, helplessly bathed in fathomless radiance and adoration. It was a gaze so gentle that it hurt. And that hurt was quick to turn to pure, wretched agony.

Please, Ren wanted to say at that moment. Please, no. No, no, no.

I am not worthy. I will never be worthy!

But that angel, no, that, that thing held him in place, and when Ren could no longer take its light, he retreated into utter darkness.

A hallucination. A hallucination was the only explanation.

Because the lock was fixed. The doors were shut. There was no proof of what happened. None.

Nothing except the burn in his ears from the cold. Nothing but the persisting thing who watched him as he woke. Who continued to watch and watch and smile and smile, eyes so full of reverence and affection that Ren felt it like poison, eating away at his flesh and innards.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it. Being trapped. In here. With that. So he told Kafka he wanted to leave, and he wasn’t sure why she said yes. He must have looked less than sane, his gaze wild and his shaking uncontrollable, but she said yes all the same.

She helped him lease an apartment. She helped him find work. She helped him claim a normal life. And yet it stayed. And yet it watched.

And Ren truly, truly didn’t understand.

Why me?

“Ren? Oh, Ren.”

As he approached, he found that Ren, with his arms crossed under his head, did not stir. Ren’s hair was tousled, but it was clear he was fast asleep, his long lashes quivering, carrying within them the glimmer of a tear. Oh, how his heart broke.

He sighed, reaching out and brushing his fingers over that strange bracelet. It did not prevent his touch, as he never approached Ren with ill-intent or misgivings, but it was a reminder that what he was doing…

Was quite…disagreeable, if one were to ask his peers.

Still, he helped Ren to bed, carrying him, tucking him in, gazing upon Ren’s face lovingly before tearing himself away lest He lose himself in Ren’s beauty.

His gaze drifted to that journal. Ren had written in it yet again. Asking why. Why him.

Why, indeed!

…

His previous life had been such an unfortunate one. With a broken wing in a world of merciless cold and snow, his life should have been snuffed out swiftly, only for gentle hands to carry him to safety. He spent the rest of his life in a simple room, but it was one full of care and warmth. Such warmth.

He hadn’t known how lucky he was until his death, at that time reaching enlightenment when it came to how so very large and wretched this world could be. It had been so very much at once, becoming aware of the world’s endless depths within its cracks.

Oh, and so many types would fall through those cracks!

There were those with so much youth and promise. There were those with so much wisdom and remorse. There were those with so much. There were those with so little. There were those acting cowardly. There were those who could not face their actions. There were those who could not stand to be burdens.

At first, Ren seemed no different, especially with his fractured sense of self.

Oh, but there was so much to Ren, so much more than he had witnessed in his overly simple life.

He had seen so much. He had seen Ren watch the flowers grow. He had seen Ren tend to his plant, then his garden, and finally that little bird, who was once but was no longer himself.

He had seen Ren’s fearful hands so tenderly take care of others, all while the candle flame of his eyes continued to frightfully flicker with uncertainty and despondency.

He should have ascended. He was meant for greater planes, and yet. And yet.

Whether it was admiration or retribution, he immediately committed the taboo of interference, all for this person. All for Ren.

Why? Because Ren was more than worthy of such grace.

“I just hope that you can one day accept that, Ren,” Sunday murmurs, brushing Ren’s hair back, brushing away that errant tear. “When you do, I’ll be happy to disappear. For now, sweet dreams. Rest well.”