Chapter Text
Usually, the world is not so hazy. She doesn't like it; she tries without success to blink the mist out of her eyes.
Someone stands in front of her, stick-thin and tiny, and they wrap gentle yellow wings around her torso. The wings are little, still fluffed up with the feathers of youth, but they are cold.
They are saying something to her, but her ears are blocked with cotton. She blinks again, and the world only clears a little. Not nearly enough to see.
She makes out a head of black hair and a gap-toothed smile. If she strains to hear, she can pick out daydream floating amongst the other disorganized words chattering in her head.
She raises her hands to sign. But why would I daydream about someone I’ve never met?
When the child speaks again, their voice is clear and high. Haven’t you always?
She has.
Somehow, this feels different.
She opens her palms to the red ribbon curled like a bloodstain in her hands.
A little dragon is still with fear. She doesn't think she likes this daydream.
**
One refused to sleep. It was a bit of an issue, Four thought, because he was clearly exhausted, especially after the day they’d had, but he sat cross-legged on the floor with his back rigid and a metal bat clutched between his hands, eyes pointed at the staircase where Wilbur last disappeared.
The afternoon passed quickly and quietly, and after One’s impossibly long interrogation had finished, the sun was already making its descent below the horizon, turning the rest of the town outside Wilbur’s windows into a landscape of black set against the red sky.
Arranging a sleeping space for the kids was their first problem of the night. After much deliberation (and a little panic on Wilbur’s part), Phil convinced him that they’d have to make do with a sleeping bag and a number of blankets and pillows set upon his living room floor. It wasn’t ideal, Wilbur said, and apologized profusely to the children for not having a better solution, but Four wasn’t complaining.
Frankly, after many sleepless nights clustered on a mouldy mattress, Four was delighted. She had her own blanket—her own —and a warm rug underneath her. Even One seemed a bit happy at the change of pace, if the little smile he tried to force down was any indication.
Phil left for his own house shortly after sunset, and after much worried hovering, Wilbur eventually made his way upstairs, saying goodnight for the time being.
And they were alone again.
Somehow, this felt different. Only a day had passed, and yet they lived in an entirely different world, one where they were clean and warm and cared for, and it was strange. Wilbur didn’t force them to be separate or punish them for talking, and though it should have made Four feel comforted, part of her began to worry when the ball would drop, when he’d let out his real side.
People couldn’t actually be that nice, could they? Did he want something in return? Was that why he’d given them so much?
Four lay awake, completely incapable of getting a moment’s rest. She felt alive with energy and excitement, nearly buzzing —for the first time in her life, she was free , and she was warm and clean and full and she couldn’t sleep because she was too busy being happy.
She shifted to her side, trying to get comfortable. There, the moon cast a prideful glare across the floor, slipping into her eyes, and she blinked away colourful after images.
When her vision cleared, she made out Two’s face in the dark, illuminated by a slice of moonlight. He peered out the glass with squinted eyes, hugging her knees with a slouched back. They were the only other child awake, although the droop to their eyes and shoulders gave her an air of exhaustion. Soon, it would be Three’s shift, Four thought.
Four wondered how long they’d have to keep taking shifts during the night. Surely, they were safer than they’d been in the abandoned house—and yet, they now resided with a man they didn’t know, which meant he could betray them at any moment.
None of them were willing to take those chances.
Four nudged them with her foot, which was covered by the worn blanket in which she had cocooned herself.
Two blinked at her blearily. “What do you want?”
“I can’t sleep.” As the words lifted off her hands, she yawned. She was tired , sure, but every time she closed her eyes she immediately wanted to open them again.
Two raised her arms in a half-shrug, as if to say, What do you want me to do about it? “Do you want a story or something?”
“I don’t know.” She tucked her face into the blanket until only her eyes were visible, watching Two carefully. The fabric was soft, and she was cascaded in a warmth so gentle it blocked out the chill of the twilight.
Two wiped an exhausted hand down their face. “Okay. Well. Can you please bug One about it or something?”
Rude. Four frowned, lifted one foot, and kicked Two in the thigh. It wasn’t hard—Four was a lot smaller than them, and weak enough that she didn’t cause much damage—but still, Two blinked at Four, unimpressed. He leaned over and flicked her knee, which just wasn’t fair, honestly. She bit back a hiss of pain.
So Four stood on shaky knees, wrapping the blanket tight around her shoulders, and began stepping delicately over the sleeping bodies of Three and Five, who were tightly wound around each other, breathing at opposite times. She made sure to “accidentally” bump into Two in the dark.
“That seemed unnecessary, but okay,” Two signed into the darkness.
She simply stuck out her tongue and settled down onto the ground beside One, careful not to wake him. He was already worried enough as it was, and Four thought that he might not sleep again if he woke up now.
Still, she curled up at his side, tucking herself deep into her blanket and humming happily. It took her a moment to smooth out the crinkles from the blanket, ensuring the sensation of bunched up fabric wouldn’t trigger any sensory issues. God, she hated fabric sometimes. It just simply wasn't her thing.
But One must have felt her moving, because he groaned softly in half-sleep, drawing one arm over her shoulders to pull her closer. She didn’t complain, only snuggled closer into her blankets as the boy clung onto her like a teddy bear.
He was certainly the warmest of the five, that was for sure. She settled her head on top of One’s shoulder, adjusting herself so it was comfortable and her jaw wouldn’t grate into his bony skin.
Gentle fingers began running through her hair, and finally, she began to feel sleepy.
Oh. That was nice, she thought.
She fell asleep to the rhythmic rise and fall of One’s lungs somewhere below her head and the gentle sensation of fingers running through her curls, and for once, she slept without fear of what would meet her when she woke.
**
Her morning started with a flash of bright light. Her heart flew in a rapid rhythm before her eyes even opened, and for a brief moment, she was back in her cell in the Federation, waiting for the long beep that would serve as her alarm.
Her chest ached. So then was everything else just a dream? If she was really back at the Federation, then had her daydreams gotten the best of her again? Was none of that real?
But then a pair of arms tightened around her shoulders, and she sunk into the warmth that openly accepted her, overwhelmed with relief.
She wasn’t there anymore. She had escaped.
She was free.
Still, her eyes flicked around the room to ensure herself she was somewhere new. Instead of the Federation’s achingly white architecture, she took in the muted blueish-grey walls and worn couch of Wilbur’s house and the fluffy rug laid across the floor, reminding herself that this was real.
And instead of Cucurucho, Phil entered the room with a woven basket full of unfolded clothing, which he promptly dumped on the floor in front of them. “Wakey, wakey!” Though his tone was playful, he kept his voice soft, and Four knew it was because he didn’t want to scare them. “I come bearing gifts!”
Four blinked sleepily, and beside her, One huffed grumpily, burying his face into Four’s curls to block out the light. Five remained still on the floor, a frown on his face, and Three was still sound asleep. Two practically glared daggers at the winged man.
A little laugh sounded from the entrance to the dining room, and Four turned to see Wilbur leaning against the wall, a coffee cup settled into one hand. “I don’t think they’re morning people, Phil.”
Phil sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “Should’ve expected it.”
With a snort of amusement, Wilbur settled his coffee mug on the little table beside him and stepped closer to the kids, careful to keep a wide berth around them just in case. “Alright, first order of business. I—,” he started, but then noticed that Three was still asleep. He muttered to Five, “Can you wake her up, please?”
Beside her, Four heard One laugh a little.
Four agreed. Three slept through everything. They’d learned long ago that trying to wake her up was a mission not only pointless but dangerous.
Still, Five rolled over and firmly shoved an elbow into her ribs, causing the girl to splutter awake, eyebrows creased in concern. She crumpled in on herself, and then when she saw Five giggling beside her, her eyes filled with rage.
Well, that was the end of Five.
“Oooookay, maybe no violence this early in the morning,” Phil said, looking moderately concerned.
By now, the rest of them had shaken themselves free of sleep at least a little. Four sat up with only some hesitation, and moments later, One joined her, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. Two’s leg was bouncing with adrenaline and impatience—they always got up easier than the others, anyway.
Wilbur’s eyes were wide in worry, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to approach the children. “Um, anyway,” he started, and cleared his throat again. “So, Phil went out early to the lost and found this morning and picked out a bunch of clothes for all of you. You can take as many as you want, and then I can get my clothes back.”
Phil chuckled, but didn’t add anything.
Four looked down at the T-shirt covering her frame. It was so large on her that it fell almost to her knees. Yeah, maybe clothing actually designed for children would be better.
Four eyed the pile of clothing on the floor a little closer, wincing when she thought about having to sort through a multitude of textures again. Maybe someone who wasn’t neurodivergent could do that for her, she thought. That would be nice.
Before Wilbur could continue, Five immediately stumbled out of his sleeping bag, limping excitedly over to the pile of clothes. He shakily lowered himself to his knees, and after a few moments of digging, pulled out a soccer jersey in fluorescent yellow and green colours. In response, his face broke out into a massive smile. A number nine was plastered onto the jersey underneath the name Richarlyson , and though the jersey was entirely too big for him, Four knew that look. He’d already claimed the clothing item.
Phil chuckled in response to the boy’s sudden joy, and Wilbur’s eyes softened with warmth.
Three wandered over to the clothing pile next, a little more hesitant than Five, and Two was quick to follow. They busied themselves with sorting through the pile as Wilbur began to speak again.
“Second order of business—hey, guys, listen, alright?” Wilbur continued, and raised his eyebrows, waiting for their eyes. “Second order of business: I want you all to pick names for yourself. Personally, calling you by numbers seems dehumanising, unless that’s what you really want.”
Four hummed in thought, tucking her knees into her chest. She’d often considered what sort of name she’d choose for herself if given the chance—she had plenty of time at the Federation to dream about a different life, a different self.
Now that the opportunity was real, however, the thought of a new name felt cold and distant. It certainly felt a lot more weighted than when it was a mere dream.
Five, however, didn’t seem to hold the same worries. He held up the jersey in his hands immediately, pointing at the name on it. He put the shirt down to sign, “How do you pronounce that?”
Wilbur shrugged, looking lost. He surely didn’t pick up a word of the sign, and for a moment, Four worried it was just another one of their questions that would be lost on the adults.
To her surprise, however, One seemed to pick up on something, because he signed something else to Phil. Four tried to decipher what he said, but—that wasn’t Federation sign, was it? And since when did he and Phil speak the same sign language?
Four’s head spun. Now that was confusing.
Phil gave a little nod, something like warmth in his eyes, and then he cast his gaze over to Five. “Richarlyson.”
Five positively beamed, and signed, “I want that as my name.”
That was the first name they figured out. One second, Five was Five, and the next, he was Richarlyson. Four wasn’t really sure how it happened, but as soon as she saw Richarlyson with a name, she ached for one of her own, something personal and special and given just to her.
So far, she hadn’t come up with anything nice. As she searched through the pile of clothes restlessly, nothing in particular called out to her. It wasn’t like she wanted to call herself Skirt or Plaid or something.
One was the next to discover a name—not even a minute after Richarlyson, he’d declared himself Chayanne. Nobody knew where it came from, and nobody questioned it. He said he was Chayanne, so Chayanne he became.
And maybe Four envied it just a little bit—just a tiny little bit —but she kept quiet. Her name would come. It would, right?
She just had to be patient.
Unfortunately, Four was not known for her patience.
At least she wasn’t alone. Two and Three certainly seemed more interested in the clothing than the need for a name, at least for now. Three’s eyes were bright and her cheeks were coloured a rosy pink from excitement as she held up abandoned clothing in front of her face. She seemed as though she was on a mission, one the adults watched fondly.
And then, eventually, she pulled some little plastic palette out of the clothing pile, and it was used and the cover was slightly broken, but her eyes immediately lit up. She held up the palette to the adults questioningly.
Wilbur squinted, trying to see the palette a little better. He frowned. “I think that’s face paint.”
Four didn’t think she’d ever seen Three so excited in her life.
Twenty minutes afterwards, Three emerged from the bathroom wearing a white blouse underneath a forest green overall dress with a hole in one of the pockets. It had taken her an impossibly long time to find a matching pair of white socks, but she’d tucked them into polished black mary jane shoes, and she’d secured a pale green hat to her head—Wilbur called it a beret. A felt stem and leaf attached themselves to the top of the beret in the style of an apple.
She was still tying her hair into pigtails—as she always did back at the Federation—and tied up her right pigtail with a blue ribbon and the left one with a red ribbon.
Hm. Four paused. There was something important about a red ribbon, she thought, but she couldn’t remember who told her that.
She shrugged it off. Perhaps it was just something from one of her daydreams.
Most notable about Three, however, was the face paint she’d dotted underneath her eyes—again, blue on her right cheek and red on her left. Something about added French flair, she said, although Four knew part of it came from her innate need to look nice.
Upon seeing her, Two immediately burst into laughter, and exaggeratedly stopped himself from falling off the couch. “You look like an apple. Like, like a French apple.”
Three raised an eyebrow. “ Pomme ,” she corrected haughtily, fingerspelling out the name.
“Yeah? You should name yourself that. Imagine being named Pomme of all things.”
Four watched anxiously from the side, hands wringing each other out. She didn’t want to be left behind. She didn’t want another child to have a name when she was nowhere near finding one.
“For the record, I think Pomme is a nice name,” Three—or, perhaps, Pomme—signed, and then glanced unsurely up and down Two’s form. “What would you name yourself? … Dapper? ”
Two looked down at the button up they were currently trying to figure out. He was one button off, so one half of the shirt hung lower than the other. “Yeah, actually,” they said defensively. “At least Dapper is better than Pomme.”
“Says who?!”
Four was starting to feel more than a little left behind.
Three decided not long after that that she did , in fact, want to be called Pomme. For Two, it was a longer thought process—she wrote down a long list of potential names, and returned to it periodically to scratch off the ones that didn’t fit.
He ended up choosing Dapper anyway. Four thought they’d never admit it, but she knew they were drawn to the name because it was Pomme who had suggested it. Because there was a story behind that name, as silly as it was.
It was an easy choice, really.
By the end of the day, they were Chayanne, Dapper, Pomme, and Richarlyson.
And, well, Four.
Four. At least when they were all named numbers, it felt like she was part of something. She was Four out of five, the second last of a group of runaways who’d become family.
Now, she was Four out of…what? The others had shed their numbers like old skins, and now, they each held something beautiful and individual in their hands—a name, one of their own choosing—and they were happy .
Four was still Four. Well, she was Four with a red beanie that fell into her eyes and a burgundy dress, one that didn’t create a disturbing noise when it brushed against her skin. So at least she was somewhat separated from her Federation self, she supposed.
She tried not to worry about it. Instead, she spent her first full day at Wilbur’s house exploring. A thick rain had settled outside the windows, cold and biting, and Phil said with a bristle of his feathers that a storm might settle in overnight. So, for now, they stayed inside.
Wilbur’s house was two floors, both well-maintained if not for the dust accumulating on the top floor. It was cozy, she thought, lit mostly by hand-held lanterns and lamps and the occasional ceiling light. And sure, Wilbur led her away from the top floor before she’d gotten to any of the rooms, but she didn’t mind—people were allowed their privacy. She understood that need deeply after having her own right to privacy refused for so many years.
By the time evening rolled around, after Phil had fed them with warm soup and tea, he departed once again for his own house—wherever that was—in enough time that he could fly home before the storm hit. Four settled herself on a window at the back of the cottage, pressed up against the ledge. The glass was cold against her side, but she didn’t quite mind.
Rain drummed like an endless melody. She looked on into Wilbur’s backyard, at grass wet and muddy with precipitation. Her breath puffed a white cloud against the glass.
Wilbur always remained on the outskirts of the room, careful to supervise the kids without invading their personal space or causing them to feel threatened. She thought he was particularly careful around Chayanne, which was probably good, because Chayanne gripped his switchblade like his life depended on it anytime Wilbur came near.
This time, however, Wilbur jolted in surprise when he entered the living room and saw Four sitting there, a silent and small presence on the sill. Her knees were tucked into her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She’d learned long ago that adults liked her better when she was quiet and obedient, so she watched the man in pure silence, only blinking in acknowledgement when he entered the room.
“God, you scared me,” Wilbur said, a hand clasped over his chest in surprise. “I keep forgetting there are little people all over my house now.”
Four had no response. At least she wasn’t the only one still getting used to all these changes, she thought, although she didn’t dare bring that up—not that Wilbur would understand her, anyway.
Then, he must have noticed her energy, because his expression softened. “Are you alright?”
No. Of course she wasn’t.
Four wasn’t too fond of change—in fact, change had always involved much adjusting for her—and she felt nauseous. She started her day surrounded by a family of children that were achingly familiar, and now, they all wore strikingly different clothing, and worse, they all had new names. It was strange, and it was out of the ordinary, and Four felt terribly left behind.
Four was still the same. Just Four—nothing special.
Shouldn’t she have felt happy for them? The fact that they were quick to move on, even if she wasn’t? As much as she hated the Federation, there was some part of her clinging to the familiarity of it. It was the only thing she knew —all of this around her was different territory, and she didn’t like it.
But she nodded, because that was probably what Wilbur wanted to hear. She even offered him a closed-lipped smile, hoping it would make her case more convincing.
Wilbur frowned, eyes flickering over her face, and hummed in consideration.
Still, he didn’t mention it—the only worry showing through the gentle bob of his throat before he spoke. “I better go look for more blankets,” he said distractedly, and quickly turned his head away. “It’ll be a cold night.”
**
Wilbur was right. It was a cold night.
And, unfortunately, another one she spent restlessly awake. She’d curled up with Chayanne again, content to let him keep her warm. He’d had the first shift awake, so she pretended to sleep as he watched over the living room cautiously, his bat lying only a few feet to his left. Rain hammered on the windows soothingly, like it yearned to see inside the curtains, and yet Four remained achingly awake. Wind battered the edges of the house, a high-pitched whistle accompanied by a low, unearthly shushing.
It wasn’t until Chayanne woke Dapper up for his shift that she got a bit of rest. Chayanne must have noticed Four still awake beside him, because he gave her hand a little squeeze shortly before he fell asleep himself. The light of the moon through the window drowned him in white light, igniting the burn scars mottling the side of his face and the old bandages around his neck that he stubbornly refused to change—for whatever reason. Four thought she probably shouldn’t ask.
She wasn’t exactly sure when she fell asleep, but some time later, she woke with a start, mind burning and her dreams slowly fading to oblivion around her.
It was freezing, even with a thick blanket covering her, and she shivered. Moonlight turned the floor to silver, washing the faces of the other sleeping children in pale light.
They were right there, and yet they were all somewhere far, far away. She was alone, in a sense.
Her throat was tight. She tried to remember the dream that had woken her, but it was little more than a hazy blur.
There was…a child? She thought. Not one she’d met before, certainly not one that had ever been part of the Federation, and yet they were familiar in a way that stung.
Which was strange, because Four was absolutely positive they had never met that child before in their life. Their existence was contained within the confines of Four’s brain and an image of a faded red ribbon. Otherwise, they were little more than a dream.
Maybe it was something about the house.
Before Four could dwell on it any longer, a crash sounded from the kitchen. She jumped, heart leaping to her throat with a sharp inhale. A spike of adrenaline shot through her veins, alive and racing.
Calm down , she told herself. It’s probably nothing.
Keeping her movements as silent and unnoticeable as possible, she slipped her hand out of Chayanne’s and rolled to her feet, letting her blanket flutter to the floor and shivering in its absence.
A gentle light flickered in the kitchen. She padded closer, footsteps made noiseless by her socks, and spied from within the shadows of the living room.
An old glass lantern sat upon the kitchen counter, casting panes of orange light across the table and igniting the sharp angles of Wilbur’s face. He leaned his elbows against the counter, face in his hands and brown curls sticking out at odd angles, an untouched glass of water to his right. He swept his hands under his glasses to wipe them tiredly down his face, and then when his eyes finally came into view, Four noticed a sort of worried exhaustion in them.
And then he must’ve seen Four standing in the doorway, because he flinched. “ Jesus . You’ve got to stop doing that.” His voice was a quiet hush in the darkness, but Four heard every word clear as a bell. “How long have you been standing there?”
She stared back, arms folded over her middle nervously. Anything she might’ve said would’ve been lost, anyway—she hadn’t thought to bring her notebook with her.
A soft smile crossed his face, touched almost with amusement. “You’re like a little ghost, you know. Always standing there silently.”
She blinked. Fingers bunching up the fabric of her shirt, unsure what else she was supposed to do. She still didn’t know his boundaries, didn’t know what would make him tick or anger him. So far, he was completely out of the realm of Cucurucho’s behaviour, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
He laughed, but it was only a thin exhale of air through his nose, smile deepening. “You can sit down, if you want. I’ll get you some water.”
And—well, that did sound nice.
Slowly, she crept closer, never taking her eyes off the man. As long as he stayed on the other side of the counter, she’d remain distant from him, and then she didn’t have to worry about any sudden movements. There, she was safe.
At least, she hoped so.
She hoisted herself up onto a barstool. Her legs dangled high off the ground, and she kicked them absentmindedly, letting her gaze drift towards the window over the sink and the black night beyond. The storm churned on outside, distant and yet so close it was tangible.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Wilbur said, snapping her attention back to the room. “Or were you already up?” He turned towards the pale wooden cabinets pressed to the back wall and grabbed an empty glass, back turned to her. As he moved to the sink, the sound of rushing water was the only thing to intercept the silence.
Four shrugged. She wasn’t really sure what else to say—she didn’t really have a way of communicating with the man, at least not right now.
Wilbur slid the glass of water over to her. She clutched it between calloused palms and nails bitten to the quick. The water was cold and slid down her throat without complaint.
She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.
“Ah,” the man said, and turned around himself, eyes flicking around the kitchen as if looking for something. Eventually, he pulled open a messy cupboard and dug around in it haphazardly. Moments later, he placed down a pad of pink sticky notes and a Sharpie beside her.
And oh, she hated the sound Sharpies made when they touched paper, but it would have to do for now.
She uncapped the marker, and, with a grimace, touched the tip to the sticky note.
Nightmare , she wrote, her printing small but clunky, characteristic of a child.
He craned his neck to the side to read the note, squinting in the low light. Eventually, he hummed. “Makes sense. This place is scary enough as a grown adult; I can’t imagine how it would feel as a little kid.”
Not that little , she wrote, conscious of the limited space she had on the sticky notes, and underneath, I’m almost ten. She didn’t know what date her birthday was—only that it was thirty-five days after Chayanne’s birthday, which was coming up soon.
His eyebrows lifted up in surprise, and a grin touched his face. “Double digits?! That is pretty old.” His eyes danced. “Well, you’re a very brave big girl, Four. I hope you know that.”
She ducked her face down, hiding the bright smile that blossomed on her cheeks. She thought Wilbur saw anyway, if his little chuckle was any indication.
The marker swirled in her hand. Why are you awake?
She tilted her head upwards to look at him, trying to decipher his expression. Even in proper lighting, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the meaning behind the flickering neutrality that crossed his expression. His shoulders softened—just a little, but enough that it caught Four’s eye.
“Like I said, this world isn’t just scary for children.”
Four furrowed her eyebrows. Even if he’d worded his response vaguely, she could read between the lines.
He’d had a nightmare, too.
What about?
Momentary surprise crossed his face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, and something in his eyes almost looked a little sad. “You don’t have to worry about that, alright? I can handle my own problems.”
Doesn’t mean you should , she wrote. It was the code between the children, after all. Honesty and openness and communication—all the privileges they weren’t allowed at the Federation—were what helped them stay so close. None of them should have to shoulder their own burdens alone, not with the rest of the family there to help them.
If Wilbur was taking them in, shouldn’t that kindness extend to him?
His gaze lingered on the note for a long moment, expression unreadable. Finally, he looked up, plastering on a smile. “Hey, you thought of a name yet?”
It was an obvious change of subject, but Four understood that well. There were some things she would never be able to discuss, either.
She frowned, casting her gaze elsewhere, and shook her head. She couldn’t ignore the sudden tight band that had wrapped itself around her throat, squeezing like a thick pressure.
Right. The names. The unignorable pressure that had turned this wonderful miracle of a situation into a source of stress.
Sure, she didn’t want to be called Four, but did anything suit her better? Even given all the words in the world, she wouldn’t know how to describe herself. And they wanted her to do that in a single name?
It baffled her that none of the others had struggled with it. They ditched their numbers without a moment of hesitation, more than happy to use the first name that came to them.
But Wilbur didn’t seem to judge. He merely shrugged. “That’s alright. You’ll find one eventually.”
And the way he said it—like he didn’t have a sliver of doubt in his mind, like he had full confidence in Four’s ability to define herself—made her feel just a little better.
His eyes were still tracking her face, perhaps reading the intricacies in her expression, and he frowned. “You said you had a nightmare too, right? Do you want to talk about that?”
She paused, considering it, but shook her head. Like there was any way she could describe her meaningless encounters with the strange child that only seemed to appear in her subconscious. She’d love for those dreams to be analyzed. They had no purpose, usually not even a plot; they were unusually short, often just a snippet of conversation with someone she’d never met, whose face she couldn’t see.
Still, they left her uncomfortable. There was something about the child that left her unsettled, perhaps even a little frightened, though she wasn’t willing to admit it.
It didn’t help that the child had showed up in one of her daydreams, as well. Not the intentional ones, the ones with the elaborate plots that she could control, but one of the ones that came without warning. The ones that kept her trapped inside her own brain.
Wilbur hummed softly, and it was full of concern. “Wait here, alright? Don’t go anywhere.” He shifted, extending to his full height, and disappeared up the stairs, casting his eyes over his shoulder once to ensure she remained in place.
As if she’d move after being given direct orders. Betraying the commands of an adult never ended well, even if spoken with Wilbur’s unpredictable kindness.
She listened to the sounds of his footsteps padding up the stairs, fabric against hardwood, and then the soft thumps of him moving upstairs. A door creaked open and closed again, and a few moments later, he made his way down the stairs again, hopping them in a pattern of two at a time.
In his hand he clutched something small that glistened in the low light. When he laid it on the counter in front of Four, her heart might have swelled a little.
A rock—smooth and purple, swirled with lavender and white. A crystal, maybe.
She’d never seen anything like it.
I like that colour , she wrote, pushing down her impulse to happy stim. Colours like purple were practically unseen at the Federation, and looking at the delicate swirls of lavender and mauve and violet, she soon decided purple was her favourite.
“Yeah? Good.” Wilbur said. “It’s an amethyst. My friend Jaiden gave it to me a few years ago when I started having insomnia. Apparently, it’s a bird hybrid thing to give shiny rocks to friends. Phil tried to explain it to me, but I still don’t get it.”
Four furrowed her eyebrows. She didn’t really know what any of that meant. Why would a rock help you sleep?
He laughed. “Uh. That’s a good question. She said amethyst is supposed to help you sleep better, but I never really believed in all that stuff anyway. But you can have it, if you want.”
Four flicked her eyes down to the rock and back up to Wilbur, confused. He wanted to give it … to her? It didn’t make any sense.
She hadn’t really owned much in her life. Sure, she’d had her flute, but even that was taken away from her every time she returned to her cell. Her hospital gown and shoes had been her own—kind of—but never had she been given a material gift . What was she supposed to do? Keep it? Would he think her selfish for wanting it?
“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want,” he added, seeing her hesitation. “I just thought you might like it.”
She did. She really, really did.
Are you sure? She asked. If she really was going to be taking it, Four wanted to be sure he didn’t want it anymore.
“Of course, Four. I have no need for it.” His smile faltered. “I won’t try to take it away, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s all yours.”
Hm.
She really wanted to believe him.
Hesitantly, she stuck her hand out, glancing up at him to make sure it was okay. When he didn’t move, she slipped her fingers around the rock, pulling it close to her before he got a chance to change his mind.
It was cold against her skin, smooth and polished, and she pressed it firmly into her palms, as if reassuring herself that it was real and it wouldn’t dissipate in her grasp.
It was hers . She’d been given a gift.
She still wasn’t sure what he wanted in response—was she supposed to give him something now? She wasn’t sure she had anything to give.
So, instead, she wrote a small Thank you on a sticky note and drew a little heart underneath. When she slid it over, she watched his expression melt into one of fondness, and she thought maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
“Alright, little Four,” he said, standing and stretching, “I’m off to bed. I have plans to stare at my ceiling until I hate myself.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of that, so instead she nodded. She should probably go back to sleep soon, too, before any of the other children woke up and found her missing. They probably wouldn’t approve of her talking to Wilbur alone when none of the older kids were there to protect her.
Whatever. In all honesty, she didn’t trust Wilbur—she didn’t trust any adults—but at least she thought that he didn’t want to hurt her. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t betray or scare her down the road, but he’d given her a rock, which was essentially an invitation for friendship. Right?
With only a little difficulty, she slid off the barstool, greeting a freezing cold floor that sent immediate shivers up her spine. Rain lashed the window, and a distant rumble turned the night thick and churning outside the little cottage.
Back in the abandoned house, she might have been scared of the storm. It was a little bit of a shock to realize that here, bundled up inside Wilbur’s cottage, she felt safe from the thunder that threatened the rest of the island.
Wasn’t that strange? She wasn’t safe, but she was safer.
Wilbur didn’t dare come closer, but as his hand slipped around his lantern, causing the orange panes of light to sway and bounce off the walls, he fixed Four with a smile. “Sweet dreams, Four,” he whispered, eyes crinkling in the corners kindly. “Wake me up if you need anything.”
She wouldn’t. Not yet, at least, not until she knew the man’s limits and temper better—but still, the offer sent something warm and appreciative running through her veins.
Four watched Wilbur disappear up the stairs, taking his golden lamplight with him, until she was alone with the watchful moon and the quiet of the kitchen.
When she returned to the living room, tucking herself into warm arms and listening to the soft, rhythmic breaths of four sleeping children, she finally let her eyes slip close. In her hands, she clutched the rock, a cold slice of humanity cradled in her palms.
And, for better or for worse, she fell asleep.
**
Golden light, warm and steady like the sun, paints the room in the shades of summer. Four sits at a mirror, detangling her curls with thin fingers.
A figure stands on their tiptoes behind her: a child smaller than her, one wearing a blue tracksuit that’s much too big for their little frame. They push back the sleeves to tie a red ribbon into their wavy black hair.
Four turns, meeting their gaze for the first time. Why do you keep visiting me?
The child stares back. Their face is still mostly a blur, a tangle of unidentifiable skin and candlelight. Maybe you’re the only one who listens.
I don’t know who you are. It’s an accusation.
The child smiles, and it’s a gap-toothed and sad thing. If Four squints, she can make out individual features, but the child’s whole figure is a mystery to her.
And I don’t know you. Their hands find Four’s shoulders. In response to the touch, her vision begins to spin, both distracting and nauseating, leaving the child’s face behind in a haze.
Go to sleep , the child whispers. Somehow, they’re much too mature for someone so young. It’s not real. Not yet.
She doesn’t have time to figure out what that means. The world turns into a swirl of gold feathers and scarlet thread, leaving Four in the aftermath of her own spiralling subconscious.
On the edge of a haunted and lonely town, a dragon tosses and turns, unable to escape her own brain.