vivi

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⸸ October 31, 1999

They say the freezing water feels like thousands of knives piercing through you, but the only thing you remembered about the accident was the sound of water blurring your ears and the voices of your friends screaming from the surface, sounding like waves far, far away.

Life moved slow when you barely had friends. It felt even lonelier to be alone on Halloween — watching people outside in costumes, kids with their parents, other teenagers who, unlike you, had somewhere they wanted to be.

Your mom had been insisting you go out for quite a while. She wanted you to make friends, she wanted you to be like other kids, she wanted so many things from you. And she'd somehow managed to get one of your old friends — daughter of one of her closest friends — to invite you to a Halloween party.

The whole way there felt awkward. A few quick words about how much time had passed, a few quick words about the old days, and then just the radio. The party was at some house in the neighborhood, not very far from yours. At least you could hang around for a while and leave.

The drinks weren't entertaining, and neither were the people. Some boy tried to kiss you and you shoved him away on instinct. That was the sign. That's what you intended to do — leave — until you saw him outside, sitting on the sidewalk, dressed as some kind of medieval peasant. Honey-blond hair in a bob, turning a stick between his fingers. Pathetic, like you, you thought. And maybe you stared too long, because he frowned at you and you frowned back before looking away.

You kept walking until you heard footsteps behind you. You walked faster. A quick glance back — it was that boy. You stopped and turned. Bad idea, if he was a creep.

"What's wrong with you?" you said.

"Hey, easy. Just wanna talk," he said, stepping closer.

"What?"

"I like the costume," he said, pointing at your clothes. You weren't in costume.

"I'm not in costume," you said, looking down at your plain black shirt and jeans.

"I know, it's called a joke," he said, tilting his head, his hair falling slightly across his face. You turned your back on him and started walking again. "What do you think about my clothes?"

Of course he'd catch up. Quick steps from you, long strides from him.

"It's cool," you shrugged. "What's it supposed to be? An extra from Game of Thrones?"

"Don't know what that is, but no," he said, still walking, and you looked his way in confusion. "I'm just a knight. But I don't have my armor right now."

"A knight without his armor? What happened to your armor?" you chuckled.

"Don't know. I think I lost it somewhere tonight," he said, unhurried.

You said nothing else, but he kept walking beside you. Every time you glanced at him he was staring somewhere else — the lights in the city, cars passing by. He actually almost walked into a tree branch because he was too busy looking at everything else entirely. It made you laugh to yourself.

"You're already going home?" he asked, looking at you now.

"Yeah, I'm tired," you said, eyes on your steps.

"But it's so early," he said, almost like a kid insisting. You chuckled.

"It's past ten," you said, and heard him laugh.

"What are you, eight?" you said, looking at him with offense.

"Come on, that party sucked, but it's still Halloween."

"Okay, what's your idea?"

"We can just... walk around. Talk." He seemed a bit flushed, looking at you but not quite meeting your eyes. You felt flustered by it too. Then his face lit up with something. "I know a place! Come on."

He raised his hand, almost reached to hold yours, then stopped, a little embarrassed. He just shook his head and walked on ahead.

For a full second you thought about turning back, going home. But something about that boy didn't make you feel awkward like most people did. Maybe because he was weirder.

On the way there you passed the few remaining parents with their kids still going door to door for candy. Drunk teenagers, laughing too loud, looking at you in that way that made you want to disappear into the sidewalk. The boy seemed oblivious to all of it. He just walked ahead, taking everything in with a kind of childlike wonder that should have seemed strange, but it didn't. He'd comment on the costumes, laugh to himself at things you didn't catch. Once, a kid dropped his basket near you and he immediately crouched down to help gather everything up. You followed. The kid laughed at a funny face he made. The parent looked up to say thank you — and looked only at you. Hollis was right there, crouched beside the kid, but the parent's eyes didn't flicker toward him once.

"He was a bit rude, wasn't he?" you said, glancing back.

"I don't think so. You just look more friendly," he said, casually.

You did not look friendly at all.

You ended up in an old park — very old, rusted, weeds pushing up through everything. He looked caught off guard by the sight of it.

"You brought me to an abandoned park? You trying to kill me or something?" You were joking, but you were actually a little weirded out.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember it being so old," he said, walking in anyway. You followed.

He sat at one of the swings, holding the rusted chains, and you took the one beside him. Your legs barely moved the seat. He swung back and forth on his long legs like he had nowhere else to be.

"I'm Hollis," he said out of nowhere, after a few seconds of quiet.

"Oh," you laughed, only now realizing you hadn't thought to ask his name. "I'm y/n."

"Can I ask you something, y/n?" You nodded. "Why did you go to that party?"

"Do I seem so out of place?" you said, half smiling.

"To be honest, a little," he said, smiling too, and you laughed.

"That's fair. I went 'cause my mom wanted me to go out a bit," you sighed, looking at your feet. "She's afraid I'm too closed off."

"You? But you followed a stranger into the middle of nowhere. You're anything but closed off," he said, and he seemed to mean it, which made you laugh.

"I don't know what it is about you, but this—" you pointed between the two of you. "It's not usual."

"So I guess your mom should thank me," he smiled. It was a sweet smile, the kind that softened his whole face. You had to smile back.

You stayed there longer than made sense, watching the empty street ahead. Hollis talked easily about everything and nothing — he could find a subject in anything. He talked about this series of books that he liked, medieval fantasy of course, said he'd lost his favorite one a few days ago. When you asked what the series was about, his eyes almost gleamed.

"So there was this boy who wanted to be a hero..." He turned to you, grabbing the chain of his swing. "He was just a pig-keeper at first. He lived on a farm with an enchanter and a pig who could see the future."

"A pig who could see the future?" You chuckled, and he smiled.

"It's better than it sounds, trust me."

"Tell me more, then."

His excitement was hard to contain, a smile curving his lips as he dove back in. "His name's Taran. He hated being a pig-keeper. He wanted the glory of a warrior, wanted to be as big as the knights they sang about in the old songs. But no one believed in him — they told him he was just a pig-keeper."

"That's sad," you said, already hooked.

"It's not sad. It's the beginning. He doesn't know what he'll become yet."

Hollis told it with so much detail that you found yourself building the story in your head — the setting, the boy's restless eyes — and somewhere along the way you started to picture Hollis in him.

"He went after his pig in the forest one day. She'd escaped, and he thought if he brought her back safely he could prove himself as more than a pig-keeper."

"Does he catch her?" you asked.

"Yes, but then he loses her again. And he meets this princess named Eilonwy. She's the most annoying girl he's ever met, talks too much."

"How romantic."

Hollis grinned. "They hate each other at first, until she saves him three times in one week and he starts thinking she might not be so bad."

"Is that your idea of a love story?" you said, playful, and Hollis rolled his eyes.

"It's not a love story, silly. It's a story about someone who thought he needed to prove himself to be worthy of something, but didn't see that he was already loved without any title or glory. His big story is right there and he doesn't see it, isn't that crazy?"

"Oh." Something about it landed differently, and you looked away.

"I'm sorry, was I rude?" He leaned closer, searching your face carefully.

"No, just... my mom says something like that. That I don't try hard enough. That because I'm scared of everything I keep letting the people around me down, not living my life. She doesn't understand that I can't just—"

Your voice died. The silence stretched on until Hollis broke it. "You don't have to say it."

His voice was careful — gentle in a way that felt strange coming from someone you'd known for two hours. But when you looked up, his eyes were on you, really on you, like he was trying to read something you weren't saying out loud.

"I fell through ice and almost drowned when I was twelve. In the lake in the forest behind my house. We were all playing around and I didn't hear my friend telling me to stop. I kept going until—"

He watched you in silence, his eyes widening a little, but when you finished there was no pity in his gaze. He just looked at you, then looked down.

"The crazy thing is I don't remember the moment. I don't remember the feeling. Just the sound, and the light above my head going dim." You smiled sadly. "And even though I can't remember it, I still feel uneasy anywhere that's not my house. For the first six months I didn't leave at all."

He didn't say I'm sorry. For a while he just sat there — quiet, present. You almost thanked him for it.

"I feel the opposite of you." His voice had shifted, quieter, heavier. "I'd rather be anywhere that's not my house." His brows knitted together, like he was remembering something he didn't want to. "But I know that feeling you're talking about. The uneasy thing. Like it's itching under your skin, right?"

You nodded. You wanted to ask him why, how he knew it. But you didn't. You sat with the moment in silence.

"Anyway," he said, shrugging the heavy mood off. "One day, Taran gets a sword. Beautiful. Everything he ever wanted."

"And does that make him a hero?"

"No. The sword shatters the first time he tries to use it," he said, smiling sadly.

He kept going — the friends Taran made, the things he saw and learned, the enemies he faced. The hours passed like minutes, and you were still following every word even as sleepiness settled over you.

Out of nowhere he stood up. "It's getting late. I'll walk you home."

"Hey, you didn't finish! Does he get to be a hero?"

"That's a story for another time."

"You can't just—"

He cut you off with a smile. "I can. Come find me next year and I'll finish it."

"Next year? Why so long? How do I know you'll even be here?"

"'Cause I'm promising you," he said, easy. "Next year. Same place, same time."

And you believed him. Even though you'd known him for only a few hours. Even though most of your conversation had been about a fantasy book you'd never heard of. There was something about him you couldn't quite explain or question.

You got home late, and your mother met you at the door with a smile — the smile of someone finally seeing something work.

"You know most mothers would hate knowing their daughter was out this late with a boy?"

"A boy? What boy?"

"The boy who walked me home," you said, still smiling. You were sure she'd seen him — he'd been standing right there while you said goodbye.

"Oh, dammit, I missed that!" She pretended to be devastated and you rolled your eyes. "What's his name?"

"Hollis," you said, with a stupid smile that earned you another dozen comments.

𓇢𓆸

For a while after that you hoped you'd run into him around town. A whole year felt too long — it seemed impossible that he could just vanish. So you started going out a bit more: walking your dog around the neighborhood by yourself, it was quite a big step for you. You even agreed to finish a homework assignment at one of your classmates' houses. But the months went by with no sign of him anywhere. You passed the old park sometimes, just in case. Nothing.

When October of the next year arrived, you were on the edge of your seat. It was barely night when you left the house without even telling your mom — though she already knew you were going out. You got to the park with your heart hammering against your ribs, breath heavy, flushed from how fast you'd run there.

He was sitting on the same rusted swing. Same rough tunic, same honey-blond hair falling to the sides of his face. He looked up when he heard you coming, and that smile — that easy smile — spread across his face like no time had passed at all.

"You look different," he said, tilting his head.

"I do not."

"You do. Did you grow this year?"

"I'm sixteen, Hollis. People grow."

"Mm." He squinted at you, pretending to study you carefully. "Just a little bit, though. You still look short to me."

You rolled your eyes and sat in the swing beside him. The old chains groaned under your weight. You swung back and forth lightly, staring at your sneakers, then scanned him without quite meaning to. He caught you looking and just looked back, unbothered.

"You're one to talk," you said. "You look exactly the same."

It was odd, having him there after spending twelve months replaying that night and searching for him everywhere he wasn't. He smiled like he knew it.

"Want me to push you?" he said, out of nowhere — a pattern you were starting to notice, the way his ideas arrived without warning.

"What? No!" But he was already standing behind you.

"Come on, it'll be fun," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "You scared?"

"Yes! This thing's going to collapse, it's ancient!"

He just laughed. He gave the chains a tentative tug. "See? Sturdy."

"You're going to kill me."

"Then at least we'll die together. Romantic, right?"

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already pushing. The swing lurched forward, chains screeching in protest, and you gripped the rusted metal so hard your knuckles went white.

"Hollis!"

"Relax! It's not that high!"

"I can feel it swaying—"

"You're fine." His voice was warm, amused. "I've got you."

He pushed you a few more times, gently, until your grip on the chains loosened. The cold air rushed past your face, and for a moment — just a moment — you felt light. Like you could fly right off and keep going. At the top of each arc the whole city seemed to fall away beneath you, small and far and harmless.

Then he let you slow, and you came to a stop.

"See?" He settled back onto his own swing, long legs stretched out in front of him. "Didn't die."

"Hate you," you muttered. But you were smiling.

He laughed. That sound — you'd missed it without noticing.

The silence settled between you, comfortable. You watched dead leaves skitter past in the breeze, feeling the chill sink into your skin. You looked at him again, you couldn't help it. He was staring ahead, and something about his gaze was heavy — like he was carrying a weight he didn't let show, which seemed at odds with how easy he made everything feel.

"Why haven't I seen you all year?" you asked, and his gaze shifted to you. Whatever had been heavy in it softened into something else.

"You wanted to see me?" He grinned.

"Stop," you frowned. "I'm being serious."

"Me too," he said, resting the side of his head against the chain, looking at you sideways. "If you want to see me, you can just say so."

"I do — I mean, I did." You stumbled on your words but held his gaze.

"It's hard 'cause I'm not around all the time," he said, glancing away briefly.

"You're not? Do you live nearby? Do you have relatives in town or something?" The curiosity came out more openly than you intended. He chuckled.

"Something like that," he said. He paused, almost like he was deciding something. "I saw you once or twice, you know. Walking with your dog. Near the forest."

"You did?" You almost screamed it. "Why didn't you come talk to me?"

"Didn't want to scare you," he said simply.

"You wouldn't scare me!" Your face twisted in confusion.

"You sure about that?" He made a face so ridiculous it made you laugh. "Next time I'll just crawl out of the woods to say hello."

"Stop being weird," you laughed. "What were you even doing in the woods?"

"I like to hike. Wander around in there. It's nice this time of year."

"It's not nice, it's dark and weird."

"I'll show you someday," he said.

"No you won't," you said quickly. "I don't go into the woods. I don't like it."

His face shifted, like he'd only just then remembered your story. He hummed, nodded, looked at you a little longer than was comfortable — long enough that you didn't know what to do with your hands.

"You promised me a story!" you said quickly, like that could rescue you.

"Of course!" His whole face opened up. "Where did we leave off? Right, you wanted to know if he became a hero." You nodded eagerly. "Not yet!"

You pouted, and he laughed. Hollis went on with Taran's story, telling you this part was from the second book, and this one was darker. Something about a cauldron and an army of undead soldiers that couldn't be killed, couldn't be stopped. Taran gathered allies and tried everything, and every attempt failed. You found yourself gripping the chains again without noticing.

"So he discovers the only way to destroy the cauldron is to sacrifice himself," Hollis said. "Literally throw himself into it. That's the only way to end it."

"And what did he do?"

"He was going to do it," Hollis said. "He'd already decided."

"Oh no—"

"But wait." He held up a finger. "One of Taran's biggest rivals, this arrogant, selfish prince named Ellidyr, gets there first. Climbs into the cauldron himself. Dies so the realm would be safe."

You were quiet for a moment. "That's... actually I think that might be the most noble thing in the whole story. Sacrificing yourself for people you love, even when you've never let anyone see that you love them."

"Do you think so?" Something shifted in his expression, his eyes a little unsettled. "I think it's just natural. He would've done it regardless."

"He didn't have to, though," you said. "And that's what makes him a hero."

His gaze drifted down to his hand resting in his lap. That heavy look again, the one that had nothing to do with his usual self.

"What?" you said.

"Nothing." His voice came out lower than usual. He looked back at you. "Just thinking. Some people don't get to be heroes in the way they wanted to be."

"But they're still heroes," you said, softer.

"Yeah." His smile grew, something in it loosening. "You're right."

You felt quietly proud that you'd eased whatever had been sitting on him.

That night, when Hollis walked you home, you drifted closer on the sidewalk, shoulders bumping. He didn't say much on the way back, but the silence had no weight to it — it was easy, almost nice. He'd laugh sometimes at nothing in particular, and you'd watch your steps fall into rhythm with his and smile to yourself.

When your house came into sight he slowed his pace. You slowed with him.

"Do you really want to see me?" he said. "I mean... besides tonight."

Your chest tightened before you answered. "I do. If you want to see me too."

"I do. I'll make an effort." He smiled, then looked down, then back up at you. "You just have to miss me really hard and I'll come running."

You raised your pinky at him. "I need to seal it."

"Fair enough." He hooked his pinky around yours, and for just a second you felt the cold of his hand — night-cold, softer than you expected. "It's a deal."

"Deal."

𓇢𓆸

Months passed after that. And you missed him. Missed him really hard, like he said. Missed him at Thanksgiving. Missed him on your birthday. Missed him on Christmas morning, staring out at the cold and feeling the familiar loneliness press in close. Missed him when school started again and things felt suddenly heavier to carry alone.

One of those days, late in the winter, you came home after a long and exhausting afternoon. Some girl had picked on you and you'd panicked, gone completely blank — just stood there staring at her until she gave up and walked away. You'd held yourself together all the way home, gripping the straps of your bag so hard your fingers ached, trying not to cry on the street where anyone could see.

The weight dropped the second you turned onto your block.

There, sitting on the second step of your front porch, head low, hair hiding his face, turning a stick between his fingers — was Hollis.

"Hollis?" you said, and only then did he look up. He raised his head and smiled, and it hit you somewhere you hadn't expected.

He kept his deal — and not just that afternoon, sitting with you in the backyard while the light faded, listening as you talked and talked without quite meaning to. You hadn't realized he was slowly lifting the weight you'd carried all the way home until it was already gone. When it got dark and he said he had to leave, you only then noticed he hadn't told you a single thing about his book.

"You didn't even tell me the story today," you said, walking him to the street.

"That's 'cause you kept talking non-stop, silly." He cracked a smile. "I'll tell you next time. Promise."

"Okay." You pouted.

He stepped closer, looking down at you, hands in his pockets. His eyes moved across your face for just a moment.

"You okay?" he asked, and you nodded slowly. "Next time, you tell her to fuck off. Like I said."

You fought a smile and lost. "Thank you, Hollis."

"Don't need to thank me," he said. His hair fell across his face as he tilted his head down to look at you.

Almost a full minute passed, both of you just looking at each other, before he cleared his throat and stepped back — clearly flustered, just like you. "See you next time, then."

"See you," you said. You watched him walk away in silence, already wondering how long it would be.

𓇢𓆸

It didn't take more than a couple of weeks.

You'd gotten home from school early and, like usual, found yourself thinking about him. You even went to sit on the back porch, watching the snow settle silently over the grass. The quiet was so complete that when you heard footsteps crunching through the snow you flinched.

You looked up. He was coming from the woods — past the old fence at the back of your yard, the one that divided the garden from the tree line. When he caught your eyes he smiled. He jumped the fence in one easy motion and walked over, dropping down beside you on the porch steps like it was the most natural thing.

"Waiting for someone?" he asked.

"Just spending time," you said, trying to keep your composure. He chuckled.

You looked at him. He was the same as always — no flush in his cheeks, no shivering, just a jacket thrown over his shoulders like the cold was a minor inconvenience.

"What were you doing out there?" You glanced toward the tree line.

"I told you. I like the woods." He smiled, and you kept looking.

"It's freezing."

"I don't mind." He shook his head suddenly, like a wet dog, sending snow scattering all over you.

"Oh my god, I hate you." You shoved his shoulder and he laughed — that loud, soft sound you'd grown too fond of.

"I walked all the way here just to be told you hate me?"

"Want a reward?" you asked, feeling the heat crawl up your cheeks despite the cold.

"That'd be nice."

You didn't let yourself think too hard about it. You leaned over and kissed his cheek — quick, soft — and when you pulled back he'd gone completely still. You looked away fast.

"That's good," he said, after a beat.

He picked up a stick from nearby and started drawing shapes in the snow, and you watched him in silence. The awkward mood didn't last long. Your usual rhythm came back quickly — he teased, you got annoyed, he was silly and you were sillier.

𓇢𓆸

The next time took longer. Around spring, almost a month and a half later. Even so, you still found yourself checking — the front porch, the back fence, the tree line — like he might appear at any moment. Like your missing him hard enough might actually work.

That afternoon it happened out of nowhere. You were in the middle of a bad one, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to breathe through the static that filled your chest. Your mom had come and tried to help, and you knew she meant well — she always meant well — but her encouraging words only made the agitation worse somehow, pressing in from the wrong direction. Afterward you stepped outside for air. You sat in the backyard in the grass, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing, just trying to breathe.

You barely heard him this time. Your ears were still buzzing. But you felt him settle beside you, and you barely had to glance to know it was him. Something in the way the air shifted when he was near.

You looked up. He wasn't looking at you — arms resting on his knees, eyes somewhere ahead.

"Bad day?" he said.

"You could say that," you said, and he gave a quiet smile.

He reached down and pulled up a handful of weeds from the grass, turning them between his fingers, letting you sit in the silence. You watched his hands.

"I saw you from the woods," he said, after a while. "Felt like I should come check on you."

"You saw me from the woods?"

"Yeah," he said simply, and didn't explain further. He never explained too much, and somehow you always let it go.

For a long moment neither of you spoke. Then, without thinking too far ahead, you rested your head against his shoulder. He went still for a second — just a second — and then relaxed.

You breathed easier. Closed your eyes.

"You know what Taran does in the third book?" he said, his voice low.

"Does it start with him being sad?"

"It starts with Eilonwy being taken away. He has to go find her, but he doesn't know how. He's so scared of losing her that he almost ruins everything."

"Does he save her?"

"Eventually. But first he has to learn that loving someone doesn't mean keeping them safe. It means trusting them."

He didn't say it like he was talking about a book.

"Also," he added, "he meets this prince along the way — Rhun. Clumsy, kind of useless. Taran hates him at first. But then he realizes the prince is brave in his own way. Just not the way Taran wants him to be." 

"What does that mean?" 

He shrugged. "There's more than one way to be brave."

Your eyes stung. You breathed through it, kept them closed, and when you had it in you said, "You always know what to say."

"I'm just telling you a story, silly," he said, and you laughed softly against his shoulder.

You stayed there longer than you meant to. He didn't move. He didn't rush you. He just let you stay.

𓇢𓆸

The fight with your mom was bad this time. Bad enough that you slammed the door behind you and stood in the yard shaking, her voice still ringing through the walls. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to run.

You found yourself at the back of the yard, staring at the forest.

You hated those tall trees. You hated the shadows pooling between them, the way the wind moved through the branches like a whisper you couldn't quite make out. You hated everything about it — the dark, the cold, the way it sat at the edge of your yard like something waiting.

You watched the fence. The forest. You thought about the lake.

You watched the fence again. Then you thought about Hollis.

I saw you from the woods, he'd said once, and now you were standing there practically screaming for him to look.

Then — a blink, a shift — he was there. Coming down through the trees, out of the shadows, stepping right up to the fence. His tall frame leaned over the top rail, both hands resting on the old wood, and he looked at you without saying anything. Just studied your face, like he was trying to read something in it. But more than that, he looked like he was waiting for you.

So you went to him. Quick steps across the grass, and before he could say a word you reached for him — wrapped your arms around him as hard as you could. He hesitated for just a moment, and then his arms came around you, one hand pulling your head against his chest, holding you in a way that had nothing to do with strength and everything to do with steadiness.

His hand moving through your hair was cold. His whole body was cold, even through the fabric of his shirt. But his touch was feather-light, careful — like you were something that could break and he had no intention of letting that happen.

"You're so cold," you whispered.

"I know." His voice was low, words said into the top of your hair.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

That made him laugh — a quiet huff of air against your head. "I should be asking you that."

You held on. And he let you. For a long time he just stood there, still, and let something in you settle that you hadn't even known was unsettled.

Eventually you pulled back. Your cheeks were wet, your eyes red. He looked down at you and smiled — soft, careful.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded.

He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. His skin was cold. You didn't flinch.

"Did you see me?" you asked. "From the forest?"

"No," he said. "I heard you calling."

"I didn't say anything—"

"Thought I already told you." The corner of his mouth curved. "I'd come running."

You didn't know what that meant. But you didn't ask. Instead you looked past him, at the dark line of trees behind the fence. For the first time in years, they didn't feel quite so scary. Like something in them had stopped waiting and started watching over you instead.

𓇢𓆸

The next Halloween you were filled with something other than excitement. It wasn't just that you'd missed him, though you had. It wasn't just the story, though you wanted that too. It was something else you couldn't quite name, something that had been building in you for a while now, without your permission. You'd spent that time thinking about it — thinking about him — and somewhere in the middle of all that thinking you'd bought yourself a costume. A princess dress, blue, with puffed sleeves that fell in layers to mid-thigh. Cheap, from a discount store. It came with a crown, but when you held it in your hands you set it back down. It didn't feel right.

Like the Halloween before, you were outside the moment night fell. You'd meant to go to the park — that was your place — but when you pushed open the front door he was already there. Tall, blonde, same rough tunic as every year, greeting you with that crooked smile that turned you into something soft.

"Woah," was the first thing he said, eyes dropping to the dress.

"You like my costume?" you said, holding back a smile, giving a small turn.

He was still smiling when your eyes found his again. "I really like it. You're a princess."

"Yeah," you said, half smiling.

"But where's your crown?" He tilted his head, stepping closer.

"Well." You glanced away, your cheeks too warm. "Since you're a knight without his armor, I'm a princess without her crown."

"Now that's romantic!" He pointed at you and you laughed.

"Shut up, let's go to the park—" You moved to walk past him.

"Actually." He stopped you, hands in his pockets, eyes not quite settling on you. "I was thinking we could go somewhere else tonight."

"Oh?" You paused to think. "A diner, maybe? I don't know,"

"Diners will be packed tonight," he said, too quickly, catching himself. "And I'm not really hungry. We could go to the movies instead."

"That'd be great!" Your whole mood shifted. "There's this one I've really been wanting to see—"

And somehow you were the one talking all the way to the cinema. Hollis listened, laughing quietly whenever you got too animated about it. It was a small shift you'd been noticing with him lately — how much more you talked. More than you'd talked to anyone in the five years since the accident.

At the cinema you bought your ticket then went ahead to order snacks while Hollis bought his. He said he wasn't hungry — not even for a Coke.

The theater was almost empty. Not many people choosing a drama on Halloween night, you figured. But Hollis was delighted by it. His eyes moved across the dark room with that familiar wonder, taking everything in, and for a while you found his expressions more interesting than the screen. Something about him looked different in the dark — his skin paler, and when the light from the screen flickered he looked almost unreal, like a photograph with the exposure wrong. In one blink you thought you saw him flicker too, the way the image did — but another blink and he was just himself again, solid and warm beside you.

He caught you staring once and you looked away immediately, face hot. A moment later you felt his body shift closer, and then his fingers resting over yours. What had made you flustered opened slowly into something like comfort. Your head found his shoulder on its own, and whenever he had something to say about the film he'd lean down close, his voice low and soft just above your ear. It did something strange to your stomach.

On the walk home the streets had gone quiet — no more trick-or-treaters, just the two of you moving through the dark. You walked closer than usual, your hands bumping together every few steps, and for a stretch of time you ached for him to just take yours.

"You seemed very impressed," you said, mostly just to have something to say.

"It was a great movie," he said, still sounding lit up by it. You laughed.

"It was also very sad."

"It's been so long since I've been to the cinema," he said, his voice dropping a little.

The walk filled itself with small things — dumb jokes, easy teasing, the kind of conversation that would make you cringe if you heard it from someone else. But you were in it, so you didn't care.

"You're actually so stupid," you said, in exaggerated offense.

"Yet you really like me like that, don't you?" He was walking backwards now, wearing that cocky grin — and then a tree branch caught the back of his head. He swore and ducked forward, and you stopped walking entirely because you were laughing too hard to move.

"Your knight has been injured!"

"My knight is a dumbass!" you managed.

But eventually you stepped closer. He was rubbing the back of his head with a pained expression, and without quite deciding to you rose onto your toes and brought your hands to his hair, fingers moving gently over the spot. Hollis went completely still. You'd never been that close — not unless you were counting the hug, and that had been different.

"Do you need a little kiss to help it heal?" you said, meaning it as a joke. But he didn't laugh. He just looked down at you, serious in a way you weren't prepared for.

"Stop that," you said, and shoved his chest lightly, turning away to escape his gaze. "You look like you have a concussion or something."

He followed a step behind, quieter now, the teasing gone out of him.

When you reached your front door you both stopped at the porch. He stood a few steps down, which put you almost at eye level with him for once.

"Thanks for tonight," you started.

"Wait." He said it quickly, like he'd been holding it. "I've been wanting to tell you something. I found something in the woods."

Your stomach tightened. "What?"

"A cabin. Old, really old. Half falling apart." He was already talking faster, the way he did when something had caught him. "But it's actually pretty amazing. You can see the stars through the holes in the roof, and it's dusty, but it's almost cozy in there. I thought maybe we could go sometime. Like our own place."

He was thrilled about it. You could see it all over him. And you hated that you were about to let him down.

You squeezed your own hands together. "I don't know, Hollis. I don't really like it in there." You glanced away, then back at him. "The woods, I mean."

You felt the old familiar tightening start in your chest. And then he reached out and took both of your hands. His cold fingers wrapped around yours, softening your grip, rubbing slow circles over your knuckles.

"You don't have to," he said quietly. "Not if you don't want to."

You finally looked at him.

"I want to, I just—" You exhaled. "I'm not ready yet."

His touch slid up your arm, slow and steadying, and even through the cold of it you felt your shoulders drop. "You don't have to be ready now. Not tomorrow either. Not next week. You can never be ready and that's fine by me."

"I will be. Someday." You looked at him. "You just have to wait."

"I'm good at waiting," he said, and smiled, and you believed him completely.

You turned your key in your hand, ready to go in, but something kept you standing there. Waiting for him to say goodbye.

"So," he said. "Same time next year?"

"Next year?" You frowned.

"Unless you want to see me before then."

"I do want to see you before then." It came out faster than you meant it to.

That smile. Wide, crooked, too open — the one you'd learned to love without noticing you were learning it.

"Then you just have to miss me really hard," he said, "and I'll come running." He made a little running gesture with his fingers toward you and you laughed.

"I've been missing you really hard for two years now." Your smile faded into something heavier. His did too.

"I know," he said, stepping closer. "That's why I keep coming."

You stood there, both of you suspended in something you didn't have a name for yet. Your eyes stayed on his and you couldn't have moved even if you'd wanted to.

Then he stepped closer again.

"Can I?" he asked.

You nodded, even though you didn't know what you were agreeing to.

His hands came up to your face — those cold fingers covering your warm cheeks, his hair falling forward as he looked down at you. His eyes were hazel-brown in the dim light, and you could see him more clearly than you ever had. His touch was impossibly gentle, soft in a way that made you feel unmoored.

"You're real," you whispered, before you could stop yourself.

"I am," he whispered back.

It was the last thing either of you said. Then his lips were against yours — simple, just that, his mouth fitting to yours, naturally. And even then, he was cold. You felt his hand settle at your waist and pull you in, and you let him because you wanted to. You wanted to be closer.

He pulled back slowly. No smile now — just that heavy look you'd seen on him before, brows slightly knit, studying your face from close up like he was trying to memorize it. Then it softened.

"Good night, princess," he said.

He kissed you once more — brief, barely there — and before you could find any words he turned and walked away. He didn't look back. Just moved along the sidewalk, unhurried, until his silhouette blurred at the edges and the dark swallowed him whole. 

𓇢𓆸

You didn't notice it at first. The way your shoulders sat a little looser. The way your voice came out steadier when someone asked you a question in class. The way you could walk down a hallway without counting your steps to the nearest exit.

It started small. A girl in your English class asked to borrow a pen, and you handed it over without your hand shaking. She smiled and said thanks, and the next day she sat beside you at lunch. You talked about the homework. Then about the teacher. Then about nothing in particular.

A few weeks later you were in a group project with three other kids. You spoke. You contributed. You even made a joke, and they laughed — not at you, with you.

You told Hollis about it the next time he appeared on your porch, sitting cross-legged on the top step like he owned the place.

"So you're making friends," he said, and his smile was warm enough to make your chest ache.

"Guess so."

"That's really good." He reached over and nudged your knee with his. "I'm proud of you."

"Don't get sappy."

"I'm not sappy. I'm sincere. There's a difference."

"You're sappy."

"And you're deflecting."

You laughed and shoved his shoulder. He laughed too, and the sound of it settled something in your chest the way it always did.

"They're nice," you said, after a moment. "The kids at school. They're not like the ones before."

His expression shifted. He didn't say anything — just reached over and took your hand. Same cold fingers that you'd stopped noticing the way you once had.

"I'm glad," he said softly. "I'm glad you have them."

"I still think about you more, though."

He smiled. "Good."

𓇢𓆸

It was a Saturday afternoon, your mom at work and the house quiet around you. Hollis was sitting on your bedroom floor, back against the bed frame, looking around with that same childlike wonder he brought everywhere.

"Your room is so—" He gestured vaguely. "You."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's a statement." He picked up a book from the floor and flipped through it. "You have so many things. Books. Clothes. That weird lamp."

"It's not weird, it's vintage."

"It's weird."

"You're weird."

He grinned. "You keep telling me that."

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it — surprised — and then his whole face shifted into something mischievous. He threw it back. It caught you square in the face.

"Okay. That's war."

You grabbed another pillow. He scrambled to his feet laughing, and you chased him around the room until he caught your wrist and pulled you into him. You stumbled forward, hands pressing against his chest, faces inches apart.

The laughter went quiet. His eyes searched yours.

"You're real," you whispered.

"I am," he said.

And then he kissed you — not like the first time, which had been soft and brief and almost shy. This was different. Slower. Deeper. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer, and you let him, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tunic, forgetting everything except the cold press of his lips and the way he held you like you were something he didn't want to lose.

You ended up on your bed, tangled together, your head on his chest. You lay there listening — and the silence where a heartbeat should have been stretched on and on.

"I can't hear your heartbeat," you said.

He went still beneath you.

"I've never felt it," you continued, your voice smaller now. "I thought maybe I just couldn't through your clothes, but I'm right here and I still can't."

He didn't answer for a long moment. Then his hand came up to your hair, stroking it slowly.

"I know," he said.

"Is something wrong with you?"

Another silence. Then: "Something like that."

"You can tell me."

He didn't. He just held you closer, and you let him, and you didn't push. You never pushed.

𓇢𓆸

It was a Sunday afternoon, your mom visiting your grandmother, the house empty. You found yourself standing at the back fence, staring into the trees without quite meaning to.

He was there within minutes.

"Are you okay?" His voice was soft.

"I want to see it," you said. "The cabin."

His eyes widened. "Are you sure?"

"I'm ready."

He didn't argue. He just took your hand and led you into the forest.

Your heart hammered the whole way. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves made you flinch. But his hand was in yours — cold, steady — and you held on like he was the only fixed point in the dark.

The cabin was smaller than you'd imagined. Old and half-collapsed, its roof sagging, the door hanging off one hinge. But when he pushed it open and you stepped inside, something shifted.

"It's warm," you said.

He smiled. "I told you."

He showed you around — the main room, bare except for leaves and settling dust; a small kitchen with a rusted stove; and then a back room, somehow still intact. A bed frame stripped to wood. A chair. And scattered across the floor, the remnants of someone's life: a baseball bat, a few books with their covers gone soft with age, scraps of clothing rotted beyond recognition.

"Do you think someone lived here?" he said, his voice casual, but there was something underneath it you couldn't read.

You crouched and picked up one of the books, turning it over in your hands. "Maybe. Maybe someone's kid."

He settled onto the floor, back against the wall, and you sat beside him. Your shoulder touched his.

"This place is special," you said.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He rested his cheek on top of your head.

"Do you ever think about where you'll be in ten years?" you asked.

He didn't answer.

"I used to think I wouldn't be anywhere," you went on. "That I'd just be in my room, still scared of everything. But now—" You paused. "I think I want to be somewhere. With someone."

He turned and pressed his lips to your forehead.

"I want that for you too," he said.

𓇢𓆸

Three days before Halloween, you were on your way out the door when your mom called your name.

"Where are you going?"

"Out with Hollis."

She frowned. She'd heard you mention him before — always casually, like he was just part of the furniture of your life. She'd never questioned it until now.

"Hollis," she repeated. "The boy you've been spending time with?"

"Yes."

"Bring him in. I want to meet him."

Your heart stuttered. "Mom—"

"Bring him in," she said again, and something in her voice was different — harder, quieter, like she'd already decided something.

Hollis was waiting by the fence, hands in his pockets, unhurried as always.

"My mom wants to meet you," you said.

His face went still. "She wants to meet me?"

"Yeah. She's inside."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not? She'll like you."

"Your mom—" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "Your mom doesn't know me."

"Then let her." You reached for his hand. "Please. It's important to me."

He looked at you for a long moment. Then he nodded.

You led him through the front door, your hand in his. Your mom was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, waiting. You stepped aside.

"Mom, this is Hollis."

Your mom's gaze moved to the space beside you. Her face went still. Then her eyes widened, and something moved across her expression — not confusion, not skepticism. Something older than that. Something like recognition.

"No," she whispered. "Not again."

"What?"

"Not again." Her voice was shaking now. "Please, not again."

"What do you mean, again?" You turned to look at Hollis.

He was gone. The space beside you was empty.

"Hollis?" You spun around. "Hollis—"

"There's no one there." Your mom's voice broke on it. "Sweetheart, there's no one there."

"You're lying—"

"I'm not." She moved toward you, her hand reaching out. "There's no one there. There hasn't been anyone there."

You backed away. The room tilted. Your mom caught you before you hit the ground.

𓇢𓆸

You spent the next two days in your room. Your mom came to check on you every few hours, her face tight and careful. Your dad came home early. They talked in the hallway in lowered voices, words sliding through the gap under your door. Something about you seeing things, a therapist.

You didn't argue. You barely spoke.

Halloween came. Your mom told you you weren't leaving the house. You nodded and said nothing.

When the house finally went quiet, you opened your window and climbed out.

You ran.

The forest was dark, branches reaching, roots catching at your feet. You pushed through, your chest burning, your eyes blurring — because you knew this forest now, you'd been here, and the memory of his hand in yours was enough to keep you moving.

Then the trees opened up and you stopped.

The lake. Still and black and cold, just as it always was, just as it had been every night of the past five years whether you were looking at it or not.

You couldn't move. The sound came back first — water blurring your ears — and then the cold, and then the light above your head going dim.

"Hey."

His voice came from behind you. Soft, familiar. You turned. He was standing at the edge of the trees, his face pale in the moonlight.

"Hey," he said again. "You came."

"Where did you go?" Your voice cracked open. "You just disappeared, you just—"

"I know." He stepped closer. "I'm sorry."

"You left me—"

"I would never leave you." He reached out and pulled you into him, his arms wrapping tight. "I'm here. I'm right here."

You cried into his chest — ugly, shaking sobs you couldn't hold back. He held you through all of it, his hand moving through your hair, his voice low and steady against your ear.

"I'm real," he said. "I'm real."

You pulled back. Your throat was raw. Your cheeks were wet.

"Take me to the cabin," you said. "Please."

𓇢𓆸

The moonlight fell through the holes in the roof in long silver columns, painting the floor in pale light. Hollis crouched near the far wall and straightened up holding something — a small black book, worn at the corners.

"I want you to have this," he said, holding it out.

You reached for it, started to open it — and he laid his hand over yours.

"Promise me you'll only read it after tonight."

You looked at him. He was visibly tense, but his eyes were soft.

"I promise," you said.

He nodded, something loosening in him. "Good."

You lay down on the dusty floor, your head on his chest, his arm around you. His fingers traced slow patterns on your shoulder. You listened to the silence where his heartbeat should have been.

"Tell me the rest of the story," you said.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he began.

"Taran finally becomes a hero. But it's not the ending he expected. He doesn't get the girl. He doesn't get the kingdom. He gets a choice."

"What kind of choice?"

"The High King offers him the crown. Everything he ever wanted; glory, power, a name that would be remembered. And he says no."

You lifted your head. "He says no?"

"He says he's not a king. He says he's just a pig-keeper who learned how to be brave." Hollis's voice was quiet. "He says he'd rather sail away."

"Sail away where?"

"Into the west. Somewhere new." A pause. "He never comes back."

You were still for a moment. "That's a sad ending."

"No," he said, barely above a whisper. "It's a good ending. He did what he had to do. He made his choice. Now he gets to rest."

You looked up at him. His eyes were on the ceiling, somewhere far away.

"Hollis," you said.

He looked at you.

"Are you Taran?"

He smiled — small, sad, and real. "No," he said. "I was just a boy who wanted to be like him."

Was. Something about the word snagged on you, but you were too tired and too afraid to pull at it.

You rested your head back on his chest. His breathing was slow. Steady. Almost too slow.

"Tell me something true," you whispered.

He was quiet for a long time.

"I never found my armor," he said finally. "But I found you. And it fits so much better."

You closed your eyes. His voice was the last thing you heard.

𓇢𓆸

The search teams found her at dawn.

Her mother had called the police when she discovered the empty bedroom. Flashlights moved through the dark between the trees, voices calling her name, until they reached the old cabin at the edge of the forest.

She was curled on the floor of the back room, sleeping soundly. Her face was peaceful — more peaceful than her mother had seen it in years. In her hand she clutched a piece of fabric, rough-spun and faded, the color of something that had once been brown.

Her mother dropped to her knees.

"Where's Hollis?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep when they woke her. "Where did he go?"

"He's not here, sweetheart," her mother said.

"He was right there." She pointed at the floor beside her. "He was right here with me."

One of the officers noticed something. A seam in the floorboards. A board that didn't sit flush with the others. He crouched down and pried it up.

Beneath it, preserved by the cold earth and the silence of years, were the remains of a boy. The clothes had long since rotted away — all but one piece: a scrap of rough-spun fabric, the color of something once white and now faded to almost nothing.

The same fabric she was holding in her hand.

Rusted pieces of metal lay scattered around him. A boy's dream of armor, gone to pieces in the dark.

𓇢𓆸

REMAINS OF BOY DISCOVERED IN ABANDONED CABIN

The remains of a seventeen-year-old boy were discovered early this morning in a derelict cabin at the edge of Lakewood Forest. They have since been identified as those of Hollis Parker Herndon-Frazier, reported missing on Halloween night, 1969.

The case was closed in 1975 after an investigation into the boy's stepfather proved inconclusive. His body was never found.

He was last seen wearing a tunic and costume armor.