Isaac woke to sunlight pushing through the cracked window, painting pale squares on the floorboards. For once, he hadn't woken cold or afraid. The blanket clung warm to his shoulders, and the silence of the house wasn't threatening.
Then came the smell—rich, savory, almost sweet. His stomach answered before he moved.
He padded down the hallway, hair sticking up in uneven tufts, and stopped in the doorway. Paul was already at the stove, sleeves rolled, humming without rhythm. A pan hissed with potatoes and onions; another sizzled with sausage links. The table was set with two plates, steam curling from fresh bread, and a jug of milk sat between the cups.
"Morning," Paul said, glancing back with an easy smile. "You slept well. That's good."
Isaac lowered himself into the chair slowly, as if it might vanish if he sat too quickly. Paul plated the food, set the fork into his hand, and sat across from him.
"Eat while it's hot," Paul said, pouring milk into the cups. "You need to feel full again. That's how you start healing."
Isaac nodded, barely breathing. The first bite of potato nearly undid him—soft inside, crisp edges, salted just right. The sausage burst with grease under his teeth, smoky and hot, almost too much flavor at once. He forced himself not to rush. Every bite felt like it belonged to someone else, someone luckier.
Across the table, Paul ate steadily, not rushing, not watching too closely.
"When I finish at work tonight, we'll go over your clothes," Paul said. "The ones I bought should do for now, but you need proper boots, maybe a coat before the weather turns. We'll get it sorted."
Isaac froze for a second. Boots. A coat. Things that weren't borrowed, patched, or scavenged. He managed a nod.
Paul gave a small, approving smile. "One step at a time. That's how it works."
The fork slipped in Isaac's fingers, clinking against the plate. He muttered, "Thank you."
Paul reached across the table, resting a rough hand lightly on his shoulder. "There's nothing to thank me for. You deserve it."
The words sat in Isaac's chest like something too warm to hold.
From the far chair, the hallucination leaned in, grinning wide, a lamb bone balanced across its knees.
Isaac pressed his fork harder into the potatoes.
When breakfast was finished and dishes rinsed, Paul set his coat on. "I'll be gone most of the day. Work keeps me longer than I'd like. You'll be fine here. Don't open the door for anyone. If you get bored, try the blue book on the shelf in my room. I think you'll like it."
Isaac followed his glance toward the shelf. A faded spine, blue against the browns and grays of the others, waited in the corner.
"Good lad," Paul said, and then he was gone.
Isaac sat a while at the table, tracing the rim of his cup. The house seemed to hold its breath after Paul left. Not threatening, just heavy.
He rose, drifted into Paul's room, and stood before the shelf. The blue book was titled Kidnapped, its cover softened by age, the title nearly rubbed away. A slip of paper marked a page deep inside. Isaac pulled it free and brought it to the table, opening to the place Paul had left.
His lips moved as his finger traced the words:
"I was left to the mercy of a man I scarcely knew, yet was forced to trust him as though he were my kin. The road before us was strange, and every mile only set me further from the home I once knew."
Isaac read it twice, throat tight. The words seemed to lean toward him, asking for notice. He closed the book halfway and stared at the table's grain.
The hallucination crouched across from him, its nails tapping the same line on the page. "See? Even stories know the truth. Trust is the rope they hang you with."
Isaac snapped the book shut and shoved it aside. But after a few minutes, his hand reached back for it, opening to the same words.
He read on.
The paragraphs unfolded slowly, his eyes catching on letters he hadn't practiced in years. But the story carried him: the boy's fear, his strange companion's confidence, the uneasy march into the unknown.
By the time the light shifted in the window, Isaac realized his shoulders had lowered, his breath slower. He turned the page carefully, unwilling to tear it.
The hallucination watched in silence, its grin smaller now, as if the words had found a way to hush it.
At midday, Isaac ate bread and the last of the potatoes, then drifted outside into the yard. The rain had left puddles in the dirt and a washed smell in the air. A bird sat on the fence, tilting its head at him before flying off. He fixed the loop on the sagging gate with a piece of twine, lined stones along the path, righted a bucket that had fallen in the wind. Small things, but they filled the time.
Back inside, he read again, losing himself in the map similar to the one in 'Tresure Island'. He traced the lines with his finger, imagining where they might lead if he could step inside the paper.
The hallucination leaned over his shoulder, whispering: "Maps don't save you. They just tell you where you were when they closed the trap."
Isaac turned the page, ignoring it.
By sundown, the latch turned softly. Paul stepped in, his shoulders damp from the mist, a small parcel tucked under his arm.
"Busy day?" he asked, setting the package on the table.
"I read," Isaac said, almost shy. "And fixed the gate."
Paul's smile deepened. "That's more than most grown men bother with." He nudged the parcel toward Isaac. "For you."
Inside were wool socks and a knit cap, dark and close. Isaac touched the fabric like it might melt. He pulled the cap on, and Paul's expression softened with approval.
"Fits. Good."
Dinner was stew, thick with barley and carrots, bread torn and passed between them. Paul told a story about a man at work who had tried fixing machinery with twine, and Isaac found himself laughing at the thought, even if he didn't know exactly what the machine was.
Afterward, Paul brought out cards. They played rummy until the light faded, Isaac fumbling less and less, learning faster. When he laid down a run of four correctly, Paul tapped the table twice.
"Well done," he said. "You catch on quick."
Isaac ducked his head, hiding the way his mouth wanted to smile.
Later, Paul fitted Isaac with boots from the parcel. The first pair pinched, the second was better. Isaac walked the hall twice, and Paul nodded. "Those will do. Tomorrow, if the weather holds, we'll take a walk up by the mill. The path is easy, and you can break them in."
Isaac nodded quickly, clutching the boots as if they might vanish.
"That's enough for one day," Paul said kindly. "Rest now."
Isaac folded the cap neatly on the chair, tucked the socks into the boots, and lay down. For the first time in memory, his bed held clothes waiting just for him.
"Goodnight, Isaac," Paul's voice called from the hall.
"Goodnight," Isaac whispered back.
He turned toward the window, watching darkness settle across the glass. His eyes closed slowly, the weight of the day keeping them shut.
Outside, faint as a thread, a voice carried in the night air:
"…make the most of every opportunity… for the days are evil…"
Isaac never stirred.
The hallucination stood at the edge of his bed, its grin sharp in the dark. It tugged the blanket a little higher under Isaac's chin and whispered, almost tenderly:
"Warmth makes the cut cleaner."