~Few Years Ago~
The boy's fingers were sticky with sugar as he clutched the half-melted candy. The sweetness clung to his tongue, but he barely tasted it.
"Come on," his father urged, tugging his wrist firmly. "It'll be fun."
The carnival stretched ahead of them like a living beast—bright lights blinking in garish reds and blues, masks bobbing in the crowd, music spilling from brass horns and shrill speakers.
Laughter thundered from every corner. Clowns with painted grins staggered past, dancers in feathered costumes twirled, and fire-breathers spat plumes of flame into the night sky.
But the boy wasn't smiling.
He hated it here.
The costumes didn't look like costumes to him. The masks didn't look like masks. The way people laughed sounded too loud, too sharp—like broken glass grinding against itself. He wanted to go home, but his father's firm hand dragged him deeper into the throng.
Somewhere behind, his mother's gentle voice tried to soften his unease, and his little sister's high-pitched giggles blended with the crowd's cacophony. To everyone else, this place was a wonder. To him, it was wrong.
The candy slipped from his hand.
He bent to pick it up, but a surge of bodies pressed past. When he straightened, his father's hand was gone. His mother's voice had vanished. His sister's laughter dissolved into the crowd's endless noise.
The boy spun in panic. Faces blurred past—painted, masked, grinning. He called out, but the carnival swallowed his voice whole.
He ran.
Through stalls of colored masks and mirrors, through tents spilling incense, past jugglers and dancers, he ran until his chest ached. The lights and laughter followed him like hunting hounds, and then—suddenly—they didn't.
The boy stumbled into a narrow street where the noise of the carnival died. The air was damp here, heavy, the kind that pressed against your ribs.
At the far end of the alley, a boy and a girl leaned against the wall, their mouths locked together, hands fumbling in each other's clothes. The little boy froze. His cheeks burned. He didn't like it. He didn't like any of it.
His sneaker scraped the ground.
The older pair jerked their heads. Their eyes fixed on him, sharp and predatory.
"Hey!" the boy barked, his voice thick.
The little boy stumbled back, panic rising. The couple pushed off the wall, their footsteps echoing in the alley.
He turned and ran.
The world shrank to the slap of his feet on the pavement, his ragged breathing, the heavy footsteps behind him. He darted left, right, until he found himself trapped.
A wall.
A dead end.
He dropped to his knees, sobbing, his tiny hands pressed together. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry!"
The footsteps slowed.
No longer hurried.
Slow.
Calculated.
Closer.
And then they stopped.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut. Tears streaked his cheeks. His chest heaved. He waited for the blow.
Instead—silence.
A silence too deep.
He forced his eyes open.
He saw a pair of boots. Not the normal ones—too polished, too pointed, their leather pale and gleaming. His gaze climbed higher. A cloak of yellow fabric brushed the ground, draped over a frame too still to be human. A white mask covered the man's face, expressionless, blank except for two dark hollows where eyes should be.
The man tilted his head.
Slowly.
Wrongly.
And then he waved. A friendly little wave, as if greeting an old friend.
The boy whimpered, shrinking back, but the man crouched and held out his hand.
"Come," he seemed to say without words.
The boy shook his head, trembling.
The man withdrew his hand. From his cloak, he pulled something small. He unwrapped his fingers.
A candy.
The same as the one the boy had dropped earlier, but wrapped, untouched, new.
The boy's breath caught.
Hesitantly, with trembling fingers, he reached for it. The candy was cold, heavier than it should have been.
The man extended his hand again.
This time, the boy took it.
Together, they walked. The alley stretched longer than it should have, its walls curving into shadows. The boy clutched the man's hand tightly, his other hand wrapped around the candy.
Behind them, the couple appeared again. Their steps quickened, fury in their eyes.
The boy whimpered and darted behind the man in yellow.
The man simply raised his hand in a casual wave.
The couple bared their teeth. The boy produced a knife, and the girl snarled something low.
The man tilted his head again, as though curious, and began to walk toward them.
"Wait!" the boy cried, tugging at his cloak, pounding his tiny fists against the fabric. "Stop! Don't go!"
But the man did not stop.
He walked, slow, measured, until the boy's fists beat uselessly against him. The boy screamed, his voice breaking in terror.
And then—
Quiet.
The man bent down, stooping near the ground. When he straightened, his hand was not bloodied. No knives. No bodies.
He held a rose. Crimson petals velvety in the pale light. In his other hand, a yellow balloon bobbed gently.
The boy blinked, his sobs choking into hiccups.
The man offered him both.
A rose.
A balloon.
The boy hesitated, then reached out, his fingers brushing the petals. He laughed suddenly—too loud, too sharp. He clutched the balloon string, bouncing on his toes, his earlier terror dissolving like it had never existed.
His eyes shone strangely in the Dim Yellow Light.
His expression twisted—not innocent laughter, but something older, colder, unnatural.
The carnival ended. The lights dimmed, the music died. Families left in clusters, parents carrying sleeping children, trash littering the emptying streets.
_ _ _
A house door creaked open.
Inside, the boy's father slumped onto the couch with a weary sigh. His mother went to the kitchen, humming softly. His little sister skipped past with a toy in her hand.
The mother glanced at the fridge. A family photo was pinned there by a magnet. She paused, smiling faintly.
Three people smiled back from the photo: a father, a mother, and a little girl.
No boy.
The photo was whole.
Untouched.
The mother brushed her fingers across it.
"I love my family," she whispered. Her eyes glimmered strangely, her voice low and certain. "And I can do anything for them."
She smiled.
In the house, there were only three people.
And in the little girl's room, toys lay scattered, untouched by hands that no longer existed.
The memory of the boy was gone.
Completely.
The kitchen light hummed softly. The mother stirred the pot on the stove.
In the living room, the father slouched on the couch, the glow of the television painting his face pale.
Their daughter sat cross-legged on the floor, her tiny hands clutching a toy soldier. She marched it across the carpet, giggling softly, the toy's shadow stretching against the wall like a taller, older boy.
The soldier's plastic face was chipped, but its shape—its uniform—was familiar.
Too familiar.
The little girl didn't know why she loved it so much.
She didn't remember who it resembled.
She didn't remember she ever had a brother.
_ _ _
~Present Day~
"I remember him." The voice cut through the quiet like a knife.
A deep, steady voice—not the father's, not anyone in the house.
Pages rustled. A pen scratched against paper.
Kenji sat at his desk, hunched over his notebook, the dim lamp spilling golden light across his scattered notes. His expression was calm, detached, but his eyes burned with something unspoken.
"I remember the boy who was left behind by his family." His voice was almost a whisper, almost a confession. "It wasn't their fault, not really. They were forced to. Back then, around 250 BC… parents wanted their children to serve the king's army. That was the only way to secure a better life for the family. The boy obeyed. He became a soldier. Then… a general. Strong. Respected. He fought for the kingdom until his death."
Kenji's pen slowed. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though reaching into the fog of memory.
"His name was…"
The pen scratched again. Words formed.
The Great General, Lucas Romanno.
Kenji stared at the name. The ink gleamed fresh against the page.
He exhaled, long and quiet, his fingers tightening around the pen. For a moment, the air in his room felt heavy—like the silence in the alley, like the breath of someone standing just behind him.
And then it was gone.
Kenji turned the page, as if nothing had happened, as if the world itself hadn't just shifted.