The cabin sat in the middle of the woods like a forgotten secret, swallowed by the shadows of towering pines and the soft mist that clung to the ground. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney, twisting toward the sky in slow, lazy spirals. Inside, warmth radiated from the fireplace, casting a golden glow across the wooden walls. The small family huddled around the kitchen table, the air heavy with the smell of freshly baked bread and roasted vegetables. Laughter mingled with the gentle clinking of cutlery.
The boy sat on a small stool, his legs swinging beneath him, eyes wide with delight. Across the table, his father leaned forward, dark hair falling just past his eyes, fingers deftly performing a trick with three coins.
"Watch closely," his father said, voice soft but teasing. "Now you see it…" He flicked the coins, and for a moment, they seemed to vanish entirely. The boy gasped, clapping his hands.
"You did it again! How?" he asked, voice trembling with excitement.
His father grinned, flashing the crooked smile that always made the boy's stomach flutter with happiness. "Magic, little one. It's all magic."
The mother chuckled from the other side of the table, her hand resting gently on the boy's shoulder. "Alright," she said, standing and stretching, "time for bed." She glanced at the boy, and although she didn't say his name, her eyes held a warmth that wrapped around him like a blanket.
The boy reluctantly stood, brushing crumbs from his shirt. His father ruffled his hair and whispered something that made him giggle, though the words were lost in the soft crackle of the fireplace. That night, the house hummed with the rhythm of quiet contentment—the boy's small heartbeat syncing with the gentle creaks and whispers of the cabin.
But happiness, as he would soon learn, is fragile. It came in the form of footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. The boy didn't see them at first, only the sudden crash of the front door. A harsh voice barked orders. Then another. The smell of alcohol and smoke mingled with something sharper, metallic, filling the air.
"Mom!" the boy screamed, but the word caught in his throat. He watched from the side of the kitchen, frozen, as his mother was thrown to the floor. The impact made a hollow sound, her gasp sharp and sudden. Her hands scraped against the wood as she tried to rise, but the men were too strong.
The boy's knees buckled. Tears streamed down his small face, but he couldn't move, couldn't scream louder. He could only watch as his father was surrounded, struggling against four men who moved like shadows with too much strength. The man he loved, the one who had taught him magic and whispered secrets of the world, was beaten. Every punch, every kick, made him flinch in sync with his father's groans. But even battered, bruised, and bleeding, his father's eyes burned with defiance.
Hours—or was it minutes?—blurred together. The boy's sobs were silent, his chest tight as he tried to comprehend what was happening. His small fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, praying for a miracle that would never come.
---
The next scene unfolded in a haze of black and white, the world bleeding together at the edges. He stood beside his father at the funeral, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and flowers. His father leaned heavily on a cane, a bandage wrapped around one eye, his left arm immobilized. Bruises darkened his skin like ink stains.
The boy said nothing. His lips pressed together, teeth biting into the inside of his cheek. The world moved in muffled whispers, the sound of people consoling each other fading into gray noise.
His father's gaze shifted toward a man in a suit, standing stiffly by the edge of the crowd. They spoke in low tones, voices that carried just enough weight to catch the boy's curiosity. But the words were incomprehensible, wrapped in the shadowed distance of his confusion. The man seemed ordinary, yet the air around him hummed with something the boy couldn't name.
Then, the edges of his vision darkened. His eyes grew heavy. Darkness pulled him under like a slow tide, and everything faded.
---
When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed. He was kneeling, his father kneeling before him as well. Hands bruised and trembling, the father held him close. The boy's gaze fell to his father's, noticing for the first time the raw, human vulnerability etched into his face. The same hands that had performed magic and laughter now bore the marks of a brutal fight.
"smiley," his father whispered, voice cracking like the floorboards beneath them. "You have to understand…"
But the boy couldn't speak. Only the silent question in his eyes remained.
---
Days blurred into weeks. Nights were filled with silence, but not peace. He watched his father disappear into the night, returning only when the moon hung low and golden in the sky. He returned later than the boy expected, carrying something—always something—that shimmered in the firelight.
One day, curiosity overtook fear. He followed his father into the basement, where the air was colder, denser, and smelled faintly of old wood and wax. There, laid out on a worn table, were objects that seemed to hum with hidden meaning:
A top hat, black and flawless, its brim casting a shadow like a secret.
A small round earring, glinting as if winking in the dim light.
A mask, pale and smooth, empty eyes staring as though they could see through everything.
A deck of cards, each with faces drawn in bold strokes—smiles and frowns twisted across their surfaces.
The boy reached out a trembling hand.
"What…what are these for?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
His father's gaze didn't waver. He picked up one card and placed it in the boy's small palm. "These… are for a man named Smiley," he said softly, a shadow of amusement in his tired eyes. "He tries to make people smile… sometimes, it works."
"like me." The boy turned the card over, tracing the inked faces with his finger. A strange warmth—or was it fear?—coiled in his stomach.
Then, with careful precision, his father ran his hand through the boy's hair, brushing it back. He pulled him close for a moment that smelled of smoke, sweat, and home. Then he guided him out of the basement, the card hidden in the boy's hand. The door shut behind them with a quiet click that echoed in the hollow spaces of the boy's mind.
Outside, the night pressed against the cabin windows, the wind carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. The boy clutched the card as his father's figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving him with a sense of wonder, fear, and something else he couldn't name yet—something that would grow slowly, like a seed buried in the soil of his heart.