Silence consumed the world.
The painter — decided to leave the canvas, black and white.
How long had it been, hours, days, weeks, eternities — forever.
Moonlight illuminated her face — cold air surrounded the room. The girl opened her eyes — her body damp with warmth, her fingers trembled as she felt her own sweat trying to drown her in her slumber.
She was small.
Long silver hair.
Green eyes that were bright.
Yet those eyes pulsed with trauma.
Her smooth, silky skin clung to the cold. She wasn't sure how long it had been since these…
Nightmares had begun.
Her eyes wandered as he appeared again.
Stardust landed on her milky, smooth skin.
THUMP.
Her fingers trembled as her body glowed with prisma. She grabbed something that felt familiar.
One that would never come.
Silver hair that didn't belong to her entered the room — her prisma vanished as his shadow covered her small, fragile body.
The sight of him — she gripped her weapon, yet the only thing that responded to her was cloth.
She watched as his body was carved by war. His arms strained against his clothing — biceps that had clearly outgrown the fabric he wore. His frame was bitten by time — mirrored by the claymore that stuck to his back. His cloak was torn to pieces yet she couldn't tell if he wore it as an amulet or as clothing.
Rumble.
A single step he took seemed like it belonged to a horde of elephants.
A single step to approach her.
Again.
She gripped her hands — blinking slowly as her eyes scanned the dull claymore that he wielded. It looked… boring and worn — yet she was aware it could sever armies.
Her throat became dry as her words were afraid to leave.
Rumble.
Each step he took — so fast yet so slow
Like an event horizon.
An action that would eternally approach.
A black hole that would never arrive.
Her neck squeezed.
THUMP.
THUMP.
The silver-headed man — lifted his head as his cold, blue eyes pierced her soul.
A silver blade, which reflected all life — he raised it aiming at her.
Her fingers gripped her hand as she closed her eyes…
Silence.
She slightly opened her eyes, there was no sight of the blade or the man.
Just a cold, alone kingdom.
A room with no soul, just a single…
Drop.
She raised her palm as a slither of blood poured from her palm.
She had squeezed her hand so hard her nails dug into her.
She wasn't sure how long these nightmares would continue to loop.
Her bed was damp, white — far too big and empty.
Creak.
Prismatic shards resonated from her soul …
As the door opened slowly —
- - -
The house was dead silent.
The kind of silence that isolated him — he could hear his own organs move.
Kairo stood by his window. The sight was gloomy — his black suit, red tie alien to Lagos. The rain and wind cleaned the world yet to him it lost all purity.
The words crawled into his ears like a centipede.
Abynt.
It never bothered him at first, but the more the centipede went deeper in his ear.
It became a wound, with no cure.
Abynt.
He felt his skin crawl.
He had heard it his entire life.
When he was a child.
When he was in school.
When he was around his father.
When he was around his mother.
The world had no filter for him.
No matter what he did, no matter how kind he was — how hard he tried to improve.
He was treated the same.
The same red tie. The same black suit.
To the rest of the world, he wasn't human.
"Abynt."
He whispered it to himself — his body burnt and shivered.
I feel sick.
He pulled at his tie, loosening the grip.
The boy stared at his own hand. It was smooth, clean, pure — everything they never saw him as.
Blue eyes, lacking warmth.
"I talk like them… act like them, move like them."
His fingers squeezed the fabric he held.
His knuckles whitened.
He blinked and took a deep breath.
Thud.
A red tie fell on the table, a delicate landing.
"And still…
And still, I'll never be one of them."
Heavy eyes closed and reopened.
"I'm tired."
He turned away — leaving the tie behind.
The wooden hut exhaled in the silence he left behind. Dust clouds danced through the air, faint light caught them as they turned into ghosts.
The ghosts clung to the wood, the lights, the roof and the sheets — which had forgotten the last time they were used.
The last time his father had rested on the bed.
The air was thick.
The hut didn't know how to mourn — it awaited his return.
Sometimes, it would hear laughter.
One that didn't belong to him.
One that didn't belong to the house.
One that didn't belong to his father.
Laughter of the past.
The painter's brush — Arctic blue.