He felt the skin and pouted when he found other grooves in it from previous encounters with the woman he could barely remark as his mother.

In spite of his horror at the simple sight of Ms. Gossamer, he plopped down on the dirty couch, dust flying everywhere, and grumbled, “Someone’s in a bad mood.”

“I am,” replied Ms. Gossamer, smoothening her dress.

“Why?” Lyric looked up at her and tilted his head.

“It’s…it’s Chiara,” Ms. Gossamer said distractedly, shaking her head a little bit and wandering into the makeshift kitchen.

Lyric lept to his feet. Chiara was Lyric’s only sister and he loved her very much. “What about Chiara?” he asked.

“It’s nothing,” Ms. Gossamer answered. “You’ll find out anyway.”

Lyric’s eyes were wide and filled with panic. He looked around wildly and asked with upturned eyebrows, “Where..where is she?”

Ms. Gossamer gave him a sad look and disappeared into the kitchen.

An owl hooted in the distance and the boy sprang to life. His long-lashed eyes flipped open to reveal coffee-brown pupils. His shaking fingers shot out of his sleeves to help him haul himself off the bench, eyes darting from side to side. He breathed out deeply in relief and, seeing his breath, wrapped his worn jacket tighter around himself.

The sky had a purplish tinge and the stars were hidden. The moon’s light, which seemingly was only shining on one place – the bench – did not help the wandering boy. Though he had been here countless times, he was still terrified of the dark.

He shivered and shut his eyes once again with horror. He felt as if the ground was shaking and opening up beneath him, beckoning him to join the imps underneath it, or the sky falling down on him; the tall, looming buildings pressing together and closing in on him.

The flapping, ripped shoes he wore echoed and showed him where to go. He followed the sounds, trusting his feet to lead him where he could not see.

After what seemed like a day’s worth of panic-filled walking, he reached a tattered old shack in the middle of Hollow’s cemetary. Taking a breath, he rapped his knuckles on the creaking wood door.

“Who is it?” came a screechy voice.

“It’s Lyric,” the boy breathed, “I’m allowed back now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are,” the voice came again, and the door creaked open, revealing a tall woman with impossibly straight black-brown hair and glowing gold eyes. She had a narrow red dress on and a bloodred bangle hung from her wrist.

“Hey,” Lyric muttered.

“Come in already, worthless child.” The woman commanded, grabbing Lyric’s arm and digging her painted red nails into his skin. Disregarding his pained yelp, she pulled the boy inside the old house and slammed the door behind her.