I stared at Raven.
Raven stared at me.
We both stared back at the letter, as if it might blink first.
A silence thickened between us, stretching long and unnatural.
I cleared my throat, but my voice came out flat. "So… do we burn it? Bury it? Or just forward it to the nearest exorcist and call it a day?"
Raven didn't laugh.
His eyes were wide, gleaming not with fear but something else. Something... soft. Reverent.
He leaned forward slowly, as though afraid to disturb the paper with even a breath. "So… romantic," he whispered.
I turned to him. He wasn't joking.
His expression was one of awe, the kind reserved for crumbling cathedrals and last words. He looked at the letter like it was sacred. Like it had spoken to him.
I looked back at the page.
Then I looked back at Raven.
He hadn't moved. Still staring. Still breathless. His pupils had dilated slightly, his lips parted as if he were hearing music just beyond my range. His hand was slowly inching toward the paper.
And then I remembered.
I remembered the bunker.
That dirty concrete bunker with the iron door and a diary seating eerily on a table. The diary we never should've opened.
That same look had been on Raven's face back then, too. Wonder. Fascination. Love, even.
I grimaced, the memory sour in my gut.
'Oh boy,' I thought. 'If this is what true love is, I'd hurl.'
Suddenly, Mr. Witson stirred.
It was subtle at first—a twitch of the fingers, a low groan bubbling up from a throat.
The room dropped a few degrees.
I shifted my gaze to him.
He was moving now—slow, syrup-thick movements, as though rising from beneath a century of dirt. His eyelids fluttered. His lips twitched into something that was not quite a smile.
"Looks like the real show's about to begin," I muttered, casting a glance back at Mr. Witson. "...But first, we need to wake up this perverted stalker."
I turned to Raven and gave him a hard slap.
SLAP!
"Ah!" he yelped, stumbling a step back, his hand flying to his cheek. "What did you hit me for?"
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Did you forget what we came here for?"
His face scrunched like a child caught daydreaming in the middle of a funeral. "Oh… right…"
He glanced down, shoulders slumping, shame dripping off him in little waves.
"But…" he murmured, "what about his feelings?"
"She's dead, remember?" I said, folding my arms tight across my chest. "We're just helping Mr. Witson end his never-ending unrequited love."
Raven pouted, lip jutting out with all the misplaced guilt in the world. "I still feel bad…"
I exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Raven. The feeling of unrequited love is one of the most torturous things a person can endure. I've heard."
His eyes flicked up to me, curious. "Really?"
"Aye." I nodded toward the floor. "People have killed themselves over it. And the perfect example is lying right at our feet."
We both looked down at Mr. Witson.
He was stirring again—eyes fogged, face caught somewhere between memory and madness. He wasn't here, not really. Not yet.
After a long pause, Raven sighed and gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Okay. If rejecting him is what it takes to end his pain… I'll do it."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
'Finally.'
We stood in awkward silence, staring down at Mr. Witson, who lay sprawled on the floor like a poorly placed mannequin. His fingers twitched now and then, and his mouth hung slightly open, as if halfway through reciting a poem to no one in particular.
"Alright," I said, adjusting my jacket, "time to wake Sleeping Beauty."
Raven blinked. "Do we shake him?"
"No," I said firmly. "This is a man haunted by obsession and tragedy. We need to be delicate."
"Got it."
There was a beat of silence.
"Any ideas, Raven?"
"I thought you had one."
I frowned, thinking. "Do you have a hammer?"
Raven's face twisted in alarm. "What are you going to do with a hammer?"
I met his eyes with full confidence. "I'm going to hammer his head."
"That's not how you normally wake a person!" Raven shrieked, inching back.
I puffed out my lower lip, mildly offended. "But… that's how Ma always does it."
Raven stared at me, pale and horrified.
'No wonder Isaac always says she isn't normal,' he thought grimly.
Eventually, we opted for Raven's "gentler" methods. Shaking Mr. Witson's shoulder. Calling his name. Snapping fingers in front of his face. Even waving the squeaky chicken toy near his ear.
Nothing.
Not so much as a twitch.
I huffed, planting my hands on my hips. "You don't think he's under a curse and needs a prince to kiss him awake, right?"
Raven's eyes went wide. His fingers slowly crept toward his lips, trembling.
"C-Curse?!" he gasped, voice cracking halfway through.
He looked down at Mr. Witson like the man might sprout horns or start levitating.
"I was joking, Raven," I said flatly. "You'd know if it were a real curse. There'd be chanting. Candles. Weird smells."
He didn't look reassured.
I sighed and eyed Mr. Witson again.
'Still out cold. Still dressed like a rejected poet. Still dramatic.'
"Well," I muttered, "Plan B?"
"What's Plan B?" Raven asked, eyes still darting nervously toward Mr. Witson.
"We surf the Internet."
Raven blinked at me. "The olden times doesn't have Internet."
I grinned. "The phone Master Vod gave you does."
"I have a phone?"
"Gosh, Raven," I sighed, "I saw it when you were digging through your stuff looking for that squeaky chicken toy."
His mouth formed an "oh" as realization dawned. He nodded solemnly and turned, rummaging through his inventory.
After a few seconds, he triumphantly pulled out a sleek black phone that didn't belong in this century, let alone this dusty little room.
We crouched beside Mr. Witson like curious raccoons and started scrolling.
"Okay," Raven said, "here's a list: 'Crazy Ways to Wake Up an Emotionally Comatose Man.' Probably."
"Perfect," I muttered. "Read them out."
Raven squinted at the glowing screen. "Alright, number one: 'Whistle the opening theme of a top anime soundtrack directly into the subject's ear.'"
I nodded. "Powerful, but we can't whistle. What's next?"
"Two: 'Cover them in duct tape and release one hundred angry frogs.'"
"Efficient," I admitted. "But where do we get one hundred angry frogs?"
"Three: 'Lick their forehead like a cat. Bonus points if you purr.'"
I raised an eyebrow. "That's how you get punched straight into the afterlife."
Raven snorted. "Four: 'Place slices of cold cheese on their face one by one until they regain consciousness or scream.'"
"Science."
He continued, more excited now. "Five: 'Blast curse chants in reverse while pouring cereal onto their chest and whispering "Awaken, my child."'"
"Terrifying," I said. "Also, say no to food waste."
"And six," he read with reverence, "'Show them the final season of any long-running TV show. Trauma often revives the soul.'"
I winced. "Combining rejection with trauma is a bad mix. Skip it."
I leaned back on my heels, arms crossed, seriously considering the cheese option. Mr. Witson still lay there, unmoved by time, logic, or our growing list of chaos.
"Right," I said, snapping my fingers. "Let's start small. Got any cheese?"
Raven blinked. "Do expired cheese crackers count?"
"They'll do."
Without missing a beat, Raven dug into his inventory again and pulled out an absurdly massive bag of cheese crackers—enough to end world hunger or summon a very angry dairy god.
Raven held up the oversized bag of cheese crackers like he was presenting an offering to the gods. The crinkling sound echoed ominously through the dusty little room.
"We're really doing this," he muttered.
"Oh, we're committed now," I said, taking a solemn cracker from the bag. It was slightly curled with age and smelled like powdered regret.
I leaned over Mr. Witson's motionless form, who was still sprawled out as if he'd just finished auditioning for the role of "Corpse #3" in a community play. Carefully—ritually—I placed the first cracker on his forehead.
Nothing.
Raven handed me another.
I placed it on his left cheek.
Still nothing.
Third cracker. Right cheek.
Crumbs dusted his mustache.
"Maybe he needs a formation," Raven whispered. "Like… a sigil?"
I nodded gravely. "Bring forth the sacred triangle."
Three more crackers joined the circle of nonsense. I paused, staring at the increasingly absurd pattern across Mr. Witson's face. "Should we chant?"
Raven cleared his throat. "Oh processed spirit of artificial cheddar… awaken and rise… or at least twitch a little."
And that's when it happened.
The room dropped a degree colder. The air suddenly felt heavier, charged. One of the crackers slid off his forehead.
Then his hand twitched.
I froze mid-cracker.
Raven whispered, "Did… Did he just—"
"Shh."
Mr. Witson's eyes snapped open.
Not groggily. Not gently. No. He shot awake like someone had jammed a defibrillator directly into his daydream.
He sat up rigidly, like a horror movie puppet with tangled strings, cheese crackers raining down off his face.
His head turned slowly—too slowly—toward us. His eyes were wide, dilated, and deeply haunted.
And then, in a gravelly, cracked whisper, he rasped:
"…Raven…?"