Golden light shines through the windows down a long hallway with many doors along one side. The right side is filled with large windows where the rays of golden light shine through. The sound of children's laughter echoes through the hallways and the rooms. The kids' laughter seems to get louder and louder.
Two young boys bolt down the hallway. Both of them are wearing capes that flap to their speed. One kid is wearing a yellow cape with a black mask resting on his nose bridge. He charges forward, holding a wooden sword high above his head, shouting as he gives chase.
The other boy, dressed in a black cape and a flower-patterned mask, skids to a stop and throws open a nearby door. He slips inside and slams it shut just in time.
The other opens the shut door and flies in with his sword high above his head.
A burst of screams erupts, followed by laughter and reasoning, coming from the room. Inaudible words can be heard being screamed, along with pleading and frantic bargaining, followed by crashing and thumping sounds shaking the floor. The boy with the black cape dashes back into the hallway.
Wack!
The boy with blonde hair strikes the boy with black hair on the back with a wooden sword.
"AH! Dang It," the black-haired boy says out of breath.
"Haha! Now it's your turn to play knight and chase me down."
"Come on, Dreas, you know I'll never be able to catch you as a knight, you're just too fast, says the boy with black hair.
"Well, whose fault is that? Dreas banters.
"Not mine! I have no control over how fast I can run."
Dreas Grins. "Sorry, rules are rules. Pass the cape over."
Dreas extends his hand out with a wide grin, ready for the boy to take off his cape. Hesitant, he takes it off and hands it to him. Excited, he rips off his own yellow cape and tosses it into the boy's face. Dreas flaps the cape over himself and ties a knot to tighten it. He then grabs the flowered mask off the boy's face and puts it on himself. Dreas backs up, turns his body around, and strikes a pose with his new costume.
"How do I look?" Dreas says while flashing his cape.
"You look like a moron."
Dreas stares at the kid blankly, "Whatever, just turn around and count to ten."
The little kid turns around, holding his hands tight around his eyes. "Ok…ready?" The boy sighs.
Dreas angles his body to the onward hall, setting his feet firm on the ground. "Yup!" he yells.
"Alright…one…two…three."
In an instant, Dreas dashes off down the hall while the boy counts up, turning left at an intersection, he peeks over the corner and looks back at the boy who is still counting, and dashes off again.
"four…five…"
"Pssst."
"six…seven…"
"Psst, over here," a mysterious voice whispers.
The boy squints and opens his eyes to see a figure standing with his back turned to him at a corner at the end of a hall. The figure slowly shimmies into the light from the shadows. He stands tall with a grey fur cape with touches of gold lying in the fur.
"Don, if you want to run fast, ensure you're using all of your legs," says the strange person in a whisper.
"Uh, who are you? Oh, wait," Don realizes.
"Eh…doesn't matter. Y-you're, you're, g-gonna lose him by the wa-w-wa-
"Well, spit it out, why don't you?" Don interrupts.
"Do not ru-rush me!"
The person then dashes back into the shadows, seeming to be muttering to himself.
"Why does Marco have to be weird about everything? Don says while hearing the pattering of Marco's feet down the hall. Don sighs and looks onward to the hall.
"The whole leg, he said..." Don mumbles to himself. Hmm."
Don lunges, extending his right leg forward, his muscles begin to switch and move in his stance. Closing his eyes, feeling the ground with his feet, the floor starts to shake. Don gives out a deep breath and dashes off to the hallway, making the curtains he passes by move to his accord.
In a cold, dark room, a flame stirs on a candle almost fully out. Next to the candle is a bed with Don sleeping. The covers begin to move and rise, slowly he wakes up from his bed. With his breath being able to be seen, he gets up from his bed. Don walks over to his closet, pulls out a huge coat made from animal hide, and wraps it around himself. He then walks out of his room into the living room. There, sitting in the biggest chair, clearly for Don, sits Marse, huddled up in a blanket, looking like he is waiting for someone. Walking closer, he reveals himself to Marse.
"Good morning," Don says in a scratchy voice.
"Mornin...It's not mornin' though", Marse comments.
"Oh," says Don, looking outside a window behind the table and seeing the clouds directly over the hut. "Were you…waiting for me?"
"Yup," Marse says insistently.
"Oh, sorry. I had a rough night. I woke up in the middle of the snow last night".
Marse turns around and looks at him suspiciously.
"Yeah, I wonder why," Marse says sarcastically.
Marse turns back to the table, still huddled up in his blanket with a stern face.
"Where the hell did you learn how to talk like that?" Don says under his breath. He turns back to the table behind Marse. "I hope you know I ran out of booze almost a year ago."
No response from Marse.
Don sighs and goes over to the cabinets from behind the table. Inside, all sorts of nuts, oats, fruits, and vegetables are ready to be eaten. "What would you like to eat?"
"Oats…please," Marse says.
Don takes the oats from the cabinet and prepares a meal for both of them. Marse sits patiently on the huge chair for the food. Don then brings over two bowls, one for him and one for the child. Don looks down at a small stool and squats down to sit uncomfortably across from Marse.
"Eat," he says while Marse looks down in disgust at the bowl.
They both sit in silence, eating their meals.
"Hey, uh… I'm going to go up the mountain again today. It looks like we're also out of firewood, so I'll bring a tree back", Don says, interrupting the silence.
"What is it like back where you're from?" Marse asks.
Caught off guard by the question, he stops eating for a second and looks up at Marse. "Uh, well, it's a lot warmer than this," Don chuckles, continuing to eat on the small stool.
"Hani is mostly warm throughout the year; we sometimes get snow later on in Hiemer. But it stays mostly in Lostum temperature," Don says with his mouth full of food.
"Must be nice. The food is probably a lot better than this," Marse adds.
"Hey, I'm not the one who dumped you on an abandoned island. You're lucky I found you in that basket and that I give you food, warmth, and protection every day."
"Well, where are my parents? Why haven't we found them yet!?" Marse exclaims.
"Oh, here we go again," Don says while he wipes his mouth. "I don't know! It would be pretty easy to spot them since you have the brightest red hair I've ever seen. Why even care?" Don insists.
"Be-Because!" Marse interjects.
Don looks at Marse dumbfoundedly.
"I don't know why you would care for those losers. They didn't want you in the first place. Look at the bright side...at least you have m-"
In an instant, Marse stands up on the chair and slams his hands down with force, lifting the side that Don sits at, smacking his chin. Marse then storms off back to his room, slamming his door behind him. With the food smearing his cloak, Don sits in awe.
"This is exactly why I wouldn't have kids," Don grumbles.
Don stands up from his stool. He grabs the bowls from the table and begins to clean the mess that was made.
"Ya know, he is really lucky to have me. If it wasn't for me coming here, he would've turned it into a popsicle by now." Don mumbles to himself.
The kitchen is dark now, with only the light of the fireplace emitting, with the cabin looking cleaner and newer than before Don sits near the fire that is burning. He is fully dressed and ready to go into the snowy planes. In his eyes, he watches as the warm fire dances and sways, almost as if it looks to be reaching out to him. Standing up, his boots with each step make a crunch echoing through the hallway. He now stands in front of Marse's door and takes a deep breath; he knocks.
"Marse?" Don asks
The cabin becomes quiet, with no response coming from inside. Don puts his ear to the door and closes his eyes to the wooden door. He slowly backs away from it as he looks around at the dark hallway, noticing the dreariness of the cabin.
"Hey, look, I'm leaving now. I'll be back at night or so. Stay in the house till the time I come back…ok...I'll see you."
Taking one last look inside, Don leaves the hut to the dark, snowy abyss of the afternoon. The snow falls slowly onto the ground now, and the winds are still. He looks around and sets down his backpack. He riffles through it, looking for something. He then takes it out and throws the backpack on his shoulders. The book with a leather cover with indentations is pulled out. Don begins to write while walking, taking his time in the forest.
"Marse doesn't know it, but I've been searching for his parents for years now, in fact, since the day I met him," Don writes.
The forest fades to a dense foggy snowstorm, and a younger Don arrives at his hut covered head to toe in snow. Coming up closer to the hut, he hears a cry. He rushes over to the doorstep to find the source of the crying. Wrapped tightly in a thick blanket is a baby in a basket. The baby won't stop crying due to the cold. Don opens the door and quickly brings the baby inside.
"Crap, crap, crap," he says, rushing around the living room. Bringing wood and throwing it into the fire pit, he blows on the fire, making it strong and warm for the baby.
"Out of all the places and times, why now?"
The baby's cries begin to soften and slow down.
"Poor thing, how long were you out there for?"
Picking up the baby in the wrong way, he tries to hold it. "Is this how you hold one? Eh, this is bad. I'm no parent." Don says while he cradles the baby, warming it up and making it comfortable.
"Do you at least have a name? Let's see," he says, looking over at the basket. He lifts the under-cushion and sees a little piece of paper on the bottom saying, "Our Marse."
"Marse. Cute. Sounds like a girl's name," he says, peeking through the baby's blanket. "Oh, wait, you're a boy."
Time passes, and Don now sits at the fireplace, looking after the baby resting happily in the basket from which it came. He stands to look outside from the window with the winds blowing ferociously. His expression becomes worried. "Does someone live here on this island with me?" he wonders while looking back at the baby.
Don fades out of his not-so-long memory while he is still writing in his book. His footsteps make traces in the snow, leaving behind a trail. The stillness of the forest makes his thoughts spiral, questioning everything that he has done so far.
"I found this book lodged inside a tree, and I decided it was a good idea to document what I do day to day. Though... the first day I wrote in this book, it was as if all my memories fell from my head, almost not knowing who I even am. Oddly, we can forget so much about even ourselves.
Don suddenly stops, and the air becomes colder, and the area is now pitch black around him. "Ah, yes, the most unwelcoming part of this damn island, the mountain."
He now stands at the base. He sighs, looking up at the towering mountain. Half of the mountain sticks up past the clouds, circled by a shroud of dark clouds that flicker with lightning inside them. He packs all of his things, only carrying with him a knife. He throws his sack in the air, catching a branch on a tree it hangs.
With his beard now covered in frost and snow, he makes haste. The bitter cold bites at his body. The farther he goes up, the wind speed picks up more and more, and heavy snow pelts his face.
"What is up here? What is this mountain hiding from me? Why does it resist my urge to go up?" He says, struggling to maintain balance.
Barley a third up the summit, he struggles to find footing, trying to fight the harsh winds. He trips over, and his body falls to the snow. He looks at his hands; they are now purple and frozen. Don bites his lip and keeps moving. The further he goes, the more the mountain tries to push him back.
"It's been three years! If I can't find a way to fight this mountain, then why bother going back yet, wait...why...why am I here again?" Don realizes.
Looking off the side of the cliff, he stares at the empty forest below. Now, above, the vast island looks back at him. With the winds still strangling him, he becomes deep in thought. "Why am I here?" Don says in a soft tone to himself.
In a flash, lightning strikes a tree near him, taking him out of thought. Don looks at the tree that was struck by lightning. Creaking and cracking, the tree slowly splits in half. He looks closer and notices a pair of red eyes appear within the branches. The owl sits effortlessly on the branch, watching Don struggle in the snow.
Looking back at the path that is ahead, he peeks back from where he came and sees that he has barely made a dent in scaling the mountain. Watching the owl, he begins to move again. After a while of paced steps, his breathing becomes raspier and chalkier. Holding his chest, he tries to move forward.
Don groans. In pain, he screams toward the oncoming snow, punching the ground and making a tremor. Suddenly, he stops moving, and the owl in the tree tilts its head as he slumps into the snow, shivering. Gazing upon the mountainside with half his face sunken in the snow, his vision becomes blurry, and he closes his eyes, with his last glimpse being of the owl landing near his head.
A muffled, mellow tune plays from a closed room. With each note played, it begins to slow down. A small hooded figure walks past the tall wooden door. Curiously, the figure walks back to the door. A child's hand reaches slowly for the doorknob; slowly turning the knob, opening the door. With the door still creaking open, the child peeks in. In amazement, the boy looks around the room filled with trinkets and instruments of all kinds. The walls are covered with shelves with books of all shapes and sizes tucked into every space and crevice. Looking around, the child notices the ceiling has papier-mache figures hanging by threads.
The warm light from the window shines on a tall figure sitting down playing a musical instrument. The stillness of the dust particles shine and glimmer off the light, moving slowly down and across they bring focus to the player. The man at the seat looks down with his eyes closed, resting and pressing the keys that play according to his scared and battered fingers slowly.
"Dad?" the little voice asks.
The figure stops playing and turns around on the bench he sits at, with his face covered by the light.
"Ah, Donny, what brings you here?" the father speaks in a surprised, gentle tone.
Don inches closer to him, still in awe from the look of the room, "Well…I kind of heard you playing. And I came to see."
His father smirks at him, "Well, you're not getting much. I'm still working on the prototype."
Don looks at the prototype, and his eyebrows start to furrow, "What is it called, and why does it sound…uh?"
"Out of tune?"
"Yeah, out of tune," Don repeats, not really knowing what it means.
The father pauses in thought, "I call it a Pianto, firstly because it was a pain in the ass to make, and secondly...I want this to sound as if it emulates a person's pain were played on each key."
Don's Father turns back to the Pianto and begins to play. Don looks up in curiosity.
His fingers start to glide across the keys. The sound was mellow, though far from harmonious. "As you can see, if I press the key all the way on the left, it makes a deep, strong note," he continued, "but on the far right, it's a high-pitched, squeaky note. "Every time you press a key, a wooden bar smacks a string in the back, making a vibration which produces a sound. The longer the string, the deeper; but the shorter the string, the softer. Kind of like how an outside force puts pressure on a person. It doesn't matter how much force you put into it; what matters is how long your string may be. I like the out-of-tune sound. Do you agree?"
Sitting on the floor now watching his dad, he nods his head. His big blue eyes dialed in, filled with wonder; he watches as he continues to play.
"Sounds kinda creepy, Ha!" his father adds with a chuckle.
Don could only agree, even though he didn't know what was going on. It was like a bittersweet haunted dream. The father stops playing and turns to Don with a bright smile on his face.
"You see, Don… pain is a statement of how far a person can go and when they will buckle. You will feel external pain all throughout your life. When you get hurt, you fall, scraping your hands. Or breaking a limb. But for someone as strong as me, that pain doesn't hurt anymore, only this pain," he says while pointing and touching Don's heart. "Internal pain. One's true self gleams out once someone reaches their limits. Maybe that's why this thing inside me likes me because I-"
Another voice echoes down the hallways from outside. It gets louder and louder. "Donny? Donny?" the voice called out with a sense of impatience.
Don turned his head toward the sound, his shoulders sagging. He knew that voice all too well. His father glances up and smirks, "Looks like Dreas is waiting for you, you know him, if I were you, I would get back and finish the game."
"Yeah," Don sighs. He loves the game that I made, but he always takes credit for making it."
The words linger in his father's head, raising an eyebrow, his voice gets stern. "Am I getting a hint of hate between you two?"
"No," Don says, shaking his head fast.
His father leans forward toward Don. "You two are brothers; don't ever forget that. You should always stick together, no matter how bad things may get; you will have to lift each other up. You may not see it now, but maybe in a couple of years. Siblings are meant to stick together. Don't ever become cold to one another."
With his thoughts still tangled, he turns away from his dad and gives a soft nod. He walks out of the warm, soaked room with much to learn, and back out into the hallway he enters.
"Oh, one final thing," his dad remembers.
"How far will your strings go?"
Don opens his eyes with his father's words still lingering. lying still in the snow with the wind blowing his cloak all around, the owl hops on top of him. The owl looks closer to him and notices he is still breathing and his eyes are open. The owl looks up at the sky and notices that the Moon is almost overhead. Frantically, it tries to get Don up. The owl tries and tries, but no answer, no answer, no answer. Don slowly closes his eyes again, lying in the cold snow.
Orange light shines and stretches through the windows down a long hallway with many doors along one side. The sound of children's laughter echoes through the hallways and the rooms. The kids' laughter gets louder and louder.
Two young boys bolt down the hallway. Both of them are wearing capes that flap to their speed. One kid is wearing a yellow cape with a black mask resting on his nose bridge. He holds a sword high above his head, chasing the other around the hall. The boy getting chased, who wears a black cape with a flowered mask, reaches for the knob of a black wooden door with a small crest dead in the center. Along the border of the door resides a flowery engraving. As he is reaching, Dreas shouts in the background, but all he focuses on is the different door. Don bursts in and closes it from the hall, locking it from behind himself.
Dreas looks around the dark room in fascination and shock. It is filled with paintings of all shapes and sizes. Impossible to take it all at once, he glances at people, animals, and places. The boy is drawn to the center of the room with a painting with a white blanket draped over it, covering it. The lonely candlelight that lights up the dark and dusty room sits overhead, flickering. Don is drawn to it, with each step, he makes sure not to bump into anything. Standing in front of the hidden painting, he pulls the sheet down, revealing a deranged painting.
In the oil painting lies a young woman with deep black hair and fair skin, dead in a bathroom tub with the water turned red. One of her arms drapes over the side with her wrist slit open, blood spilling out of her, pooling on the floor below.
On the ground lies a tall man cradling her arm. He wears a white collar shirt, which is smudged with her blood. With his face hidden, he bows in grief, weeping in front of the tub, surrounded by a light that seemed to fall not just on the man, but on whoever stood before it.
Dreas slowly opens the door. "Hey, Donny, we are not supposed to be in here. This is one of those rooms. Mother will kill us if she finds us here. C'mon, let's leave…quietly." He says, filled with worry.
Coming out of his focus on the painting, he turns around to Dreas. "Ok, yeah, this place is weird-wait, how did you get the door open? I locked it."
Dreas holds up a large metal key, swinging it in a circle on his finger. "This was left on the ground outside."
Walking toward Dreas, he looks at the key in confusion. The two boys leave the room, while slowly closing the door, Don takes one final look at the painting, soaked in light, before closing the door.
With the painting still embraced by light, the candle blows out suddenly, leaving behind a streak of smoke.
A thin ribbon of smoke curls upward as the room is swallowed by darkness. Then—from behind the painting—a faint glow appears. It grows brighter, pressing forward as if pushing through the canvas itself, until the light pierces free.
The brilliant light fades, leaving a soft glow on a small body of white light hovering between the painting and the room. Two arms form first, bracing against the canvas. Then eyes—deep, watchful—scan the darkness. Satisfied, the tiny being leaps out, landing like a white fireball given hands and feet.
It barely stands about half a foot tall, giving off a dim light from where it stands.
It then begins to waddle over to another covered painting propped up on a turning easel. Struggling to reach for the sheet, it jumps up, grabs it with its little hands, and pulls it down. The sheet falls on top of the ball of energy. Struggling to get it off of itself, it phases through it.
Waddling to a nearby stool in front of a blank canvas, it hops up, toddling. Perched high on the stool, it reaches for a paintbrush nearly as large as its body and a small tray of paints. The light picks up the brush, smearing it with the colors on the tray, mixing them together, with vibrant colors being made. Pausing for a moment, the light looks at the canvas, and soon, its arm begins to stretch and grow, being able to reach the canvas. Tiny with long arms, it is now immersed in the act of painting.
After a time, the light finishes its work and steps back, admiring the painting with quiet satisfaction. Tossing the brush and tray away, it stretches its arm out, turning the painting around and facing the back of the room. Looking toward the room, though empty and lifeless, it caps its round hands twice.
Silence.
Suddenly, a bright light emerges slowly from a pot in the corner. One by one, more balls of light appear—popping out of various canvases, pots, and sculptures scattered throughout the room. Each ball of light is unique, varying in all shapes and sizes: skinny, plump, tall, and short, with all having a different antenna on their head and distinct facial expressions. Soon, the room is filled with hundreds of them, all gathering, lighting up the room, and waiting in silence for something.
The light on the stool gains the attention of others.
The room begins to dim. Slowly, the ball of light on the stool stretches its arms and turns the canvas back around. A collective glow of excitement fills the room as they light up in unison.
The painting shown is a soaked black background with the center focus on a man and a cat-like beast with white and grey fur, with black spots around. Though the man's face is not painted, leaving a white canvas splotch still yet to be painted over, he stands tall with only pants on. The man is depicted as strangling the beast with his bare, muscular body.
Standing back on its hind legs with its front paws latched to the man's arms, the beast desperately tries to break free from the grip around its fur-coated neck by biting the hand and digging deep into the flesh. With the man already bleeding and scarred, and scratched up, it is evident that there is no hope for the animal.
The balls of light gaze at the painting in silence. Soon, as if someone told them to, they began clapping in awe. The light on the stool bows graciously, receiving the praise of its peers. The applause echoes through the room, a symphony of light and sound, as the painting's raw intensity lingers in the air, leaving an indelible impression on all who had the chance to witness it.
Even a boy in the back.