Chapter Text
When the train stopped for one final time, Mistoffelees briefly considered burying himself in the snow to freeze to death. But then again, he'd tried to avoid just that a minute ago.
As if on instinct, he walked down the narrow streets. He turned left, then right. Passed the antique shop -- something drew him to it, but he knew that if he stopped now, he wouldn't move another inch.
Street lights flickered as he passed under them. They hummed, lighting the way like a prophecy. He couldn't feel his feet.
Beside his own heavy breathing, it was a relatively quiet night. But it was anything but peaceful.
Misto tried shutting any rational thinking -- or any form of thinking -- off, afraid it might make him do something stupid. Over and over again, he found himself slipping, thinking where else to go if not there.
Then again, where was he even heading? He didn't know. His body moved on its own.
A great sense of dread filled him the further he approached his destination -- and before he knew it, he stood before the green door.
He examined it, every chip in the wood. The pattern engraved in it, now softened from time. It still stood to be the most astounding door between the other houses, which seemed to have also calmed down, worn.
Beside the house stood a stone fence, thick and sturdy, with metal that curved into patterns between each stone post. The pattern itself was rusted, though the fence generally looked clean. Maybe a gardener now lived here, or a fencer?
Otherwise... Misto remembered the eldest brother putting an emphasis on care, somehow always finding the time to clean up the garden. It served as a visual sign that there was hope for familiarity here.
He finally lifted his fist, gently knocking as if doing it too harshly would break the door.
Of course, no one answered.
What had he even been thinking? Maybe they weren't living here anymore. The outside of the building was all too familiar, which didn't mean that its residents had to be, all signs reconsidered.
The doormat still read 'Deuteronomy', which just might have been carelessness from the present owners (although that wouldn't match the condition the garden was in). It was a beautiful doormat, really. Why was he so focused on the stupid doormat?
He took a step back.
The door, although a little worn down, was still the same shade of emerald green. A rich colour for such an old building.
Misto briefly wondered if they really had moved. It seemed unlikely, as these front steps alone held more history than he could recall. More than one family member would go to war for this house. And for good reason: the nights he'd spend on the rooftop, sitting at the dining table, in the backyard.
The hat wasn't doing a good job at keeping him warm. It wasn't just the snow that made him shiver from head to toe. Memories washed over him, practically flooding his brain.
In a moment of bravery, maybe ambition, he rung the doorbell. The muffled sound shook him so much he had to take a step back, nearly slipping in the process. His hands gripped the metal railing, cold under his fingers.
His capacity to think froze off at that moment.
By the time he rung a third time, his hands were numb. His forehead rested on the chipped wood of the front door, pounding, too full.
He wondered again if the Deuteronomy family was still living here. Why would they have moved, and when? How would they react upon seeing him again? Would they even recognise him? Acknowledge him?
Would they throw him out before he could even enter?
Either way, the person who maybe happened to open the door wouldn't greet him warmly. They'd first of all be mad at him for waking them at -- Misto checked his wristwatch -- 03:52 in the morning.
If a random stranger who now inhabited the building answered the door, they might call the police. Get him put in a homeless shelter because essentially, that's what he was. Even worse, if they happened to recognise him as the criminal he was, he'd end up in jail.
Four times.
He rung four times.
And still, not a single noise. Maybe nobody lived here at all.
He took the last steps down, snow crunching beneath his shoes, and accepted that they had already stopped waiting for him.