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The boy is alone again.
Pitch watches from the shadows, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed as the pale figure skates lazy circles across the frozen lake. The night is silent save for the scrape of ice beneath bare feet and the occasional gust of wind that tangles through white hair. The boy doesn't notice him — not yet — too caught up in carving patterns into the frost. His laugh is soft, absent, like he isn't sure anyone is listening.
Because no one is.
The Guardians, so-called protectors of childhood, have not come. Not for this child. The Man in the Moon's chosen ones busy themselves with the laughter of others — the cherished, the loved, the seen. They do not spare a glance for the lonely ones. The forgotten ones.
Pitch's scowl deepens. He knows what it is to be overlooked.
It's been a month, by his count. A month since the moon plucked this boy from the icy grasp of death and set him adrift in the world with no answers, no guidance — nothing but a name and a power he doesn't understand. The boy has wandered from town to town, seeking something, anything. But no one sees him. No one believes.
Pitch should leave him to it. Another spirit lost to the cold. Another proof of the Guardians' failure.
But he doesn't.
Something keeps him rooted to the edge of the lake, half-hidden in the frostbitten trees. The boy spins, weightless, arms outstretched. The wind carries him higher — his first and only friend.
"You're not very good at hiding," Jack calls suddenly, breaking the silence.
Pitch's brow flicks upward. Clever. He steps forward, letting the shadows peel back from his figure.
"And you're not very good at keeping your guard up."
The boy startles — just a flicker — but holds his ground. His staff shifts into both hands, unsure if it's a weapon or a crutch.
"Who are you?"
Pitch could lie. He could whisper nightmares into the boy's ear, sow the first seeds of fear while he's still raw and uncertain. It would be easy.
But he doesn't.
"A fellow spirit," he says instead. "Like you."
Jack's eyes narrow. His grip on the staff tightens, though Pitch can see the tremble in his fingers.
"Are there... others?" Jack asks, voice smaller now. Hopeful.
Pitch's gaze flicks skyward — a sharp glance at the full moon shining bright above them.
The Guardians should have been here. They should have found him. Protected him. But they hadn't.
"Yes," Pitch answers at last. "But not all spirits are kind."
Jack shifts back a step, suspicion flickering across his face. But there's curiosity too — a hunger for answers. He wants to ask. He wants to know.
Pitch remembers what that felt like.
He doesn't offer comfort. He's no Guardian. But he doesn't lie either.
"The world is not always fair to those it forgets."
Jack frowns, confused — as if trying to fit together pieces that don't quite click. But before he can ask anything else, Pitch melts back into the shadows.
He watches a little longer as the boy returns to his ice — alone again, spinning patterns into the frost with no one to see.
When the moonlight touches Jack's face, he looks up, searching. Hoping.
But the Man in the Moon remains silent.
Pitch turns away, bitterness curdling in his chest.
If the Guardians wouldn't protect the forgotten, who would?