Work Text:
[ 7:00 AM ]
The sky outside was the kind of pale gray that threatened rain but never followed through. The world beyond 007n7’s window sat still—draped in that thick, breathless silence that clung to everything after loss. The blinds were half-open, casting pale slats of light across the bedroom like prison bars. Dust floated in lazy spirals. Time moved here, but only barely.
He blinked awake face-down on a pillow that had long since lost its shape, dried saliva caking his cheek. For a moment, he didn’t move. The weight of the room pressed down on him like a lead blanket. Even breathing felt like a risk—as if exhaling too loudly would break the fragile quiet and summon something unbearable.
Eventually, with a groan that stuck in his throat, 007n7 rolled over.
His eyes settled almost immediately on it—tucked into the far corner of the room.
The cradle.
He hadn’t looked at it properly in weeks, but now it seemed louder than anything else in the room. The wood was faded, its paint chipped at the corners, a soft blanket still folded neatly inside. One of the spindles leaned slightly inward—c00lkidd had gnawed on it when he was teething. That felt like a hundred years ago.
Back when he still fit in something so small.
“Guess I kept it for nostalgia or something…”
The words barely made it out—mumbled, flat, like they didn’t want to be heard.
He crouched down next to the cradle anyway, fingertips trailing along the smooth inside lip. His other hand brushed the blanket—thin, untouched, cold. It had been cold for a long time. The absence was sharp enough to cut.
He knew he should’ve packed it up. Or given it away. Or at least covered it. But every time he thought about moving it, something inside him clenched tight. Like closing the lid on it meant admitting there wouldn’t be anyone to fill it again.
So instead, it sat here. Collecting dust. Waiting for a child who would never return to it.
He stared down, unmoving. Listening for a phantom cry, maybe. Hoping for footsteps. A soft “Dad?” from the hallway. But all he got was the hum of the fridge downstairs and the dull thump of his own heartbeat behind his ribs.
Eventually, he rose to his feet—not all at once, more like unfolding in pieces. His knees cracked. His spine protested. He swayed slightly as if the act of standing had become unfamiliar.
He looked toward the hallway.
The door to c00lkidd’s room was closed. Still. Just like he left it.
His eyes lingered on the handle. He didn’t move toward it. Didn’t even try.
Don’t do this today.
You’ve got things to do. Keep moving. Keep busy.
He wasn't really yours anyway.
He turned away.
But he didn’t walk with purpose—he shuffled. Like a man dragging chains he’d long forgotten were attached.
[ 7:45 AM ]
The kitchen was dim.
007n7 had never replaced the overhead bulb. The room survived now on gray morning light that slanted through the blinds and painted soft stripes on the countertop. The silence was alive, humming in the corners.
He moved through it like a ghost.
At the counter, he grabbed the instant coffee jar, unscrewed the lid, and spooned the powder into a chipped mug. His hand jerked, and too much water sloshed into the cup from the kettle. It hissed and frothed over the rim. Some spilled onto the counter. More dribbled to the floor.
He stared at the mess.
Then left it.
He reached for the bread, popped two slices into the toaster, and didn’t move fast enough when smoke curled up moments later. A bitter, blackened smell filled the kitchen. He plucked the toast out, fingertips singing slightly from the heat, and tossed them straight into the trash.
His stomach groaned, but the idea of eating anything felt... insulting.
Instead, he turned to the sink.
The sponge was stiff from disuse. He soaked it under the tap, then began scrubbing dishes—not because the clutter bothered him, but because not doing it meant standing still. And standing still meant thinking. Remembering.
He reached for a mug. It was small, faded, with cartoon characters printed along the rim—an old noob avatar on one side, a rainbow on the other. There was a crack at the handle, the kind that spiderwebbed with age.
He stared at it for a long time.
It used to be c00lkidd’s favorite. He’d insisted on using it every morning, even when it was chipped. Called it his “lucky mug.” Said it made the juice taste better.
007n7's hands clenched the edges.
He should’ve thrown this out.
He should’ve packed up everything.
But he didn’t.
Couldn’t.
With care that bordered on reverence, he placed it gently into the drying rack beside two other mugs. He dried his hands, then made his way into the living room.
Vacuuming. Chore number two.
He moved furniture listlessly, pushing the vacuum across worn carpet tracks. The whine of the machine was the loudest thing in the house. Too loud.
Then—click.
Something jammed the rollers. He bent down to check.
A tiny, red-and-green propeller hat was lodged beneath the couch. The little propeller on top was bent, slightly askew, one side cracked.
He froze.
His knees hit the carpet hard. He didn’t notice.
He picked up the hat.
It still smelled faintly of sweat and sunscreen. Sticky memories. Playgrounds. Summer.
007n7 sat there for nearly a minute, crouched, just staring at the hat cupped in his hands. His thumbs turned it slowly, delicately, like it might crumble under too much pressure.
He didn't cry.
But his jaw tightened. His throat worked soundlessly. His fingers trembled.
He tucked it into a drawer. Shut it quickly.
Like it hurt to look at.
The fridge came next. He wiped it down with mechanical precision, not really seeing what he was doing—until his hand paused at a sheet of paper adhered near the top corner.
A drawing. Messy, bright, clearly done with markers.
Stick figures. One with messy hair, the other with a long arm holding a sword.
Above them, in bright orange letters:
“Me & 007n7 vs The World!”
He swallowed hard. Something sharp caught in his chest.
He didn’t touch the paper. Just stood there, arm halfway to the fridge, staring until his vision blurred.
[ 10:15 AM ]
By late morning, he found himself seated at the kitchen table, fingers cradling a mug gone cold. His phone rested nearby.
He picked it up.
Typed with one hand.
007n7: Morning.
007n7: You up?
007n7: idk just wanna talk lol
007n7: c00l’s still gone. house quiet. kinda eerie.
He watched the word Delivered appear.
He kept watching.
No reply. No little "typing..." bubble. No read receipt.
He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and set the phone down—then picked it up again. Then down. His leg began to bounce under the table, rhythmic and tight with nerves.
He stood. Paced. Cleaned again.
DVDs. Straightened.
Blankets. Folded.
The vacuum cord was coiled and re-coiled twice.
Then: laundry.
He brought down a basket from upstairs. Started sorting shirts, socks, mismatched pieces. Reached into the pile—and paused.
A small hoodie.
Red. A faded decal on the chest. Arms too short now, but he'd still worn it before he vanished.
007n7 brought it to his face. Inhaled.
Vanilla lotion. That weird cherry shampoo c00lkidd insisted on. And something else—something uniquely his.
He clutched it for a second longer than necessary.
Then folded it neatly. Smoothed it flat.
[ 12:05 PM ]
Later, at the table, he reheated something half-forgotten from the fridge. Chicken wings. Probably Noli's. Or at least Noli-inspired. They used to cook together sometimes.
He poked at the food.
Lifted a forkful. Let it fall again.
No appetite.
His phone buzzed.
His hand darted to it.
Just a bank notification.
Still no reply from Noli.
He typed something else. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted.
He hovered for a third time.
His lips parted.
“Why won’t you just fucking answer…”
It came out a whisper, ragged and raw. Not angry—more... hollow. Like a man trying to talk through dust.
He placed the phone face down. His knee bounced again.
Above, a faint noise.
The bassinet.
A creak.
His whole body locked.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just listened.
Eyes wide. Hands still.
The silence closed back in like a fist.
[ 1:00 PM ]
The hallway was still.
007n7 stood in front of the door longer than he meant to. His hand hovered near the knob, fingers curling and uncurling. He sighed, ran a thumb along the edge of the doorframe, and finally turned the handle.
The door creaked open.
Air moved in a way it hadn’t in weeks. Stale, but still faintly sweet—like artificial strawberry shampoo and fabric softener that hadn’t fully faded.
The room hadn’t changed.
Not a single thing.
The bed was still unmade. Sheets kicked halfway off the mattress, blanket balled near the foot. A faded stuffed bear slumped near the pillow, one button eye hanging by a thread. The other stared up at the ceiling like it was waiting for something.
Posters lined the walls—Roblox groups, YouTuber logos, pixelated swords mid-swing. A few had started peeling at the corners, yellowing from sunlight.
A small container sat on the desk. Inside: half-finished dirt cake, sealed tight. Chocolate crumbles flattened, a gummy worm half-submerged in pudding. The kind of snack you’d swear a kid would come back for “in a minute.”
Next to it, a smudge on the desk. A fingerprint.
007n7’s throat tightened.
He crossed the room slowly, stepping around scattered socks, a cracked plastic yo-yo, an empty Capri Sun pouch flattened under a desk chair.
The game console sat beneath the TV, controller still plugged in.
He reached down and pressed a button.
The light blinked. A soft beep. The home screen flickered to life for a moment—paused in the middle of some sort of obby game.
He turned it off.
Then he sat at the edge of the bed.
The springs creaked beneath his weight, a sound that felt wrong somehow—like he was disrupting something sacred.
He looked at the ceiling.
Then the bear.
Then the dirt cake.
Then the closed closet door.
His hand slid along the comforter, slow, absent. The fabric was soft, worn in. Still smelled like kid shampoo and sleep.
“I should’ve cleaned this up by now,” he murmured.
The words barely made it past his lips.
He stared at the mess. The life frozen in pause.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t clean.
Didn’t touch anything else.
He just sat there, silent, caught in the shape c00lkid left behind.
[ 4:00 PM ]
Drizzle clung to the air like it didn’t want to commit. The kind that soaked you slowly, seeping through layers without ever fully turning to rain.
007n7 had his hood up, the black-red fleece clinging to his damp hair. Headphones in—no music playing. Just silence, punctuated by the soft hiss of wind against the plastic buds. He liked the illusion of distraction.
Sidewalks glistened under streetlights that hadn’t turned on yet. Tires hissed as cars passed. He crossed the parking lot, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets.
The automatic doors of the grocery store whooshed open, hitting him with stale air and fluorescent light. Everything felt too loud inside. Too bright.
He grabbed a basket, kept his eyes low.
Frozen meals—microwavable pasta, some kind of curry, two-for-one burritos. Bread. Canned soup. He moved with quiet purpose, keeping to himself, avoiding eye contact.
Then—he turned down the wrong aisle.
The shelves changed.
Bright boxes. Cartoon characters. Plastic-wrapped dreams.
The toy aisle.
He stopped. Didn’t move at first.
His eyes caught on a rack of helicopter toys—newer models, glossy plastic, some with lights on the rotor blades.
One looked exactly like the one c00lkidd used to beg him for every time they passed the toy section. The old one was buried in the back of the closet, probably broken, dust collecting in the blades.
His hand lifted, almost automatically.
Fingers brushed the packaging. The edges crinkled under his touch.
He stared.
A single rotor spun inside the plastic box—just a slow turn from his movement. It made the toy feel alive for a moment.
His hand dropped.
He set it back.
Didn’t even check the price.
He walked on.
At checkout, he stood in silence, items on the conveyor, gaze fixed somewhere between his shoes and the receipt printer. The scanner beeped. A generic pop song played overhead.
Behind him, laughter.
He turned slightly, drawn by the sound.
A man stood with his daughter—maybe four, maybe five. She was clutching a stuffed fox and tugging at her dad’s sleeve with sticky fingers. She pointed at a candy bar, giggling like she was getting away with something.
The dad smiled down at her, full of warmth and patience.
007n7’s lips twitched—just barely.
“Cute kid,” he murmured.
It came out softer than he expected. Like it wasn’t for anyone else to hear.
“Thanks!”
He paid.
Took his change.
Left.
Didn’t look back.
Outside, the drizzle hadn’t stopped.
He pulled his hood tighter, bag swinging at his side, footsteps slow and even on the wet pavement. The toy aisle stuck in his mind—echoing like a song he couldn’t shake.
And the sound of a giggle that didn’t belong to him. Nor his child.
[ 5:10 PM ]
The key turned slower than it needed to. A hollow click, then silence.
007n7 stepped inside, blinking against the dim light. The living room was cold. He didn’t bother flipping the switch. The sun was already sinking behind gray clouds, and soon the house would be swallowed by blue-shadowed dark.
He dropped the grocery bag on the counter. Bread tilted out. He didn’t fix it.
From the fridge, he grabbed a soup container and shoved it into the microwave. Pressed the buttons without looking. The hum filled the space, but it didn’t make it feel any less empty.
He sat at the table with the bowl. Stirred it absently. Took two spoonfuls. Stopped. Set the spoon down and just stared.
The light above flickered once. Then held.
He exhaled through his nose and pushed the bowl aside.
In the living room, he grabbed c00lkidd’s game controller from the coffee table. It was still streaked with fingerprints, buttons slightly sticky from god-knows-what snacks. He wiped at it with a cloth from the drawer—slow circles. Quiet. Methodical.
His hands trembled as he polished around the joysticks.
He gripped it tighter, trying to steady himself. Didn’t help.
The weight of it in his lap was unbearable. But he didn’t put it down.
From the couch, he glanced toward the stairs. In the corner of his eye, the door to c00lkidd’s room seems cracked open.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then stood.
Walked over.
Pushed the door open with two fingers.
The air inside was still.
The bed was unmade, a stuffed bear slouched against the headboard with one eye dangling by a thread. A poster on the wall had started peeling at the corner. The desk was still cluttered—homework sheets, a comic book, a sealed plastic container with half-eaten dirt cake inside.
The smell of frosting—sickly sweet and stale—lingered in the air.
007n7 stepped in, careful like he might wake someone.
He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. Stared up at the ceiling. Eyes blank. Jaw clenched.
“I should’ve really cleaned this up today,” he said, voice barely audible. It cracked at the end.
But he didn’t move. Again.
Didn’t touch a single thing. Again.
His phone buzzed faintly in his pocket. Not a message—just a system alert.
He pulled it out anyway.
No new notifications.
He opened his chat with Noli.
Paused.
Then typed:
007n7: noli
007n7: i think i’m slipping
007n7: house still smells like him sometimes
007n7: i left his door open
007n7: i’m hearing things again
007n7: his laugh
007n7: his footsteps
007n7: i know he’s not there but
007n7: sometimes i almost call his name anyway
007n7: i think, it’s my fault
007n7: please say something
007n7: anything
007n7: please
He stared at the screen.
Delivered. That word hung like a nail in his chest.
He swallowed hard. Locked the phone. Set it facedown on the floor.
He stood and walked downstairs, then back toward the front of the house.
At the door, his fingers hesitated on the bolt. He locked it. Unlocked it. Locked it again. Tried the handle to be sure.
Did it again.
Back to the couch. He collapsed onto it like his bones had given up.
Pulled a throw blanket over himself.
Lay there.
Eyes wide.
The only sound was his breath—slow and fogging in the cold air. He hadn’t turned on the heat.
His fingers twitched against the cushion, like they were searching for something to hold.
But there was nothing.
And upstairs, the floor creaked. Just once.
Like a step.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
He just listened.
And hoped.
[ 12:45 AM ]
Tap.
He jolted upright.
Tap. Tap-tap.
The sound was faint. But deliberate.
007n7 held his breath, frozen under the blanket. The couch creaked beneath him as he slowly sat up, pulse thudding in his ears.
He listened.
Silence.
Then—floorboards above him. A single creak. A footstep.
His chest tightened like something invisible had wrapped around it.
He grabbed the flashlight from the coffee table drawer, hand fumbling against the cold metal. He didn’t bother with socks or shoes. Just crept barefoot down the hallway, up the stairs, every step slow, deliberate, but trembling.
The flashlight beam quivered in front of him.
He reached c00lkidd’s door.
The hallway was colder up here.
He opened the door with the edge of his knuckle.
The room looked the same.
Except the dirt cake container on the desk—its lid was slightly ajar now.
He stopped in the doorway, flashlight beam catching the clear plastic.
He hadn’t touched it.
His breathing grew shallow.
“No,” he whispered. “No, I sealed that. I sealed that—”
He took one step in.
The flashlight dimmed, flickered once.
He backed out of the room and shut the door slowly, hand shaking on the knob.
Downstairs again. Fast, this time. Almost tripping on the last step.
He veered into the hallway closet and pulled the drawer open with a hard yank.
Inside, tucked in a balled-up sock, was a revolver.
A box of ammunition sat next to it.
And a sticky note, its edges curled with age:
Don’t touch unless it’s really bad.
He stared at the note.
His hand hovered over the gun.
Then gripped it.
He didn’t lift it—just held it there, wrapped around cold metal.
Knuckles white. Breath short.
His lungs wouldn’t expand all the way. Like there was something sitting on his chest.
He slammed the drawer shut.
Opened it again.
Just to check.
Still there.
Still real.
His mouth moved, whispering something, but no sound came out.
He closed it again. Slower this time.
Back to the couch.
He paced in front of it first. Couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stay still.
Fingers ran through his hair over and over. Then down his face. Then over his mouth like he was afraid of what might come out.
“I should’ve been there,” he muttered.
“I should’ve locked the gate. I should’ve called him in sooner. I should’ve—”
He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heel of his hand against them until colors bloomed in the dark.
“I shouldn’t have.. yelled.”
“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“I shouldn’t—”
He dropped to the couch again, crouched forward like the weight of his own spine was too much to hold up.
The silence was buzzing now.
His ears rang.
The flashlight rolled onto the floor with a thunk.
He flinched hard.
Stared at it. Unmoving.
Upstairs, the floor creaked again.
Or maybe it didn’t.
Maybe it was the house settling.
Or maybe—
He buried his face in his hands and let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a choke. Short. Guttural. Ugly.
The kind of sound you make when you don’t want to cry, but your body doesn’t listen.
He rocked forward slightly. Then back. Then forward again. Over and over. Like a broken pendulum.
His phone buzzed.
He froze.
Snatched it up.
Screen lit.
Battery Low. 5%.
No new messages.
Nothing from Noli.
His thumb hovered. Then typed.
007n7: PLEASE
007n7: please man i can’t
007n7: i need someone here
007n7: he’s gone but it’s like he’s not
007n7: i hear him
007n7: i hear him i SWEAR i do
007n7: i keep checking his room i know he’s not there but
007n7: please
007n7: just say something
007n7: say ANYTHING
007n7: before i lose it
Delivered.
That damn word again.
He threw the phone across the room.
It hit the wall with a crack, then dropped to the floor.
And all he could do was sit there, staring at nothing, while the darkness pressed closer from every corner of the house.
[ 2:00 AM ]
The room hadn’t changed.
Same messy bed. Same scattered toys across the rug like landmines. Same cracked poster peeling from the wall—The Roblox Rebellion, c00lkidd’s favorite.
But tonight, it felt smaller. Like the walls were pressing in.
007n7 sat on the floor, his back against the wall. Legs pulled in. Head low. The revolver lay in his lap, wrapped loosely in one of his old socks. Unfired. Heavy. Like it knew it was being considered.
He didn’t touch it.
Not yet.
His phone sat beside him, screen cracked from where he had thrown it earlier. Still worked.
His thumb hovered. Shaking.
He opened the chat with Noli.
Messages stretched up the screen like tally marks. All “Delivered.” None “Seen.”
He typed.
007n7: bro
007n7: please
007n7: i’m not okay
007n7: i keep hearing him
007n7: i keep hearing the closet door creak
007n7: i CHECKED it i SWEAR it moved
007n7: noli please answer
007n7: i just need someone to tell me it’s not real
He hit send. Watched it float up into silence.
He waited. Nothing. Not even the little dots.
The air in the room felt colder than it should be. It clung to his skin, stale and unmoving.
He removed the old sock wrapped. Pulled the revolver out fully this time.
The metal kissed his palm, cold and clean.
He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to.
The weight of it was enough.
He closed his eyes. Then opened them again.
Reached for the phone.
Started typing. Slower now.
007n7: you’re all i got
007n7: i don’t wanna die
007n7: i just
007n7: i just want him back
007n7: why did he leave ???
007n7: why didn’t i stop it
007n7: it’s my fault.
007n7: tell me it’s not
He opened the photo gallery.
Scrolled past screenshots, dumb memes c00lkid had sent, grainy pics of meals they tried to cook together.
Then he stopped.
A photo taken months ago—c00lkidd sitting cross-legged in a pile of LEGOs, grinning wide, gap-toothed, holding up a crooked sign made from notebook paper:
"#1 Dad (kinda)"
007n7 stared at it. His thumb brushed the screen, trembling.
Then he typed again.
007n7: he smiled so much around you
007n7: maybe he liked you more
007n7: maybe he would’ve stayed if you were his dad
007n7: i tried so hard bro
007n7: i just wanted to be something to someone
His voice broke into a whisper, barely audible.
“He was supposed to be safe here... with me.”
He kept going.
“Tell me he’s not gone. Just tell me anything. Please… please say something…”
He pressed the phone to his forehead like it could offer warmth. Like it could pull him back.
But it stayed cold. Blank.
“Please…”
He sniffed hard, wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Then typed more.
007n7: i cleaned the house
007n7: i kept it safe
007n7: i didn’t sleep so i could check on him every hour
007n7: and he’s still gone
007n7: and you’re not here
007n7: no one’s here
The tears came harder now. Not quiet anymore. His breath stuttered in short, hiccupping gasps. Every inhale was a struggle. Every exhale a fight.
He rocked slowly, side to side.
The revolver rested across his legs like it was watching him.
He glanced down at it.
Then away.
His hand twitched. Not toward it. Just… unsure.
He closed his eyes.
And finally whispered:
“I don’t wanna die. I just… I don’t know how to live without him.”
[ 2:47 AM ]
The room was dead quiet.
Moonlight leaked through the slats in the blinds, painting crooked stripes across the wall. Everything was still. No wind. No cars. No life.
Just the boy’s empty bed. And the man who couldn’t leave it.
007n7 sat on the floor, spine against the wall, legs bent toward his chest. The revolver rested in his lap. He cradled it now—not like a weapon, but like something lost.
Something small and fragile.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
His lips moved constantly—no sound at first. Just trembling motions, like prayers whispered from a mouth that forgot how to believe.
Then came the voice.
Scratchy. Dry. Wrecked.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
His throat burned with every word. The only moisture left in his body came from the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. They clung to his chin. Soaked the collar of his hoodie. Salt and heat in a body that had gone cold.
“I didn’t mean to yell that night… I didn’t mean it…”
“I should’ve stayed home. I should’ve checked his door. I should’ve—should’ve—”
His voice cracked so hard it nearly vanished.
He curled tighter.
The cracked phone buzzed weakly beside him, screen dimmed from low battery. It lit up just enough for him to see the time:
2:47 AM
Battery: 2%
His fingers twitched. He grabbed it with effort, like it weighed ten pounds. Opened Noli’s chat again.
He could barely see the screen through the blur.
Typed:
007n7: i’m sorry
He didn’t even hit send right away. Just stared at the word.
Delivered.
Not Seen.
It felt like a tombstone.
His thumb dropped the phone gently beside the bed, like he didn’t want to wake something. Or someone.
Then, he broke.
His mouth opened. A sob ripped from his throat like it had been clawing its way out for hours. It wasn’t clean or cinematic. It was ugly. Wet. Loud.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t enough—!”
He curled forward, forehead hitting the mattress.
“Please forgive me, please—please come back—please just come back—!”
He was gasping now. Like he couldn’t get enough air. Like the walls were closing in and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the world.
The tears hit the sheets like rain.
“I tried—I swear I tried— I cleaned the house— I-I stayed up all night—I kept the light on—I kept it warm—!”
He slammed a fist against the mattress, hard enough to bruise.
“He was supposed to be safe with me. With me!”
His voice cracked again. Collapsed into a whisper.
“... Why wasn’t I enough?”
He pulled the revolver closer.
Held it in both hands.
Not raised. Not aimed. Just… held.
Like it might answer him.
He looked up, eyes red and hollow.
Stared at the bed. The empty pillow. The spot where c00lkid used to leave his socks when he got too lazy to put them away.
His chest hitched. Then again. Then again.
Another whisper:
“I’m sorry.”
He pressed his forehead to the edge of the bed. The wood felt like ice against his skin.
“Tell him I love him. Please. Someone tell him—please—”
He was barely making words now. Just sobs and broken syllables.
“Please… please…”
..
“Please tell him… I loved him.”
His voice faded into silence.
Then—
B A N G !