Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a small two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of the prairie. It sits atop a little hill in the field and has been abandoned since the townsfolk could remember. Bits of the roof are missing, the wood is all dusted and brittle, the weeds in the yard are overgrown and parasitic, and even the animals dare not venture far enough to linger around the shriveled premises.

That’s what the townsfolk told you, anyway. You can only catch the smallest glimpse of the farmhouse from where you are in town, but the deteriorated state of the building is evident even at such distance. You haven’t been there yourself, but they tell you that nothing lies in that house anymore—just a bunch of dust, bugs, and critters seeking shelter from the occasional rainfall. Without a purpose, the people are considering demolishing the old building to use the tattered wood for resources—make whatever they can out of whatever is left, if they even can at all. There’s nothing left for the farmhouse to do but serve as an antiquated eyesore against the rest of the expansive prairie.

But before they do that, you want to inspect this farmhouse and see it up close for yourself. Although the elders say that house has no memories to them, it had to have belonged to someone. You refuse to believe it was built aimlessly: that there is a remnant of someone or something in that home that can be witnessed. You won’t stop the townsfolk from tearing it down—without a doubt, the building is in terrible condition, almost unsalvageable, and, as far as everyone else knows, refurbishment wouldn’t particularly serve the people in any significant way—but you at least want to see it before its inevitable end.

So you decide to do just that. In the morning, after saying your hellos to the shopkeepers and farmers tilling the fields, you sneak off into the prairie and make way for the farmhouse. Your mother wouldn’t particularly like the idea of you going on your own, much less going at all, so you make sure to swing around the outside perimeter of the field on your journey.

After a few minutes of jogging, you approach the front lawn of the old farmhouse. The ground has been overthrown by weeds and dead grass, crunching beneath your feet as you saunter towards the porch. You stop again to take in the sight before you. There’s moss growing on the stairs leading to the door that is broken and lies unhinged, revealing a dark and devasting interior. The roof, indeed, is missing some parts of itself, and small, random holes lie on the walls. The windows on front are intact, but they’re cracked and decorated with cobwebs. You have a feeling there’s only more of those inside, but the darkness and dust wafting around obstructs your vision—and, sadly, the bits of sunlight that break through the holes in the roof do little to help. With curiosity as your guide, you move a few steps closer to the porch.

Suddenly, you stop. You hear something—and it’s not the crunching of dead grass and the sound of an angry mother behind you. It’s not the call of the farm animals or the squeals of the fabled critters rapidly escaping: the noise came from inside. Perhaps it is a stray animal seeking shelter as rumored: that’s what you would have thought if the noise did not return in patterned beats.

You stand firm where you are, prepared to face any dangers that will approach you, yet nothing and no one emerges from the home. The footsteps come at a descending angle until they spin and turn the other way, and it’s now that you realize you can faintly see something moving inside the farmhouse.

A monster around your height moves around the first floor of the old house, holding a hand to his chin in thought. He holds a broom with a broken handle, swatting at what you assume to be patches of dust and cobwebs. You take a few steps closer, wondering if he will notice you once your feet touch the first stair of the porch, but he has yet to even turn your way. He continues to brush up the dust contaminating the house with a smile plastered on his face, unaware of your presence. He calmly carries the bugs to the back door and carefully ushers small animals outside alongside them. His efforts seem so small against the dying farmhouse, and yet you can’t help but stare at that smile still evident on his face. His smile is authentic and free, and witnessing it gives you the urge to smile, too. You don’t understand why, but when you give in, you feel at ease.

For now, you decide to lay low and leave him to his cleaning. Perhaps it’s also a good idea to convince the townsfolk to hold off on their demolition plans for another day.

Chapter Text

The next morning, you ask your mother about that house on the prairie. This isn’t the first time you’ve asked after hearing the rumors—perhaps this makes the fourth or fifth, or another number that exceeds what fingers you have on one hand. She gives that knowing smile that she always does whenever you bring up the house.

You ask if it’s true that the townsfolk are going to demolish the building. She says that she doesn’t know for sure, but it would be their best option. They could utilize the land the house occupies and use the worn-out planks as firewood for the winter, or they could simply sweeten up the patch of land and let the farm animals explore the hill. The people haven’t settled on one certain intent; regardless, it seems as though they desire the demolition of the building. You ask when the people are going to do this, but she gives a puzzled look. She says she isn’t sure and asks why you are so interested in the old farmhouse. You have no need to worry about such an old structure, she reassures.

You shake your head and ask if the townsfolk can hold off on their plans for at least another day. She says that she can do that, but she wonders what for. You decide to tell her that you want to visit the farmhouse at least once—concealing the fact that you have already been there once—and she purses her lips in thought. After a moment, she sighs with a smile and tells you to at least be careful while on your journey. Now that you know she won’t sneak up angrily behind you, you feel a weight lift off your shoulders. With that, you tell her you’re on your way and skip out the door.

This time, you head straight for the farmhouse instead of taking the longer route. Once you make it to the yard, you immediately notice a difference. The weeds have been pulled throughout the lawn, the moss has been cleaned from the porch, the debris lingering outside of the home has vanished, and the dust inside has dispersed to make the interior plenty more visible from afar. You hear another set of footsteps and decide to close the distance.

You step onto the porch and hide against the wall, peeking into the farmhouse through the doorway. You notice the door has been completely removed, but you’re more interested in what lies beyond. A lantern rests on floor, offering a gentle lighting to accompany the sunlight that finally melts into the home without the overbearing sea of dust and muck. Despite its now-cleanliness, a small weight tugs at your heart.

The footsteps are more apparent now: no doubt since you moved closer, but you recognize that they are pattering on the floor above. The stairs are clear of grime, but you can’t see anything on the upper floor. Perhaps the monster is tidying up the space there, too. As you think of him, the footsteps seem to inch closer until you can see his silhouette at the top of the stairwell. You shift closer to the wall as he descends, and finally you can see his appearance. The first thing you notice is the golden ring-crown set on his skull—and at that, you also realize he’s a skeleton. He might be related to the two skeleton brothers you’ve met in town, and your suspicions only grow further once you recognize that he looks coincidentally identical to the older, shorter one—if not just a bit shorter. Teal dominates his outfit, decorated with yellow and gold, and as the monster navigates the farmhouse, a vibrant sensation seeps into you. It’s a relaxed feeling. A feeling of hope, perhaps…but you don’t know why.

You flinch when he turns around to face the doorway. He still doesn’t seem to notice you, however, and sets something on the now-better-looking kitchen counter before returning upstairs. You can’t see the item from where you are, and your curiosity is in overdrive, so you decide to take the risk of entering the farmhouse to inspect the object on the counter.

Once the footsteps become distant, you carefully tiptoe your way into the farmhouse, praying that the floor wouldn’t creak beneath you. Thankfully, you make it to the counter without much trouble and take the object into your grasp.

It’s a slightly dirtied belt. The initials ‘DS’ are written on the front. Perhaps that’s the monster’s name? You couldn’t begin to guess what his name is that alone, however.

You set the belt back where you found it and look around the farmhouse. Now inside, you can witness how much care was put into tending to the home, even if it isn’t in a perfect state. The walls still have holes, and the wood is still dry and old—but the dust has been swept away and it feels quite clean. If there were to be any power remaining, you believe you could comfortably cook inside this kitchen.

You feel intrigued to explore the bottom floor further. The footsteps above seem to be concentrated in one area, so you take the time now to cautiously sneak around the bottom floor and see all the progress the monster has made.

(In all truth, you feel as though you wouldn’t run into any issues by introducing yourself to the monster and befriending them: that’s what the state of the farmhouse tells you. You decide to keep yourself hidden anyway, though—perhaps there’s a reason he is dwelling within the abandoned home without having said hello to the townsfolk.)

Other than a dining table, some chairs, and a small shelf along the wall, there are no other pieces of furniture lying around the first floor. There is a bathroom in the corner that is quite small, though its door has also been removed. Only a toilet, bathtub, and sink remain there, all of which are undoubtedly nonfunctional. The back door is the only one that seems to be in good shape, but you’re certain it would creak if you tried to open it. The lock seems broken.

Across from the bathroom is a space filled with canvases and messy with paint supplies. You can tell that these are fair and sturdy, so they must belong to the monster. You decide to take a closer look.

There are many kinds of canvases: small and thin, tall and wide. Most of them are blank, but a few have sketches: ones of people in a large field, a building with an incomplete figure standing outside, and a large tree. That last sketch catches your eye the most. Even though it has yet to be finished, you can easily envision the tree’s sturdiness. It bears hundreds of apples with pride and dons a flag around its trunk, standing tall atop a hill.

You smile at the drawing. This place must be where the monster came from. You get a tranquil feeling thinking of his hometown.

Suddenly the footsteps move closer to the stairwell. In a panic, you hurriedly tiptoe to the front doorway and skip off the porch, running away from the farmhouse. Once you think you’re far enough, you stop and turn around.

Nothing followed you. The monster must not have noticed you, to which you sigh as a weight slides off you. You think it’s about time to go back, but you make a note to return later in the afternoon to keep up with what the monster will do.

Maybe you should ask those skeleton brothers if they have any relatives?

The two brothers told you they don’t have any other relatives that they know of. Even if that’s the case, you believe they might know where the monster in the farmhouse could have come from, but you decide to keep his presence a secret. When they ask where the strange question came from, you shrug off your reasoning as harmless curiosity.

After dinnertime, you make your way back to the farmhouse. You stand by the doorway once again, but you can’t hear anything, so you make your way to the back and peek through one of the slightly broken windows. You can see the canvases again, and the sketches are mostly complete paintings now. There are also a few new drawings that you don’t recognize from last time, which are also finished and painted. You can make out some of the people in the field, recognize the person in front of the building as a cat monster standing outside what seems to be their home, and the tree that still intrigues you. The apples are black and gold, split between two ends of the tree, and the flag around its trunk wears an orange sun decal. Some other paintings are of people you don’t particularly know and of landscapes that are similarly unfamiliar.

One canvas on the floor remains unfinished. It looks like it might be a sketch of the monster himself, but his crown seems to be different. He’s wearing a crown engraved with a moon decal instead of the round one he usually has—but without any finer details, you can’t really tell if it’s him or not.

In any case, you feel satisfied and suppose your mother would be upset if you lingered around the farmhouse after it gets dark. You flee for the night, wondering if you’ll get to see the finished painting tomorrow.

Chapter Text

After breakfast, you ask your mother if you can go to the farmhouse again. She tells you to be careful like yesterday, though she wears a hesitant expression on her face. You ask her why, but she shakes her head and tells you not to worry. Rather, she has some news for you about what the townsfolk have decided about the fate of the farmhouse. You listen intently, hoping your little wish could have an impact on the people of this town—but, unfortunately, they still intend to tear the house down. However, since they still need to discuss what to do with the resources and how they’ll do it, they agree to hold off until the end of the week. You smile; although you would have loved to see the house flourishing one day, at least you helped give the monster some time.

Now that you think of him, you decide to ask your mother about skeleton monsters and wonder if she has met any before. She tells you that she hasn’t other than the two skeleton brothers in town, though perhaps she has before and simply forgot since it’s been so long. You nod and don’t press any more on the subject, choosing to make your way to the farmhouse to see if he’s finished that painting.

When you arrive, you notice the grass is much livelier after the weeds have been pulled. You step up onto the porch and lean against the same spot on the wall, just by the doorway, and peek into the farmhouse. You don’t hear anything, and you doubt if the monster is inside. Curiously, you swing out to the back of the farmhouse and peer through the window, seeing the same jungle of canvases but no sign of the monster. Perhaps he left to gather things? Maybe he really will say hello to the villagers? Regardless of your questions, nothing has determined whether or not he is still here. With a hesitant hand, you grab the handle of the back door and figure that the expected squeaking would alert the monster and confirm his presence, even at the risk of being caught. You stall for a moment, but you gently open the door.

As you thought, the door squeals as you open it, ringing throughout the silent farmhouse. You’re certain that would alert the monster, so you skip away to hide around one of the walls of the house and wait for him to appear.

…Nothing happens. You wait for some minutes, but no one comes to the door. Your suspicions about the monster’s absence must be correct, and without much to fear now, you lead yourself into the home.

You walk into the space with the varying canvases. There are a few more finished ones that you didn’t see yesterday, all filled with heartwarming memories, but you don’t see the portrait anywhere. The space is also rather tidy compared to yesterday, where there was paint lying around everywhere with brushes still dirtied and water cups colored in various shades. You choose to leave it for now, wondering what lies upstairs.

As you approach the staircase, you feel a slight chill caress your skin. Goosebumps trickle over you, fearing the possibility of being caught, but you slowly tread up the stairs regardless. You’re too determined to discover what lies upstairs to retreat.

Eventually, after much internal strife, you make it to the second floor of the house. It leads you to a bedroom that holds a lot more stuff than downstairs. The space is just as clean as downstairs, only having a few holes in the walls and a cracked window like the rest of the farmhouse. There are a lot of the monster’s belongings lying around—especially things relating to arts and crafts. Fabric trails across the floor in one corner, mostly yellow, orange, blue, white, and black, and just next to it is a sewing machine atop a small desk. On the other end of the room are more supplies like paintbrushes, colored pencils, rulers, aprons, and other items relating to art. What’s next to that, though, is what catches your attention.

Just beside the art supplies and right under the windowsill is the self-portrait you saw yesterday. Except it isn’t just one anymore—now there are a bundle of them, all in different perspectives yet all unfinished. You can at least make out that his outfit seems to be different in these sketches, and he is still wearing the moon crown, so you wonder if this really is someone else. Perhaps it could have been what he used to look like? With your mother having no knowledge of other skeletons and the two brothers in town having no relatives, you wonder if it’s possible for another skeleton to exist at all.

Although, the unexpected tends to happen often, so you don’t doubt the possibility yet.

You take a closer look at the sketches. There are eraser marks beneath the product that have left slightly pink stains against the white canvas. Though the sketches of this monster maintain the same quality as the other drawings downstairs, these seem to stand out like a sore thumb. You feel a twinge in your heart and leave the sketches behind for now.

There’s not much else in the room of note other than the neatly made bed. Just before you decide you should leave, though, you notice something atop the bedside table. It’s an old, flimsy, and slightly burnt journal with an ‘N’ inscribed on the front. Though guilt haunts you, you open the journal to the first page with writing. The monster’s handwriting is rather…messy, but you don’t complain since it’s legible.

I was told that journaling is a good hobby, but it’s a little hard to tell if I’m doing this right…?

I might know as I keep doing it, which is why it’s called a hobby of course! But all I’ve done so far is move my art supplies to this old house on a hill and settled in. I found it while wandering around and thought it was lonely, so I thought it’d be fun to fix it! I think the old owners would be happy.

It’s a little hard to get all the dust and cobwebs. There are a lot of bugs and critters lying around, but the air doesn’t seem to be healthy for them. The house is clean now, and I’ve taken a liking to practicing my art here. It’s nice.

It’s very nice.

The rest of the journal is empty. You close it with a calm smile and finally decide to leave the farmhouse for the morning. Hopefully, this afternoon, you’d get to see the monster drawing something new or finally coloring one of the portraits.

When you return to the farmhouse in the afternoon, the monster is nowhere to be seen.

Your face carries a slight frown, but you peek through the back window in case you spot a finished portrait that’s made its way downstairs. As you come up defeated, you nearly take a step off the yard—but wonder if you could catch sight of him upstairs. Maybe sneaking inside has made you overconfident, but the thought doesn’t stop you from opening the door.

You wait for a possible response. You hear and see nothing, so you take this chance to tiptoe your way up the staircase. As the bedroom reveals itself on your ascent, you catch sight of the monster’s head and come to a sharp halt. You bend beneath the staircase, peeking your head over while worried that he noticed you.

The worry washes away when you realize he has his back turned to you. With an internal sigh, you peek over just a little more to see what he’s currently doing. He’s holding a bunch of yellow and teal fabric, standing over the bedside table where his journal rests. He must be doing some sewing work; you confirm this thought as you glance over at the sewing table to notice that there’s a yellow piece of fabric in the machine.

The more you stare at it, though, you notice that it isn’t just any piece of yellow fabric. The way it glows beneath the sun’s departing light is too distinct for it to be so. He must be crafting a new outfit.

The monster, however, has yet to move from his spot. He stays in place by that bedside table. You think he might be hoping to write something inside his journal, wondering where to put all the fabric in his hands, but the scene in front of you stays still. The air is stagnant, and you, too, feel frozen in place.

Almost like a statue…yet that comparison doesn’t settle right on your chest.

You decide to quietly move down the stairs and outside of the farmhouse. Hopefully the sun will return comfort to this home tomorrow.

Chapter Text

You wake up to a sunny morning and your mother’s special breakfast. When you stare at her for long enough, she sighs once again and tells you that you are allowed to visit the farmhouse and that next time you don’t need to ask for permission. You must have given her what she describes to be “that look” again, something you heard her talking with the neighboring villagers about. Regardless, the excitement you feel when thinking of each visit has yet to run out, so you quickly devour your breakfast and leave your dirtied dishes in the sink, jumping out the door with delight.

You run into the mayor of the village on your way out. You ask him about the farmhouse, to which he laughs and comments that you’ve been visiting that place a lot recently. The gym teacher at the local elementary school chimes in and agrees, patting your back with a boisterous laugh. You smile and nod, and she asks you why you’re interested in a broken-down home so far from the village. You aren’t really able to say—for while one part is interest in the house itself, the other is curiosity of the monster within, to which you will still attempt to keep his identity hidden. You simply say that it’s a nice place, and she doesn’t disagree with you. She asks the mayor if he’s still going through with the deconstruction like the rumors say, and he nods solemnly. He apologizes to you with a pat on your head and explains that there is no further need for that old farmhouse, saying they could freshen up that part of the prairie for the farm animals and plant a few more crops. You understand, of course, but he reminds you that you can still visit until the end of the week. You’re at least thankful for that, so you give his fuzzy leg a hug (your arms aren’t even able to wrap around them entirely) and tell him you’re off to the farmhouse. The two of them wave you off and separate, the mayor heading home while the gym teacher wanders over to the café.

You stop. Actually, gifting the monster a loaf of bread or a pastry might not be a bad idea. You know that you’re hoping to keep your presence a secret and leave the monster to his own devices, but you don’t want him to be so lonely in the home—not after all he’s done to repair it. He might enjoy a token of appreciation and acknowledgement, something that you strongly think would help him after seeing him so abnormally immobile yesterday. You turn around at the idea and skip over to the café.

The bell atop the door jingles as you enter. The gym teacher you’d talked with earlier offers another wave from across the room, and the engineer that accompanies her does the same with a sheepish smile on her face. You notice a bouquet on the table and quickly turn to the counter, hoping not to interrupt them further.

The nice spider owner greets you, asking what’s got you coming in today. You tell her that you want a fresh loaf of her special Web Bread, and she grins and praises you on your excellent choice. She grabs the loaf from a rack behind her and names her price—but as you sift through your pockets, you realize they’re empty after lending all your money to your second-in-command for last week’s adventure. You deadpan at the thought…they’ll definitely pay it back if you have anything to say about it. The owner giggles at your misfortune, but she tells you not to worry about payment—for now, at least, as she expects to receive payment within the next week or else she’ll pester your mother about it (and you do not want that. Absolutely not). You nod and promise to pay her within the upcoming week, gently taking the bread into your arms and waving on the way out.

With the bread in your hands, you wonder if you should write the monster a note with it. You decide not to, worrying that it may be too intrusive, and head straight for the farmhouse. On your journey, you tell the scarecrow he’s doing a great job. He scowls, but it fades to a grin as he mumbles a thanks.

The sun blesses the land with its glimmering light and the farmhouse seems to shine beneath it. Grass has slowly been growing from where weeds once occupied and the air around the home has become so light that its calming aura has you stepping onto the porch without fear this time. You set the loaf of bread in front of the doorway and peek inside, wondering where the monster is, but…

What you see inside today is…different. The hearty mood you once felt disperses, fading away as you catch sight of the new interior.

The house’s interior, which had once been so full of a tender mirth and love, was suddenly messy. Peeking through the open entrance alone, you notice canvases lying all around the floor with small paint stains splattered about. You lean forward but flinch to a halt—you should check if he’s inside first. With haste, you run to the back door and open it slowly, hoping the long, exaggerated cry of the door would confirm the presence of the monster. Nothing follows, so you take this as a chance to enter and witness the change of scenery up close.

Paintbrushes lie in random places and glasses filled with water have been knocked over, yet not broken. You walk up to some of the canvases, wondering if you’d see the finished ones from before, but they’re the unfinished portraits from yesterday. Some have pencil markings scratched across the canvas, others have slightly bent edges or have holes in them, and a few have been untouched. There’s only one of them that is front-facing, standing against the wall—but this portrait is not like the others at all.

The sketch is of a rather terrifying monster with only a single eye, the other being obstructed by what you interpret as a goopy-like substance. The texture seems to cover its entire being, which only contributes to the intensity of the shiver that strikes your spine. You’re unable to move so long as you continue to stare into the single eye of the monster that peers into your own soul. You approach the distant canvas with wary footsteps, taking further notice of the lack of a mouth on the monster—as if there was not meant to be any certain expression on it at all. Whatever the reason, you quickly turn the canvas over and, surprisingly, find words engraved on the back. They’re in small lettering, but you recognize it as the same handwriting as the monster’s, which slowly gets sloppier with each line you read.

You are not…

You are no longer…

You are…

You…

Though you don't understand what the words mean, the weight that tugs at your heart is more than enough context. You frown and set the sketch back to its original stance and tiptoe around the other canvases, approaching the stairwell with an anxiety that has never filled you before in this home. Regardless, you cautiously tread up the stairs to the bedroom where a similar sight greets you. Fabrics lay messily across the floor and bed, more art supplies linger around, and the finished set of canvases sit in the corner of the room, away from the spotlight. As you move further into the bedroom, you notice something golden barely shining on the bed—and when you advance further, you notice it’s two things: his swirled crown carefully resting atop yellow fabric that seems to be in much worse condition compared to the rest of them lying around. Curiously, you gently place the crown aside and detangle the cape. The sight tugs your face into a frown.

You recognize it as the flag from the canvas. However, the flag in your hands is torn and mangled, crumbled in all sorts of ways. The edges look to have been sliced off and have a dried, black substance clinging to them. No matter how hard you try, you can’t swipe it off. The middle of the flag is the only part that’s held together, the sun decal still shining valiantly. Sunlight peers through the window and glows as a beacon of hope, yet you still gain a sense of sorrow. You carefully fold the flag and move to set it back onto the bed, but you stop when you notice something hidden beneath it. You realize it’s the burnt journal from yesterday. Considering how the farmhouse looks, you place the flag down and open the journal to see if anything new has been written—to which you find you are correct. Graphite flows through on the next page, again in that monster’s handwriting, and although you still feel guilty for reading the words, you ready yourself to do so anyway. Learning more about this monster may offer you assistance in how to help him, even if the method in gaining this information is not particularly ideal.

Regardless, you flip to the first unread page:

I keep trying to draw you in honor of our memories, and yet I can never do it right.

Maybe art isn’t cut out for me. Maybe I should stick to sewing and carpentry, but even still, I am drawn to the crippling pencil that lays beside the couple tens of you, its eraser on the verge of death. Yet, it’s so quiet here that I feel so compelled to reflect (as prompted).

She told me not to return until I was ready to proceed. I hadn’t any idea what she meant, but she had kicked me away regardless and left me alone. My friend, he tried to protest, but in her domain, she’d been naturally stronger. All I was left with was the journal he gave me years ago, a remnant of the ashen home he’d lost.

The truth is, I know what she meant. But I don’t know how to fix it. I fear that “getting over it,” as she put it, would be a rejection of everything I am and everything you were.

I know it is true. You told me yourself on the day I barely escaped, our flag being torn, and I believe you. I know you are gone, and I know the adversary before me is not you…but I can’t see him and not think that you reside in there somewhere. Somewhere, beneath that dark, animus sea, you are resting, waiting for something to save you…waiting for me to save you. If I give up on that hope…it feels like I’m giving up on myself. I don’t want to believe that you are the only thing that cannot be saved. And yet, I know it is true.

This feeling is frustrating. It’s suffocating. It’s confining. It feels like the world is pulling itself apart where I can only wonder if it is my fault, looking at it through that stone capsule.

Spending time here feels like I’m wasting it. People need my help and yet I am here, struggling to even write words I didn’t learn with you. I am here, on the prairie, cleaning this house for a reason I cannot name.

And I keep trying to draw you in honor of our memories, yet I can never do it right, for I fear I may one day forget your face.

The rest of the journal is empty. Your chest sinks, the melancholic words injecting into you as you skim over the words once more. The handwriting gradually loses structure the further it goes, the last line being nearly illegible. Quickly, you snap the journal shut and hide it beneath the flag, resting the crown on top as before. You look around the room, but the sorrow that lingers now becomes too much to bear, so you make your way down the stairs and out the back door.

Before you step outside, you catch sight of the canvas with that strange monster. Its gaze pierces through you as before, and while you still feel intimidated, something wistful grazes your soul. With a frown, you finally leave the house and head back to the village.

When you arrive, the younger skeleton brother calls your name, but you can’t find it in yourself to smile and converse with him. With a quick wave to him, you make your way straight home, mind fogged in thought, and the skeleton seems more worried than upset. You know you’d be able to explain it tomorrow—but for now, you need a moment to think in your room.

You decide not to visit the house in the afternoon. It’d be better to leave it until tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Your morning, by routine, passes normally. The only difference is not only the void in your chest that carried over from yesterday, but your mother noticing the slight difference in your expressions. She asks you if you had a bad dream, but you shake your head and tell her that you’ll be fine. She smiles—shallowly, and you know she sees through you like always—but allows you to go outside without further issue. You hate lying to your mother, yet you still wish to keep the identity of the monster a secret.

You decide to go straight to the house this morning, wondering if he received the loaf of bread you dropped off and hoping he is doing better than yesterday. As you’re nearing the front porch, about to peer through the doorway, you hear a shout behind you. You’re startled and swiftly turn over, letting the voice register once you see a familiar face. The younger skeleton brother is waving at you, approaching you with an easygoing smile. He goes to start another sentence, presumably to ask what you’re doing out here so far away from the village, but your worry spikes as you run away and hurriedly motion for him to follow you. He’s confused but follows your lead, rushing to your side as you flee from the farmhouse and to the edge of the nearby forest.

The skeleton asks you what the rush is for, but you stare at the farmhouse to see if the monster had been alerted by the noise. After a minute or so of nothing exiting nor entering the home, you sigh in relief and tell the skeleton that you just wanted to explore the house. His face turns into one of questioning as he says he suspected you’d say that, with how much you’ve been running around here recently, but he feels as though something is off. He tells you how the kids in town wanted to regroup with you yesterday afternoon, but they couldn’t find you outside like usual. They asked your mother, who said you went to bed early, and are still worrying about you. You sigh awkwardly; you didn’t want to make others worry like this. You spare a glance over to the farmhouse, then back to the skeleton. Maybe it’s time to finally get a light load off your chest.

With a deep breath, you explain that there’s more to visiting this house than simple curiosity. You wouldn’t return if the house had nothing interesting in it—nothing that caught your attention, of which there certainly was. Before revealing your secret discovery, however, you ask him if he had met any other skeleton monsters before he and his brother arrived in the village. He hums in thought and says that he’s not certain; if there was, at least, he would absolutely remember them, but he’ll ask his brother about it later just in case. You nod your head, and he asks why you wonder such a thing. With another deep breath, you tell him that there’s been a skeleton monster residing in the farmhouse for the past few days.

His eye sockets light up at the news, thrilled to have a new friend in town. He’s eager to stroll right up to the farmhouse and knock on the non-existent front door, introducing himself and hoping to drag the monster along to the village square. You shake your head, however, asking that you keep his presence a secret from the other villagers. He hums at the proposition, but you tell him that you don’t want to invade the monster’s privacy. You gave him a loaf of bread yesterday as a sign of friendly recognition, and you want the monster to feel welcome to introduce himself at his own pace. He taps a finger to his chin, then lights up and nods his head along. He can agree to such a decision and will also keep the monster’s residency a secret, but he asks you to let him be the first to know when the monster will decide to come down and say hello. You promise him that before his eyes shoot up in worry, exclaiming how he’d forgotten his breakfast in the oven again and that he must return home before that strange, white canine feasts upon it. How the dog will get the food out of the oven on its own, you couldn’t begin to guess—but he’s off to the village sending you a farewell before you get the chance to ask.

You sigh once more, but it allows your shoulders to relax as you slowly make your way back up the hill to the front porch, quickly discovering that the loaf of bread you dropped off is no longer there. Looking through the doorway, you notice how the interior is in much better spirits than yesterday. You hop over to the back door, peeking through the window to see the art corner that is also in much better shape. You open the back door, allowing time for the monster to be alerted and drawn to the sound should he be inside, but when nothing happens, you take the opportunity to walk in like all the other days before.

The finished paintings have returned downstairs and are stacked against the wall neatly, but there are still paint stains and remnants of dried water lingering around the floor. There is one canvas that faces the wall, but as you look closer and see the words on the back, you recognize it as the portrait of the strange, gloomy monster. You do not turn the canvas over to look at it again, but the thought makes you wonder if the other finished paintings have words on their backs, too. You approach the stacked canvases to answer this, taking the painting of the field with people sprinkled throughout a field.

True to your suspicions, there are words on the back:

Our home, once filled with a gentle peace. Though not all memories were bright, we still had each other. We could create more beneath the threatening current we swam against.

It is a place I can no longer return to.

Your eyes linger on the painting for a moment before you look upon the next. You turn over the canvas of the cat monster beside their home.

His home, finally rebuilt. Far beyond the village, yet it was the only place I could be honest to myself and another. I’m grateful he’s stood by my side all these years.

The next painting is the one of the large tree.

Our mother. I can no longer hear her voice, yet I wonder what she would think of what we’ve become. Our conversations were rare, but I miss her still.

What a heavy thing this flag has become.

You file through the other canvases behind it, but their backs turn out to be empty, and you notice how none of them are the broken portraits you’d seen scattered about yesterday. The discovery, though seemingly trivial, makes you stare a little longer at the first three paintings, absorbing the beauty of the scenery and the grief that lies beneath it. The sight brings forth the question: how, exactly, can you help him? The desire still burns strong inside you, but with the upcoming demolition of the house and the heaviness of this monster’s history—of which you don’t even know entirely yet, but it still ties an anchor to your chest—how can you reach a hand out to him? That desire alone fuels you as you move towards the staircase. Even if the monster is upstairs, and even if it is unlikely as he was unalerted by your famous door-opening strategy, you walk up with steady footsteps and a straightened back. You want to meet with him, just once, before the week is over and the farmhouse he worked so hard to repair is ultimately demolished. You can tell him that you can convince the villagers to abandon the project after all, especially with the acknowledgement that another monster is residing within the home, and you can finally introduce him to the other villagers. You can offer him a home here.

You reach the top of the stairs, walking into the bedroom with a determined stride, yet you’re met with nothingness again. The monster is not in the house after all, but the state of the room is, like downstairs, in much better condition. Fabrics have been folded and stacked by the sewing machine, the golden crown sleeps peacefully on the bed, and the journal is once again alone on the bedside table. You do not inspect any of these three things first; rather, you walk over to the window where a new stack of canvases rest against the wall, recognizing them as the broken portraits that have returned to their spot. They remain unchanged, still baring holes and violent scratches of graphite, and the sight returns that sinking weight back into your stomach. Currently, you are too afraid to sink your hand further into the piercing cold water that is the sight before you, so you don’t, opting instead to walk over to the bedside table. The journal hasn’t changed from when you last saw it, but you have the strong sense that there’s something new written within. With hesitant hands, you take the journal and open it, flipping past the entry you’d read yesterday to be met with, sure enough, a new entry.

This prairie is beautiful. When I come home from gathering wood for the repairs, I get caught in the sight of the sunrise beyond the roof of the house. The house shines in those moments like its smiling at me, greeting me as I walk up onto the porch.

I think, in those moments, that my time here was well spent.

I think, in those moments, how much you would enjoy these sights with me. How much fun we would have in this house together, trying all sorts of things.

I think, in those moments, about how this prairie is beautiful.

You find yourself in another regretful frown. Just as you believe this to be the only entry, however, you notice a few sentences on the next page right before you close the journal, prompting you to read through them.

You liked to read. You liked to watch the flowers around the tree blossom in the spring. You liked the music in the town square, as much as you didn’t like those that played them. You liked the birds that chirped in the morning, because they woke us in time to watch the sunrise. Truthfully, I always thought it strange that you liked the sunrise more than the sunset. You liked animals, especially small ones, even though they would not approach you, but me. You liked storytelling and would make up fake scenarios to keep us entertained until we fell asleep. You liked the rain because the rain meant I would stay by your side under the tree that day, playing with stray sticks in the ground and getting mud between our fingers, our laughter ringing into the air. And I feel so desperate to write all of this down so that I can engrave it not only in this book, but into my heart.

You liked. You loved. You lived. Really, you did.

Only I can be your living memory.

The next page, and all the pages thereafter, are blank. However, you catch remnants of graphite on the very last page, a short sentence having been scribbled out then hastily erased. With nervous hands, you close the journal, turning back to leave the house and ponder further on how to help the monster while making sure not to invade any boundaries (which, to be honest, you probably already have with sneaking around the house and peeking in his journal), but you stop in front of the portraits once more. This time, you reach out and flip the first canvas over, gazing over the back in search of anything at all. It’s blank, however, and the rest of them mimic this pattern, showing no signs of having been written on at all. The very last one, however, catches your eye. The only thing you can make out of the sketch—the only part that has been left undamaged—is the crown with the moon decal engraved on its front resting atop a skull. The face of the monster is damaged, with a large hole standing in your way and other scratches on the outside of the painting obstructing any other details—but when you turn it over, you find that this is the only portrait that has words on it. The words, unlike the others, are written without fault or any shaky edges, standing so matter-of-factly in the corner just above the hole.

I love you.

A certain hollowness lingers inside you as you read the words that are written so confidently, even on their lonesome. It’s as if that statement, if nothing else, is the one thing that is an absolute certainty against the broken sketches and scribbled-out messages—against the unforgiving course of time. Unable to stare at them any longer, you put the canvas back in its original spot, finally walking back down the steps to make your leave.

Maybe the monster will be back later this afternoon, and you’re determined to finally greet them. For now, you leave through the front door and think about what you’re going to say at your eventual introduction.

When you return to the farmhouse in the afternoon, in the golden glow that illuminates the sky as the sun begins to set, you’re once again met with an empty home. You wait for any sign of the monster’s presence before entering the back door as usual, the loud creak ringing through the air, but nothing happens. You walk inside, but the scene hasn’t changed from when you were here this morning. The canvases are still stacked, some paint stains are still littered around the floor, and the silence is calm—almost eerily so. Hoping to meet him upstairs, though mostly predicting you’ll see nothing once again, you tread up into the bedroom. As you thought, nothing awaits you there but what you’d already seen this morning, with fabrics folded by the sewing machine and the portraits still by the window.

There are two things different about the scene, though. The one you notice first is the outfit sprawled out on the bed, just under the light of the setting sun. It shines before you with pride, standing out a lot more than what you’d seen the monster wearing previously. The outfit boasts its golds and yellows, complemented with its teal and cream accents as it glistens beneath the streak of sun that strikes it. You’re content to simply stare at the creation before you, but what gets you moving closer is the pink button with a white star sitting at the top of the arrangement. The button rests on a bed of gold—yet the way the sun lights it under its glow is different than the gold flowing throughout the rest of the outfit. It’s as if the sun is breathing life into this one piece of fabric, letting it capture the light and reflect it like a gemstone, breathless and serene. With careful hands, you grab the button and lift it off the bed, the pristine fabric flowing gently behind as you bring it towards you. Though it’s light in weight, you feel something heavier lying behind the pretty piece of clothing, especially when the smooth fabric rubs against your fingertips. You inspect the piece of fabric until you flip it over on its back, meeting with something that brings you to a halt.

You recognize this as the cape from yesterday: shortened, yet refurbished and pristine. You feel the sun decal give you something like a sorrow smile, and despite the sudden weight that fills your hands, you keep holding the cape while it shines before you. You find yourself reflecting the same smile, eventually placing the cape back on the bed below the crown that you finally notice is laying at the top of the entire outfit. It, too, glimmers in the sunset, and the smile remains on your face, even if your chest feels slightly tight.

When you take your sights off the outfit, you notice the other difference about the bedroom: the journal on the bedside table is missing. The difference doesn’t disturb you much, but it has you feeling a little more guilty having read the entries without permission. You don’t get to linger on the feeling for long, though, before the light outside slowly snuffs out, growing dimmer as the sun melts into the horizon. You don’t want to get another lecture by your mother for staying out too late, so you take this as your signal to leave the home for today.

As you jog back into town, a voice from behind calls out to you. While it does startle you, especially with the darkness that begins to spread across the sky, you immediately recognize the voice to be the older, shorter skeleton brother. You turn and wave in greeting, and he smiles at you, asking if you were back at the farmhouse this afternoon. Sheepishly, you smile and nod, which in turn earns you a small chuckle from the skeleton. He notes how you’ve been running around that place lately, worrying your mother and your friends in the village with how comfortably you let your curiosity guide you. He wonders, then, if there really isn’t anything more to your visits than that vague sense of intrigue—and you immediately know he’s caught onto something, hasn’t he? With a sigh (and a quick look over the shoulders to make sure only he is listening), you explain the same thing you’d told his brother this morning: that there’s actually been a skeleton monster residing within the farmhouse fixing up the place. At first, you only wanted to observe and watch him as he gave care to the old home, making no attempt to disturb him—but now you’re set on meeting him, even wanting to bring him into town to meet the other villagers and offer him the hospitality of your hometown.

The older brother nods his head, confirming that he thought that might be the case. His brother both was and wasn’t the best at keeping secrets—for while the older could tell his brother was hiding something and eventually got him to spill only some information, nothing more than the implication that someone new may be coming into town, he can at least say that his brother told no one else about this. That interaction, combined with the question of skeleton relatives and the question today from his brother on if they’d met any skeleton monsters before arriving in the village, just naturally led him to think there was some kind of connection. You hang your head slightly in embarrassment, but the skeleton tells you not to worry about it, ruffling your hair with another chuckle.

In contrast, he thinks it’s a good idea that not everyone knows about this yet. The whole town would be in shock at the idea of a new villager settling in, especially under their noses and in the house they planned to demolish, and the uproar—however positive it may be—might disturb the monster so much that they end up leaving. You nod in agreement, which is why you’re hoping to go back to the house tomorrow, as usual, and attempt to talk with him and introduce him to the town. The skeleton likes your idea, even pitching in that you can bring him a welcome gift on your visit. Though you’d already brought a loaf of bread, another gift wouldn’t hurt—especially since this one would be directly given instead of left on the porch. You thank the skeleton for the advice and wish him goodnight, making way for your home to ponder over what you could give as a gift tomorrow morning.

You think about buying another loaf of bread from the bakery, but remember you recently got into debt for that. Despite this, it doesn’t take long for you to come up with an idea.

Chapter Text

Excitement courses through you as you start your morning rather early. Your mother hasn’t even started breakfast yet, but you’re already rummaging around the fridge in search of one of the gifts you’d like to give the monster in the farmhouse. Your mother frowns at your giddy behavior, telling you not to run through the fridge before breakfast and to settle down, but your smile weakens her resolve as she lets you pull out a small triangular container and place it into the basket you’d brought from your room. With another begging smile, she sighs and tells you to be back before breakfast finishes, to which you nod fervently and hop out the door.

The sun is about to peek its head over the horizon. Only a few villagers are awake at this hour, most of them farmers working out in the fields before the afternoon heat gets the jump on them, but you’re focused on making your way to the edge of the forest near the farmhouse. Your gift isn’t finished quite yet—the rest of it lies here around the edges of the tree stumps, swaying gently in the wind as a few insects rest atop their colorful petals. You pick a good handful to fill up your basket and, finally, step out of the forest, donning your present with pride.

All that fills the basket is your hand-picked flowers and a slice of your mother’s homemade pie—which, is still cold from being refrigerated. But you can heat up the pie and eat it together later when you (hopefully) bring the monster into town, or maybe he might even enjoy cold pie. In any case, you think he’ll enjoy the flowers if nothing else. The yellow and purple assortment you’d picked out brings a smile to your face, and you hope that it’ll do the same for him.

As you approach the porch, though, you slow to a stop before you even reach the first step. The house has once again changed from yesterday: not just in feeling, but in appearance, too. The window frames are empty, the withering glass having been disposed of, and the small holes in the roof has finally been patched up. What shocks you the most, though, is that there is a front door that stands before you. The porch is as clean as ever, as is the patch of grass around the house, and you gradually make your way up the steps to inspect the door further. It seems almost brand new, spotless handle and all, and when you turn it and open the door, it doesn’t make so much as a peep. As you look into the house, you notice that the interior was also given extra care. The paint stains and dried puddles of water are no longer there, and the patches of dust that lingered in the smallest crevices of the home are nowhere to be seen.

Upon closer inspection, however, there are some holes that have yet to be patched up in the walls. Though they hardly stand out against the rest of the home’s polished state, you can’t help but focus on them now that you’ve noticed it. But even if these holes are littered throughout the walls, the fresh morning air still wafts in through the empty window frames and fills the house with tranquility.

You notice, however, that the canvases that were here from before are also gone. In their place instead are blank ones stacked neatly by the back door, right beside a bundle of paint supplies and glass cups. Perhaps they’ve moved upstairs—but when you reach the top of the steps, the sight before you is also like that of downstairs. The window frame is empty, the bed is made and seems untouched, and everything that the monster owned is gone. The sewing machine, all that fabric, the journal, the broken portraits: none of it is to be found.

A small frown sprouts on your face. You rush downstairs, hoping that there has to be something you’re missing here, but the scene remains unchanged. The monster left.

You grip at the basket in your hands and stare into the flower petals. Even if he is gone, you think it would be nice to leave the basket anyway. But when you place the basket on the kitchen counter and make your way to the front door, you notice something on the edge that stands out against the clean wooden surface.

The monster’s journal. It seems he left it behind.

With a heavy hand, you reach out and take the journal, opening it and expecting to be met with the entries you’d read before. To your surprise, however, every single page of the journal has been ripped out except the very last one, which contains something that you’ve yet to read.

Dear human,

I wanted to find a way to thank you for the bread, but I wasn’t sure when the right time would be. Truthfully, I always knew you were snooping around the house while I was here, but I didn’t want to startle you. I couldn’t sense any harm from you, so I knew it would be okay for you to wander around.

I know you liked those paintings I made, and I’m sorry that they are no longer here. But I can’t leave them behind. I have to take them with me. I wish I could give one to you, or even all of them, but they mean too much to me to let go. I hope you understand.

I also want to thank you for more than the gift you left me. You were kind enough to leave me to my hobbies here in this house, to leave me with my emotions as I sorted through the fate I’ve found myself stuck in, and such solitude gave me worthy time to reflect. It’s only because of that time that I am able to find my resolve and continue traveling. So for that, and your unending kindness, I thank you.

In exchange, I will one day come back for these canvases and paint you the sights I come across in my travels. Until that time comes, I hope that you’ll keep this house in great care for when I return—and even beyond.

I hope to introduce myself properly then, too. Though I’ve never met with them, the people of this village are truly a nice, gentle bunch. I pray you’ll take care of them, too.

I must be on my way. But no matter what I find out there, I will never forget the beauty this prairie gave me.

Until we meet again!

Dream.

…His name is Dream.

The only thing hinting towards his name was the belt he left on the counter that one day, which even then only held his initials. You close the journal and keep it within your grasp, looking around the home as its somber sense of longing seeps into you. After a moment of stillness, you take the basket on the counter and pick out the slice of pie on the bed of flowers (you don’t want it to go bad, after all), leaving the basket where it is and walking towards the front door.

You hold the journal tight within your arms as you walk out into the yard. You take one final look at the house before entering the village. It’s peaceful and quiet in the soft wake of the sunrise, where its gaze feels the same as that of the cape you’d held yesterday and could never forget. The grass waves at you, but not particularly to say goodbye—rather, it seems it knows you’ll be coming right back sometime soon. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not next week…but it knows it will see you again.

You smile and think that the monster has quite the fitting name. With one final turn, you race into the village. You know your mother would be upset with how you run straight past your front porch, but breakfast can wait for just a few minutes longer.

For now, you rush up to the front door of the mayor’s home and knock on the door. Eventually, the door opens, and before he can even get a word out, you tell him there’s something you have to talk about. He invites you to a morning cup of tea out by his flower garden for whatever you have to discuss.

With a warm cup of tea in your hands, looking out into the sunrise and the house on the prairie, you ask just a simple question.

Chapter Text

A loud knocking on your door wakes you from a restful slumber. You rub your eyes as you slowly rise from your bed, pulling off the covers and looking through the window.

The morning in spring is always the best, which is why it’s one of your favorite seasons—especially in this village. With a grin, you get dressed for the day and wander downstairs, feasting on a hearty breakfast your mother made before walking out into the cool spring weather.

Many farmers are out working around this time, wiping sweat off their foreheads as they till the fields. The other villagers are out and about, mingling with one another in the calm breeze. Your eyes spot the mayor a couple homes down, and once your eyes meet, you give him a wave and walk his way. He returns the gesture and wishes you a good morning, asking how you favor the springtime weather. You tell him that you love it, of course, and he nods, saying that he loves the many flowers that sprout in the spring.

He then asks if you’re doing anything today. He’s going to plant more flowers in his garden since the weather is finally turning up and wonders if you would like to help him. You tell him, with a sad shake of your head, that you’re unfortunately busy today, but you can always help him another time. He waves a hand and tells you not to worry about it, and to more importantly be safe and have fun in whatever plans you have today. You smile and nod, taking your leave as the mayor watches you jog off into the field and towards the hill.

You began visiting the farmhouse every so often to keep it in good shape ever since the mayor caved into your plea, canceling the demolition project on your behalf. You offered that it could be a temporary residence for travelers that come and go, especially in the winter, and that you’ll make sure to check in often so that the house stays in good condition. The mayor accepted the offer, to your surprise, and offered to help repair any parts that were still flimsy or rough around the edges. You accepted the help, and eventually, other villagers came to lend a hand, cleaning the tall spots you can’t reach on your own and making sure you don’t use up all your energy cleaning the whole house on your own.

But today, you don’t need any help. You’re just going to gather some flowers from the forest again and put them in the vase you left there last month, hoping that the change in scenery would be a welcomed change. As you near the hill, however, you notice someone already stepping off the porch, stretching their arms as they stare up into the morning sun that has fully emerged from the horizon.

You think it might be a villager helping out with the cleaning, but you remember telling them to inform you whenever they’ll be doing some checking up on the house—and no one told you they’d be coming today. But as you look closer, you realize the gold and brazen cape the monster wears is enough for you to remember who this person is.

You want to call his name—to finally speak to him after not seeing a trace of him in so long—but you stop once he turns to face you. He gives you a smile, calm and sweet like the spring breeze, and turns around once more, walking into the forest and beyond the trees.

You try to chase after him, but he’s nowhere to be found. With a defeated sigh, you pick some of the flowers by the trees and make your way back to the house. The home is in its best shape since the villagers have pitched in to help—now there’s windows on the frames again, some of the holes have been repaired, and everything maintains that serenity you’ve always remembered. When you walk inside and into the spotless living room, you take the vase on the kitchen counter and pour some water into it with the sink that was finally repaired thanks to the mayor. You place the bundle of yellow and purple flowers into the vase and return it to the kitchen counter—but right before you leave, you stop and notice a lone canvas by the back door.

Except this canvas is filled out, you notice, and the painting stares at you welcomingly. As you approach it, you notice the houses and the fields in the background are all too familiar. You know that forest and those people in front of the homes, and you know that sunrise that peeks above it all. This is a painting of your town.

You look around the room and, to your surprise, you find a wide variety of finished paintings on those blank canvases that had been left behind. Some are of places and locations: one of a town with rude-looking monsters, a town amongst the vastness of space, a place with floating islands holding unique-looking doors, and a large town with a fountain in the middle beneath a sky of pure white. Others are of people: notably, one of a skeleton monster with a really big paintbrush and a vibrant monster with a blue scarf and matching gloves. There are many paintings here to sift through, and all of them leave you with a large smile, wondering if these, like the other paintings you’d seen back then, have words on their backs.

To your fortune, they do. There are many words on the backs of each painting, presumably laying out a story with each one, and you quickly find yourself sitting on the floor to read the first one your eyes landed on: your own hometown.

As you read through the passages filled with love and memories, you smile, feeling every emotion poured into the words and into the paintings themselves. And, through your feelings, you hope that he will come to visit sometime again, wishing to see more of his travels and the stories they contain.

You hope, more than anything, to at least tell Dream hello.