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Henry placed the needle down upon the record and settled into his armchair as Vera Lynn’s loving voice rang through the gramophone.
The needle protested with a faint, brittle hiss before the music bloomed—warm and wavering, as though it had to push its way through dust and time to reach him. The armchair creaked beneath his weight, leather sighing softly as it accepted him. The scent of old paper and machine oil lingered in the air, familiar enough to be comforting, sharp enough to remind him where he was.
It had always been a favorite of his mother's. When Alice had still been a toddler, Henry found himself singing it to her to help her sleep. He loved his baby sister so dearly. And perhaps, had he loved her enough to refuse her demands to join him on his expedition that fateful day, he never would have ended up in that cave. He never would have been forced to fight and suffer for years as the shadow painstakingly hollowed him out until there was nothing left of him but the face that it bore. And soon enough, that was gone too.
He could not allow those matters to rise in his thoughts.
His fingers curled into the armrest until the worn leather pressed into his palm, grounding him. He focused on the rise and fall of Vera Lynn’s voice, on the steady vibration of sound through the gramophone horn, until the memories dulled—blurred at the edges and sank back into the dark corner of the mind he had carved out for himself.
A place built only of the refuse pieces the Shadow did not care for.
It had taken what it needed.
And this, the last home he had ever known, had become the living tomb of what remained of Henry Creel.
That was, until he looked out his front window and found the landscape had changed.
The clear Nevada desert and the damning cave that lay within it had vanished, replaced by a dense expanse of trees. The glass reflected none of the familiar glare of sun or stone—only green upon green, swallowing the horizon.
– A forest of memory which he did not recognize and dared not to venture within.
Such curiosity had always led him astray—down dark paths that were not easily walked back.
So, Henry sipped his coffee—black like his father would always take it—and turned his attention back to the worn-out paperback he'd been favoring as of late. Kafka's words had nearly become little more than a ritualistic recitation at this point. Should Henry have provided any more thought to the matter, he feared the darkness from the outside may start to leak in and stain the floorboards of his carefully constructed home.
But what remained of Henry Creel had always been fallible—substituting one dangerous line of thinking for another. So, his attention drifted back to the unfamiliar terrain across the street—and to what may possibly lay within the forest he had solemnly vowed to never encroach.
When Henry stepped outside, the air felt wrong in his lungs. Too cool. Too damp. The scent of earth was present, but incomplete, as though someone had tried to remember a forest and missed a few crucial details.
The second Henry stepped foot in the woods, he felt too tall.
His foot lifted, expecting resistance from a fallen branch, and instead cleared it cleanly. He paused, unsettled, and tried again. Each step carried him farther than it should have. The ground did not protest his weight. It simply allowed him through.
He felt too tall—as though he should have had to clumsily climb over the fallen trees rather than step cleanly over them.
He turned his head, scanning the woods for his friends despite knowing he'd never had any for which to look. He was drawn further in a particular direction—towards safety. There was somewhere safe in these woods. Somewhere safe that a brother Henry never had helped him to build years ago. Somewhere safe to escape the wrath of a father that Henry never feared.
And as the unfamiliar shelter came into view, Henry felt as though he'd found a piece of home. It was still the perfect size for him, and yet Henry didn't fit.
He crouched down to its entrance and knocked on its meager walls.
He crouched down to its entrance and knocked on its meager walls.
“Radagast.”
The word tasted strange in his mouth.
When frightened hazel eyes met icy blue, Henry wasn’t quite sure which belonged to him.
“William,” the unfamiliar name left him in a worried voice. “Why are you here?”
The boy shook as he spoke. Henry felt it the moment he drew him close — the child was cold, trembling beneath layers that smelled faintly of damp leaves and fear.
“There’s a monster,” the boy hiccuped. “It’s been chasing me.”
Henry’s arms tightened instinctively, and for the first time since stepping into the forest, the world felt proportioned correctly around him. The boy’s heartbeat fluttered fast and light against his chest.
“There is a monster out here, William,” Henry murmured, voice low and steady. “But I will not let it take you." Henry hushed. "I swear it."
Will nodded and clutched his fingers into the back of Henry's brown suit jacket.
Henry lifted the boy into his arms and stood back to his full height. This time, however, with the trembling boy in his arms, he no longer felt too tall. Now, he was the perfect height to carry the boy over the fallen trees and back to safety.
For the first time in his wretched existence, Henry felt as though he was exactly what someone needed him to be.
Henry sagged in relief once he'd closed the front door behind him, but William didn't let go.
However, Vera Lynn was still singing longingly through the house, and William shifted slightly at her voice, finding the courage to lift his head from Henry's shoulder and look around.
"We made it, William," Henry rubbed a circle along the small boy's back as his mother had done for him after a nightmare. "You're safe."
The words seemed to perk a hesitant curiosity in the boy as he pulled back and looked around with wide hazel eyes.
"You live here?" Will asked in awe. And Henry allowed himself to feel a bit of pride for his family home.
"I do."
William had never known such luxury, Henry found himself understanding from his brief stint in the forest. William had a home, but the most secure he'd ever felt was in a shambling mess of sticks and tarps he and his brother had assembled in the woods.
Will continued to crane his head in every direction in an attempt to take in the ornate home.
With a fond smile, Henry took this as a cue to lower the boy so he could stand upon the hardwood floors.
Above, the crystals chimed faintly as they swayed, though there was no breeze. The lamps glowed warmly without casting heat, light pooling in corners that never seemed to darken.
"Are you rich?" the boy asked, gaping up at the chandelier in the entryway. Henry hummed, considering the question. He supposed, at some point, his family had actually had quite a bit of money after the demise of relatives. Still, none of that mattered now. This place was only a memory.
Will’s footsteps echoed too loudly against the hardwood floors, each sound rebounding off the walls as if the house itself were listening.
“You live here?” the boy asked, staring up at the chandelier.
“Wealth,” Henry said slowly, resting his hand against the banister — solid, reassuring beneath his palm — “is not exactly a concept here.”
William's awestruck expression shifted to confusion as he turned. "Here?"
Henry pursed his lips as he considered how best to approach the topic of their existence in this place. It was a harrowing realization that Henry hadn't had much experience at all when it came to speaking with children. Not since Alice was a babe had he even attempted to communicate with them.
And yet, something in William's eyes seemed familiar in a way he could not grasp.
If Henry were a more forgiving man, he would believe in a loving God. He would believe that every man held a spirit—one that transcended life and death—time and age. He would believe in destiny and fate and all of the things that meeting William reminded him of.
But Henry did not believe in such flights of fancy. So Henry rationalized that William must have been invariably mature for his age. And that maturity must have come at the cost of hardship.
"How is it that you came to be here, William?" Henry asked, looking down at the boy with chestnut hair.
"I told you," Will stiffened. "There was a monster. It was after me."
Henry hummed, pulling his readers from his face and retrieving the kerchief from his pocket.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Will looked stricken, and Henry ceased his endeavors of cleaning his glasses at the sight.
"Of course I believe you, William. Of course, I do." He placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "You wouldn't have ended up here at all if the monster weren't after you."
Will's brows lifted with the tiniest morsel of hope at the affirmation.
"The monster is after me too," Henry confided.
"So how do I get back home?"
"Home…" Henry paused, choosing his words carefully. How was he to tell this boy that there was likely no chance of him ever returning to the home he knew? How did you tell a child that the comfort they were seeking could no longer exist for them? This poor boy… Why was it that the monster had taken him too? Had Henry not been enough? The tell tale frigid drip of dread slipped down his spine as his thought flitted over the idea that, perhaps, Henry himself was a reason this boy was now here— echoing in his fate.
He forced the thoughts to numb and dissipate as he knelt down to be eye- level with the boy.
"Home isn't one place. It isn't one person. Home is wherever you need to be to feel safe. It doesn't have to be forever. It doesn't even have to be familiar. Home is wherever you can be without fear.”
"And…” Will’s small brow furrowed beneath his choppy brown hair, “This is home?"
"It is.” Henry affirmed, “ For me. Though, in time, it could be yours too if you like."
Will looked around again, at the pristine walls and polished floors, the grandfather clock ticking steadily in the hallway, the warm glow of lamps that never seemed to need lighting. Then he looked back at Henry with those old, knowing eyes.
"Then how come you're the only one here? Don't you get scared when you're lonely?"
The question landed like a blow. Henry stood slowly, unable to hold the boy's gaze.
"I'm more afraid when I'm not alone."
"How come?"
"I'm—" Henry knew he could be honest with this boy. Knew that no matter what he said, the boy's soul would somehow understand, and yet— "I'm… not sure."
Will seemed to accept this, the way children sometimes do when they recognize an adult's pain. He wandered further into the house, drawn by the music still playing.
"Is that a record player?" he asked, pointing at the gramophone.
"Not exactly," Henry said, grateful for the change in subject. "It's a gramophone. It's what we had before record players."
"How come you don't have a record player?" Will said, moving closer to examine it. "My mom's had records since she was in high school."
"Yes, well, this was my father's," Henry allowed a small smile. "And he was always rather proud of it, no matter how out of date it became."
"How's it different?"
"The record only plays one song on each side," Henry hummed. "And it doesn't use electricity."
"Then how does it play?" Will cocked an eyebrow. "Where does the power come from?"
"It comes from you," Henry gestured for Will to come closer. "Give this arm a crank."
Will's small hands reached for the crank and gently rotated the handle in a circle. Henry nodded for him to do so again before moving to the turntable behind to spin.
"Now, you see this?" He indicated the tonearm. "You lift it very carefully—and place the needle right here, in the groove of the record."
Will's eyes looked between him and the tonearm, and Henry gave him a reassuring nod.
"Go on."
And with a gentleness Henry didn't think a boy of his age to be capable of, Will reverently lifted the delicate arm.
"That's right," Henry encouraged. "Steady."
The needle touched down and Vera Lynn's voice filled the room once more.
Will's face lit up with wonder. "Is it—was that right?"
Henry felt a light chuckle escape him. "You're a natural."
Will's eyes stayed locked on the shellac as it spun, his head coming to rest in his hand with a dreamy look on his face. Henry hummed along to the familiar tune, causing Will to look up at him.
After a moment, Will spoke again. "Did they?"
"Hm?" Henry paused to meet the boy's curious eyes.
"The lady in the song and the person she's singing to. Did they ever meet again?"
"I don't know," Henry turned away, eyes catching the photos on the mantel. To Henry, the song had always felt like it was a way of saying goodbye to a loved one who was passing on. Though whether it was the singer or the recipient that was passing, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure how much of that mattered, either. The song was for whoever was left—to give them the courage to keep going, promising that they will eventually be reunited one day, in whatever comes after. Henry wasn't sure if such a reunion was a promise or a lie. He didn't have the heart to tell Will that. Henry's eyes lingered on the photo of his family a moment longer before deciding, "I like to think so. Maybe one day we'll find out."
Will nodded, then looked around the library. "Do you have any other songs?"
"A few," Henry shook himself out of the melancholic thoughts and gestured to the shelf where records lived. "Though I'm afraid they're all rather similar to this one."
Will walked over to examine the small collection. He pulled one out, studying the cover with a furrowed brow. "Bing Crosby. My mom likes him."
"Does she?"
"Mhmm. She plays him at Christmas." Will carefully slid the record back. "Don't you have anything... newer?"
"Newer?"
"Yeah, like... I don't know. Queen? Or The Clash?" Will looked over his shoulder. "Or—oh! Don't tell my brother, but my friend Dustin and I like to listen to ABBA."
Henry had no idea what any of those words were supposed to mean in this context. "I'm afraid I don't—"
And suddenly, with a curious hum, Will pulled something from between Glenn Miller and Ella Fitzgerald, a rectangular black object with two small wheels visible through a clear window.
"Oh! You have cassettes!" Will said excitedly, picking it up. "See? We just need something to play it on. Where's the player?"
"William," Henry said slowly. "Where did you get that?"
Will blinked at him. "It was right here. Did it get misplaced? Is it supposed to be with the player?"
"William, I don't have a cassette player." Henry said carefully, reaching his hand out to look at the artifact.
"If you don't have a cassette player, then why do you have a tape?" Will asked, clearly not picking up on the anomaly of it all.
Henry turned the cassette over in his hands.
The plastic was warm.
His stomach dropped.
"The Clash" It was titled.
That had been one of the names Will had just said, hadn't it? Henry looked back to the shelf, where he knew for a fact the tape hadn't been before.
A faint pressure built behind his eyes as he looked back to the shelf, to the empty space where the tape had not existed moments ago. The walls felt closer suddenly, as if the house itself had leaned in to observe.
He was struck with an idea, a long shot, perhaps, but he was simply too curious not to give it a try.
"Actually, William," he cleared his throat, staring at the shelf and not able to look at the boy in earnest. "I believe I do have a cassette player. Would you mind getting it?"
"Sure," Will agreed cheerily.
Henry shut his eyes, trying to decide on a reasonable place Will might believe it to be. "I believe you'll find it in the coat closet beneath the stairs."
"On it!" Will turned and headed off on the task. Henry fiddled with the cassette tape in his hands, anxiously awaiting to see if Will might find what Henry was certain did not exist.
"Wow, it's a really nice one," Will marveled, holding up a device Henry had no recollection of in triumph. Henry’s hand trembled as he reached for it. The weight was real. Too real.
This child had created something.
Not preserved. Not maintained.
Created.
Thankfully, the boy was too enamored by the device to notice the shock on Henry's face at the revelation.
"How could you forget you had this?" Will laughed at the absurdity. "My brother would lose his mind to have one like this."
"I've never used it," Henry excused with a smile. "And now that you mention it, I wonder if the rest of the tapes might be hiding somewhere too. Why don't we see if we can find them?"
And Will did. He found what was never lost in a lower cabinet of the drawing room.
"You've been holding out on me!" Will giggled with excitement, placing the unfamiliar cardboard box of tapes down on the table and fishing them out one by one. "All of my favorites are here!"
Henry smiled at the miraculous boy, handing him the first tape he'd found. "I never would have known."
"So..." Will took the tape and looked back up shyly. "Do you want to hear it?"
Despite himself, despite the strangeness of it all, Henry found himself curious. "How could I deny such serendipity?"
Will's smile faltered.
"Uh... such, serendipity," Henry amended.
Will's uncertainty remained as he attempted to repeat the word. "Seren...deepen—"
"Yes, I want to hear it."
And that was all Will needed to hear.
"Well, that was very," Henry searched for an inoffensive word, "...spirited."
Will giggled. "My brother likes this kind of stuff, so he makes me mixtapes of it."
"Do you like it?" Henry found himself asking.
Will kicked his legs absentmindedly.
"I like... that he wants to share them with me. I don't really care what it is."
"Well," Henry folded his hands, "I like that you want to share them with me as well."
Will looked up with recognition in his eyes and smiled.
"Do you... I'm sorry to ask, but do you maybe..." The boy fumbled, trying to navigate, and he looked away to examine the oriental rug that adorned the floor. "I haven't eaten since... since before the monster came."
"Oh!" Henry gasped. "Yes, of course. Apologies, William. I should have offered you something immediately."
"No—no! It's okay!" the boy assured, flushing. "I'm sorry to ask. I know it's not polite."
"Nonsense," he led Will to the kitchen, trying to remember what children ate—what anyone ate. "This is your home now, too, for however long you should like."
How long had it been since he'd felt hunger? Since he'd needed to eat at all? Time here was strange, immeasurable. He'd simply... stopped.
The kitchen was pristine, frozen in time just like everything else—but empty. The icebox stood silent, the cupboards bare.
Then again, perhaps if he weren't the one to open the cabinet door—
"William, why don't you have a look around and see if you can find anything to your liking?"
"Really?" Will hesitated.
"Yes, of course, please," Henry urged with a gentle hand on the boy's back. "Be my guest."
Will reached for the pantry door and peered inside.
"Can I..." He pulled out a jar of peanut butter and a brand-new loaf of bread. "Can I make a sandwich?"
Henry watched in some odd type of fascination as Will attempted to navigate the kitchen. He couldn't have been taller than Alice, but where Alice never hesitated to ask for assistance, William seemed to only look his way to make sure he wasn't about to be reprimanded. What the boy lacked in height, he clearly made up for with his tenacity.
Despite his age, William clearly knew how to care for himself in a way that Henry never got the chance to learn. Before long, Will was sliding a plate with a small plain sandwich towards him.
"What's this?" Henry asked.
"I made you one," Will explained. "I can cut the crusts off, too, if you want. Mom says I have to keep the crusts on mine because it's good for me, but if you want..."
Henry studied the plate before him. It was peanut butter and jam. The last time he'd had such a meal, it had been with his father. The sandwich had become a staple during his deployment and he'd brought the habit home with him after the war. Henry knew it wasn't special or unique to them—other kids showed up to school with the very same meal—but it had always felt special. Especially because his father had insisted they hide it from his mother. Victor had explained that the rations the soldiers were meant to eat while on deployment were considered poor-man's meals, and that was not the perception she wanted others to have of their family. So, his father would take him out on scout trips, or fishing at the quarry, and when they got there, his father would get a huge grin on his face as he pulled the paper bag containing the sandwiches out from his bag. He always made Henry promise to pretend he was still hungry for whatever his mother had made for dinner. Truth be told, Henry always much preferred what his mother would cook over the sweet mushy bread, but he always ate it with a smile. It was something his father found comfort in, and he wanted to share it with Henry.
Henry took a bite.
The bread clung to the roof of his mouth, sweet and thick, the jam catching him off guard with its brightness. He chewed slowly, waiting for disappointment.
It never came.
His chest tightened instead, breath stuttering as something long dormant stirred.
For the briefest moment, he felt like he was well and truly home.
"Thank you, William," he said quietly.
"Do you have any paper?" Will asked after they'd both finished their sandwiches.
"Paper?" Henry quirked an eyebrow, relishing in the long-forgotten sound of dishes clinking together as he collected their plates.
Will nodded eagerly. "Or crayons? Or if not, then maybe a pencil?"
Henry stood up and felt those atrophied muscles in his face wince as they were pulled into another smile. "I believe you may find all that you're looking for in the study. Why don't you go grab it while I finish up?"
Will pushed himself from the table and ran off in the wrong direction, clearly not knowing where the study was, but Henry was all too interested in learning what the boy might uncover on his way to finding it.
The dishes were cleaned, dried, and neatly returned to their dusty place in the cupboard by the time Will came bounding back into the dining room.
"Here!" Will waved a piece of his father's letterhead in his direction and placed another in front of the chair next to Henry's. He placed the rest of the stack of letterhead in the middle and pushed a large box of crayons between them.
"You have the good kind of crayons," Will remarked, opening the box.
"Well, I must confess they don't see much use these days, so they're all yours," Henry granted.
The boy paused his enthusiastic sorting of the colors and looked up. "How come you don't use them?"
"Oh," Henry thought for a moment, not wanting to explain that the crayons hadn't even existed until Will had found them. "Don't draw much anymore."
"Oh," Will looked disappointed, sitting back in his chair. Henry's heart twisted, so he quickly picked up a black crayon and brought it to the letterhead.
"I used to, though," he informed as his hand hesitated to make any movement. "I used to love to draw."
Will perked up a bit as he shifted to kneel in the chair, attempting to get a better angle.
"It's my favorite thing to do at school," the boy picked out one of the crayons he'd selected earlier and brought it to the paper. "I do it all the time—no matter what class. Sometimes I get in trouble because the teachers think I'm not paying attention, but I am. Drawing just helps me think."
Henry watched as the boy began to sketch with quick, confident strokes.
His hand moved with a surety that spoke of long practice.
"I used to draw animals," Henry supplied. "What do you like to draw?"
"My friend Mike is, like, a really really good storyteller. He makes up all these stories for a game we play and I like to draw them," Will gushed, grabbing another crayon but not bothering to put the first one back. "When we grow up, we're gonna make a comic book together."
"A comic book?" Henry cocked his head.
"Uh, yeah, it's like a bunch of pictures that—"
"I know what a comic book is," Henry sighed. "I used to be quite fond of Batman."
"Really?" Will gaped at him. "You like comics?"
"I do," Henry nodded, returning to his paper. "In fact, that's how I met the best friend I ever had. Her favorite was Wonder Woman."
Will scrunched his nose, clearly having differing opinions on the character. However, his expression shifted before any of that mattered. Instead, he fidgeted with the crayon in his hand.
"Where's your friend now?" he asked in a small voice.
Henry paused, feeling as if his heart were shaking in his chest. Those memories kneaded at his mind and threatened to destabilize him entirely, so he pushed them away as swiftly as he could.
"The monster," he answered quietly. "The monster got her."
Will looked up, heartbroken by the news. He looked back at his own drawing before finding the courage to speak again.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," Henry nodded, trying not to reveal how the words wanted to shrivel up and die in his throat.
"You said the monster was after you too... Did it..." The boy pursed his lips. "Did it take your family?"
Henry felt his eyes unfocus as he tried desperately not to picture their faces and he gave the slightest nod. "Yes."
Will put the crayon down gently and unspooled his legs from beneath him, bringing them to the floor between their chairs. As soon as he was standing, his small arms were wrapped around Henry's shoulders. Henry froze, crayon in hand, as Will's head came to rest against him.
"I'm so sorry," Will whispered, and Henry could hear the way his own throat was tightening with the threat of tears.
And for the first time in so very, very long, Henry felt his own eyes burn with the urge to mourn—not in guilt, nor anguish, but in pure selfish grief. The visions of his past didn't claw at his mind, the shadows didn't constrict his chest in search of access. In a way he never thought possible, the sadness didn't hurt. It felt healing in a way he didn't think any of the books in his library would ever grant a name to. He brought a single hand up to the small arm across his chest.
"As am I, William," he confessed in a whisper, and Will only held him tighter. "As am I."
At Will's first yawn, Henry was reminded that the boy's memory of needing sleep was likely still very vivid. He led Will to his childhood bedroom with the now-useful instruction to look for whatever he needed wherever he expected it to be. Will had thanked him, and Henry had bid him good night and left him to his nightly routine.
He, himself, had returned to his well-loved armchair and his well-worn copy of The Metamorphosis.
When the light in the room was dimmer than Henry was accustomed to, he glanced outside and found the reach of Will's subconscious manifestations didn't stop at the cabinets. For the first time Henry could recall, the sun had set outside of the Creel House. Henry glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall, still frozen at 11:06. Will wasn't moving time, only the comforting routine of day and night.
And yet, for all the comfort it should have afforded, Will didn't appear to rest well at all.
Henry hadn't looked up upon hearing the thump of socked feet upon the wooden stairs—not even when they stopped at the threshold of the library.
"Couldn't sleep?" Henry asked from his chair.
"Nightmare," the boy whispered. At this, Henry put the book down upon the arm and uncrossed his legs, turning to look at Will. He held back a smile upon seeing that the boy had mistaken his gym uniform from Hawkins High for pajamas. He beckoned the boy further into the room.
"What's it about?" he asked, pointing to the book on the armchair. Henry looked down and hesitated.
"It..." He sighed, a frown pulling at his lips. "Well, it's about a man who turns into a bug."
Will recoiled with a skeptical grimace that elicited a light chuckle from the man. Without another word, Will turned to the bookshelves. Henry hadn't known the boy long, but he knew he was scanning for an alternative. And more importantly, he knew he would find it whether or not it had been there before he'd thought to look.
"Here!" Will cheered, bringing his finding over to Henry with pride. "No one turns into bugs in this one."
"A Wrinkle in Time?" Henry read the title aloud. "I've not seen this discussed in many philosophical debates."
Will smiled brighter at the remark, and with the closest thing to a menacing grin that the boy could possibly muster, he said, "Have you read Tolkien?"
And so there they sat in the living room as the darkness outside waned.
Will had gathered the art supplies and resumed his piece from earlier as Henry read aloud about Hobbits and Elves.
Will happily listened from his place on the floor. Occasionally he would put his crayon down in a huff when Henry neglected to "do the voices" for the characters.
When Henry asked Will to give him an example, he did not expect a full-fledged performance as Will attempted to fully embody the characters in earnest. If other children had been nearly as passionate as William, then perhaps Henry wouldn't have minded attending Alice's pageants.
"You make quite the Gandalf," Henry quietly applauded. "They ought to cast you in the motion picture."
"I've had a lot of practice," Will plopped back down on the floor by the coffee table. "My character in Dungeons and Dragons is a wizard."
"Dungeons and Dragons? Is that the comic you and your friend want to make?"
"No, it's a game. It's kinda like make-believe but you have to roll a dice to decide if your character can do what you want them to or not."
"I see," Henry crossed his legs as he leaned back. "So it's a bit like a play?"
"Kinda, yeah," Will shrugged, picking up his crayon once more. "Except it's more fun cause you don't know how the story is going to end. You have to try to push it in the direction you want it to go."
"So one needn't follow a script?" Henry's hand came up to his chin in fascination. "Just the heart of one's character?"
Will hummed as he nodded, not looking up from his piece.
"You just have to hope that your roll is right."
Henry brought his cup of Earl Grey to his lips as he contemplated this.
"And that the Dungeon Master isn't a major douche."
Henry choked, sputtering the tea all over himself. Will looked up in shock, then smacked his hand across his mouth as if just realizing what he'd said.
"I'm sorry!" he apologized in horror. "I shouldn't have—"
But Henry was already waving him off with a mixture of coughs and a sound so unfamiliar to his own ears it took him a moment to place.
Laughter? Was he laughing? It felt as if his body had all but forgotten it was capable.
The muscles in his abdomen burned and he felt short of breath, but there was an odd euphoria to it all.
Will nervously began to laugh behind his hands, and Henry nodded to let him know it was quite alright.
The tiniest approval was all that was needed to break the dam and send the boy into a fit of giggles, reinvigorating the spasms of joy in Henry's own chest. He wasn't even sure what was humorous at this point, but the feeling was so intoxicating, he allowed it to envelop him.
Will buried his crossed arms upon the coffee table as he attempted to compose himself. It was then that Henry finally caught sight of what Will had been creating.
"What have you drawn?" He tilted his head in an attempt to get a better look. Will's head shot up and he pulled his arms away to reveal the drawing.
"Oh, uh—" The boy picked it up as if double-checking his work. "It's for you."
He sheepishly offered the paper out to him. Henry looked to the boy as if uncertain if he'd heard him correctly. Henry put the cup of tea down on the side table and wiped his hands upon his trousers before taking the page by the corners for further inspection.
The rendering was quite detailed and impressively constructed. A tall thin man in a familiar brown suit. Round glasses and slicked blonde hair. And beside him, a boy with brown hair, blue jeans, a flannel, rebellious blue jean trousers, his life preserver-looking vest, and tennis shoes.
They were holding sandwiches and smiling.
The grandfather clock stood between them– its face rendered with careful precision. The hands were set to 11:06. Every detail had been crafted with care.
More care than Henry had ever given it himself.
His throat closed.
"This is..." Henry's mouth moved, but the words failed him.
Will's nerves clearly got the better of him as he began to excuse, "It's—It's not my best, but I—"
"On the contrary, it's..." Henry tried once more only for the words to fail yet again. "You're quite talented."
"Oh? Cause I know I'm not that good, but I'm getting better, so maybe I can redo—"
Will reached for it, but Henry pulled it close to his chest and Will froze with a glimmer of hope in his hazel eyes.
"It's exquisite," Henry finally managed, swallowing down as much emotion as he could. "Thank you for this, William. Truly. I shall treasure it."
Will pulled back and beamed. And Henry found himself relieved when the near-overwhelming exchange was interrupted by Will's huge jaw-cracking yawn.
"Well," Henry sniffed, composing himself and standing from his chair. "What say we see if you've managed to stave off the nightmares?"
Will nodded wearily but didn't leave to head back upstairs. He made it only as far as the velvet camelback and crawled onto it instead, finding it perfectly suitable.
Henry stood stock-still for a moment, almost looking around for someone to tell him what to do about this occurrence. His mother would always insist that the children sleep in their beds and never on the furniture. Yet his father was much more lax and prone to falling asleep in his own armchair with the day's paper in hand. On those occasions, Henry would also take to sleeping exactly where Will was now—hoping that, should his mother wake him, she'd have to wake his father as well. Henry wondered if sometimes his father would simply pretend to be asleep in the chair because he'd heard Henry's restless attempts to sleep. He had always slept better when he wasn't alone.
Henry bowed his head in silent acquiescence and retrieved his mother's woven throw. He draped it over the boy, and Will shifted to look at him.
He gave Henry a grateful smile, then scrunched his brows in a moment of tired contemplation.
"Are you still scared of it?" Will whispered, small and gentle. "The monster?"
Henry looked down at eyes that looked too tired to belong to someone so young. Eyes that had no right being so earnest in a world that could be so cruel. And all Henry could offer such an honest soul was his own honesty in turn.
"Yes," he admitted. "Very much so."
"Does it ever go away?"
Henry sucked in a breath, pulling his glasses from his face and wiping them with the hem of his jacket.
"No, I... I don't think so," he confessed. "But I think, maybe it does get easier..."
Will shifted again, allowing the blanket to fall into place. "Cause you get older?"
"No..." Henry shook his head as he contemplated. "Not necessarily."
He still feared the shadow, of course. A great deal, in fact. But no longer was that fear born of self-preservation. Now it lived in the unwelcome thought of what harm it would bring to William should Henry ever succumb to it.
That was a story he'd lived, and he'd sooner die than relive it. Unfortunately, Henry feared that was not a choice he would ever again be afforded.
"I think other feelings just get stronger," he decided. "The fear never leaves, but eventually there are other emotions that overtake it. Anger, grief, joy, love... What we must be mindful of is which of those feelings we allow to grow in order to circumvent that fear."
Will nodded absently, clearly already half-asleep. Henry smiled fondly.
Heavy topics were no match for heavy eyelids.
The odd thing about time in this place was that there was no way to measure it. And for so long, Henry had felt like there was too much of it. And yet, the day Will left, Henry felt as though there was not enough—that perhaps there could never be enough.
It had been so long since Henry had played chess. He was well out of practice, he found. Or perhaps, despite his age, the boy was a formidable opponent.
They'd set their match in the parlor room. William had conjured up some rather delightful sipping chocolate in the kitchen. He insisted it was imperative for peak mental performance, and Henry had concurred.
In one lucky round, Henry managed to put the boy in check. Will had smiled mischievously and turned it into a game of checkers, sparking a debate about the logistics of a hybrid game when the boy suddenly went rigid.
"Is everything alright?"
"Shh." Will held up a hand, head cocked. "Do you hear that?"
Henry listened but heard nothing beyond the usual sounds of the house.
"I'm afraid I don't. What is it?"
Will's face had gone pale.
"That's my mom." Will scrambled off the sofa and scrambled towards the door, wrenching the heavy mahogany open with all his might. "That's my mom!"
Henry was on his feet in an instant.
Henry managed to catch the boy's arm before he could leave the porch. "William, you can't—"
"She's out there!" Will's panicked eyes scanned the treeline across the road. "I heard her!"
"William, please—" Henry caught him again, pulling him back.
"I can't—I have to go to her!" Will's voice cracked with panic. "Please, she sounds so scared—"
"William, the monster—" Henry implored with as much urgency as he could muster. "I can't go. I—I can't protect you out there."
"But I can't just leave her!" Will cried, seeming to hear her once again.
Henry looked into those hazel eyes—so full of love and fear and desperate need to help—and saw himself. Perhaps if Henry had been braver—had fought harder for the people he loved, the monster wouldn't have gotten them. Perhaps if he had been as strong and brave as this boy before him, neither of them would be here now.
"William," he said, trying to resolve the tremble in his timbre. "Look at me."
Will did, his face streaked with tears, his whole body shaking.
Henry dropped to his knees, grasping the boy's shoulders.
"Whatever is out there, I know you can face it." Henry cupped the boy's face in his hands. "I know you can."
Will swallowed, confusion replacing some of the panic.
"And I mean what I said—this place, it's your home too." Henry gripped his shoulders a bit too tightly. "So no matter what happens out there, you can always come back. I'll be right here. Do you understand? No matter what, you can always come home."
Will nodded vigorously as fresh tears began to fall. Henry swiped them away with his thumb and pulled the boy into a fierce hug.
"It has been an honor to meet you, William," Henry's throat felt hot and tight as he tried to memorize those honest hazel eyes. "I'm so, so proud of you, my boy."
More tears cascaded from the boy as he wrapped his arms around Henry. The boy squeezed him tight, as if trying to commit the moment to memory.
"I'm so glad you found me," Will choked out.
"Maybe next time, you'll find me." Henry patted the boy's hair, sucking in a deep breath before loosening his embrace and allowing the boy to pull away.
Will looked up at Henry with determination in his eyes and Henry gave him a nod.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
Will took a deep breath, squared his small shoulders, and ran.
The air beyond the porch was colder than it had any right to be.
The boards groaned beneath Will’s feet as he pulled free of Henry’s grasp, the boy’s warmth lingering against Henry’s palms long after he let go.
Henry stood in the doorway, feeling as if his heart was melting away as he watched the boy disappear into the trees.
The forest seemed deeper than before.
The house was quieter after that day. Not to Henry's liking. He found himself reaching for Vera Lynn again, only to catch sight of the cardboard box of cassettes Will had found. Henry allowed himself to sit on the floor and pull the tapes out one by one—just as Will had done.
Admittedly, it took him a bit of time to remember how the player worked.
The music was... odd, but Henry found himself grateful to have something novel once more—along with the anchor to several new memories that were quickly becoming his favorite.
He found himself growing fond of one song in particular, despite his normal aversion to the sound of electric guitar. He mused that perhaps it was the sentiment of its words that reminded him so very much of the boy.
"If I go there will be trouble," Henry found himself humming. "If I stay it will be double..."
The additions Will had brought to the library also remained. The boy had been an avid reader, and their tastes in literature were much more aligned. A Wrinkle in Time had found a new home on the arm of his reading chair.
It wasn't until the third time he'd reread the book to completion that Henry found the strength to pack the art supplies away. He placed them with reverence right next to his old scout uniform in the chest at the foot of his childhood bed.
The art itself, however, he took to hanging up—even placing his personal favorites on the door of the icebox. Just as Henry's father had done for him.
The grandfather clock in the hall of the Creel home ticked, but its hands never moved. Forever frozen at 11:06. Despite that fact, Henry knew that after William ran off into the woods, he didn't come back. Not for a very, very long time.