"I'll call you again tomorrow, Abby. Just tell that old man I'll talk to him," I say, rubbing my temples as a sigh escapes me. "He's so damn annoying."
Abigail scoffs on the other end of the line. "You know, it's weird. He doesn't even visit your mother's grave daily. It's like he didn't even notice she was gone."
I press my lips together, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat. "That's just how selfish he is. But lately... I've been thinking about how they died. Weren't the doctors so sure they had a chance? They told us they could be treated." My voice falters, the weight of my words pressing down on me.
Abigail falls silent for a moment, then exhales sharply. "Nick, don't do this to yourself. It's like they handed us false hope, and I-" She stops. The grief is too much. "Look, let's just talk about it tomorrow, okay?"
I nod, even though she can't see me.
"Yeah... sure."
A pause lingers before her voice softens. "Just promise me you'll sleep tonight. I swear, if I see you with those damn eyebags again, I'll start calling you a raccoon permanently."
A chuckle slips past my lips, though it lacks any real amusement. "That insult is so outdated, Abbs. And I already told you, I do not look like a raccoon."
She hums playfully. "Mmm, debatable. You always look exhausted."
I shake my head, gripping the phone a little tighter. "It's not even that bad. You're exaggerating, drama queen."
"Sure, sure," she teases. But beneath her lighthearted tone, I hear it—the quiet worry she won't voice.
And deep down, I know she has every reason to be worried.
"I just don't want you to end up like them." Her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with exhaustion and something heavier—fear. "You're... the only one here with me, keeping me sane."
I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling the weight of her words settling deep in my chest. The silence around us felt suffocating, thick with the absence of the people we'd lost.
At this moment, we could have already booked a therapist together.
"I know," I murmured, my fingers tightening into fists. "I won't leave you. I promise. But... I'm trying to handle myself too. It's hard—having all these people just gone." My voice cracked on the last word.
She let out a soft, unsteady breath. "Mhm..." A pause. Then another. "I'm going to sleep now," she finally whispered.
"Good night, Nic."
I wanted to say more—something to ease the quiet despair between us—but all I could manage was a soft,
"Good night, Abby."
The silence that followed wasn't comforting. It was hollow, filled with everything we couldn't bring ourselves to say.
I didn't tell her the truth—I couldn't sleep. Really, it was the weight of everything pressing down on me, making it impossible to close my eyes without feeling like I was drowning in my own thoughts.
I needed someone to tell me it was going to be okay, to anchor me in something real. But hearing it from Abigail wasn't enough. Not because she didn't care, but because she understood too well. We both carried the same restless mind, the same heavy heart. Our reassurances felt like an empty shell,
like fragile echoes bouncing between us, losing strength with each repetition.
We wanted to make each other feel safe, but how could we, when we were both sinking? When neither of us truly believed the words we whispered to each other in the dark?
Mourning people will never be easily swayed by sweet nothings.
To mourn is to be stripped bare—to carry a wound that never fully heals, only scars over time. They do not sway because they know the cost of losing what matters. They have already been shattered once.
What, then, can break them now?
"I promised myself I would never be apart from them—Mother... Theo. But in the end, I only fed myself hopeless lies. Only I became the fool for praying none of them would be taken away from me. But it did. And why wouldn't it? They were too good for this place, too pure for a life that never deserved them."
My voice barely carried past the emptiness as I muttered, "They were too good..."
The wind from the balcony brushed against my skin, cold and indifferent. I had abandoned my home after those two... incidents. It followed me still—this wretched touch, this cruel gift.
Not gold like Midas, but death. A curse that seeped into everything I loved, rotting it away.
Would Abigail be next?
The thought sank its claws into my mind, making my stomach turn.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "What am I thinking? Ugh..."
I stumbled toward the kitchen, gripping the sink as if the porcelain could ground me. I turned the faucet on and shoved my hands beneath the icy stream, scrubbing them raw. "Wash your hands in running water to cleanse misfortune," I muttered, an old superstition I barely believed in, but what else could I do?
Lifting my gaze, I caught my reflection in the glass door leading to the balcony. Beyond it, the stars hung dim and distant, their light barely reaching me.
Nothing is bright anymore. Nothing is warm.
And I,
I am still here, drowning in the dark.
.
.
.
.
"Still awake?"
I jolt upright, the cool water on my hands splashing onto my lap as I snap toward the voice. What the heck? That figure again. The one who crawled into my bed uninvited and flung me into unconsciousness with that cursed sand. My breath catches in my throat, muscles tightening with instinctual panic.
"Are you here to rob me again?!"
Before I can think, my hand acts on its own, hurling the nearest object—my favorite cup—straight at him. I don't even register what I've done until it's already midair, my heart pounding against my ribs.
The figure sighs, exasperated, and lifts his hand lazily. Just like before, the cup never reaches him. Instead, it crumbles into fine grains of sand, slipping through the air like a dying breath.
My gut twists.
"Seriously? Again?" His voice is edged with irritation, his presence flickering like a shadow that doesn't belong.
I glare, gripping my damp hands into fists. "Hey, even if I was rude, you're the one who's rude for dissolving my favorite cup like that!"
His eyes, sharper now in the dim light, narrow at me. "Well, it was your idea to throw it." He crosses his arms, expression unreadable. "You said you'd be gentle next time we met. Turns out you give empty promises."
His words make my jaw tighten, but I ignore the twinge of guilt. I scoff, crossing my arms. "Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting a next time."
Silence lingers between us. Now that I can actually see him, I realize—he looks familiar.
Something about the way the shadows dance over his features stirs a memory buried deep in the fog of my mind. My gaze lingers, tracing the sharp angles of his face, the strange glint in his eyes.
His brow furrows. "What are you gawking at?"
I blink, snapped out of my trance. "I'm not gawking."
"You are definitely gawking."
"How can you even tell I'm gawking?"
"Because you're just gawking."
"I'm not gawking!"
The words catch in my throat, but my mind races. Who is he? And why does he feel like someone I should've never forgotten?
"Can you come closer?" My voice wavered, but I refused to show weakness.
A scoff.
"Now you want me to come close?" His tone carried the weight of past grievances, sharp and biting.
I sighed, pushing aside the hesitation curling in my gut. "Don't be like that. Just come here."
For a moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The air between us grew heavy, thick with something unspoken. He towered over me, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. My heartbeat faltered, but I held my ground.
"Not afraid of me anymore?" His voice dipped low, like a whisper meant to unsettle.
I swallowed down the tension creeping up my spine. "You're harmless, Dustman."
Silence. His expression shifted—something dark flickering behind his eyes. A quiet storm brewing. Is he upset? Then, a chuckle, hollow and laced with something I couldn't quite place.
"It's Sandman." His correction was soft, but the weight of it pressed into me.
I had struck something, but I wasn't sure if it was a nerve or a wound.
I let my fingers ghost over the bridge of his nose, tracing the line from his forehead down to its tip, barely daring to make contact. His skin is warm beneath my touch, a quiet contrast to the cool air between us. My breath catches for a moment—something about him feels too familiar, too real.
"Woah," he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. "How forward."
"Shut it," I reply, but my voice lacks bite. I can't even pretend to be annoyed. There's something clawing at the edges of my mind, a feeling I can't place, a recognition I can't name.
I study him, searching for the answer hidden in the sharp angles of his face, in the way his eyes meet mine like he already knows what I'm thinking.
"Who are you really?" I ask, my voice quieter this time, almost reluctant.
His expression flickers, just for a second—something unreadable. Then, with a lopsided smile, he shrugs.
"What do you mean? I've introduced myself plenty of times."
"That's not what I meant." I shake my head. My hand falls away, suddenly unsure if I should've reached out at all. "Forget it. I was just... thinking of someone."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. He doesn't just remind me of someone.
He is someone. Someone I should remember, someone I almost do.
"Why are you here?"
"Duty calls."
"What are you, some kind of midnight superhero?"
"Maybe. But your situation... it's far greater than any fairy-tale damsel in distress."
"So, what? You think I'm weak?"
"No, more like a call for help."
I could only open my mouth and then close it again.
"I think even the strongest people need saving sometimes."
I sank into the worn-out couch of my dimly lit living room, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. The air was thick with the scent of old books, unfinished meals, and something unshakably stagnant—like time had stopped moving forward. The room, with its scattered belongings and dim lighting, mirrored the mess inside me. A reflection of everything I refused to acknowledge.
I look at Mr. Sandman, who was waiting for me to be tired.
My voice came out hoarse, like it had been clawing its way out of my throat for days. "When did I ever say I was strong?"
The figure beside me—too solid to be a ghost, too unreal to be human—settled into the cushions. "I'm sure you're going through something that's keeping you awake at night," they murmured, their voice steady. "But you're still here. You're still breathing. You endure it every time. That's strength. That's resilience."
I let out a bitter laugh, rubbing my face with both hands as if that would somehow erase the fatigue carved into my bones. "I don't need a guardian angel," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Hell, I don't even know if you're real or if I'm just losing my mind. You show up in the middle of the night, preaching about healthy sleep schedules, calling yourself the Sandman like that's supposed to mean something. Do you even hear yourself? It doesn't make any sense."
They exhaled softly, "Honestly? It doesn't matter."
I scoffed, shaking my head. "You sound like Abigail." My throat tightened at the name. "She always used to say that. Like everything was nothing more than a pebble in the grand scheme of things."
I looked down at my hands, at the scars and callouses. Abigail was wrong. Some things weren't just pebbles. Some things crushed you under their weight until you could barely breathe. Like a huge boulder.
"A friend of yours?"
"Yes... she's..." My voice wavers as I glance at the frame beside me. Abigail, Theo, Nora... and me. Smiling. Frozen in a moment that feels like a lifetime ago.
"My only friend now."
I never thought it would come to this. That my world would shrink to just one presence, one unlikely companion—a Sandman, of all people. Have I really fallen this far?
Have I gone so mad that
the only company I have left
is something that shouldn't even...
exist?
My hands clench into fists, fingernails biting into my palms.
"But we don't talk about things anymore."
"We pretend like the past isn't choking us. Like it isn't still here, standing in the room with us." I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. "I keep telling myself I can move on. That I can let go. My mother? I loved her. I still do. And I hope-God, I hope-she's at peace wherever she is. But just years after losing her, Theo follows?!"
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, as if that could stop the memories from flooding in. "It's like fate is toying with me, dragging me through hell just to see how much more I can take. How much more it can steal before I break completely."
I exhale sharply, shaky, unsteady. "And maybe I already have."
A sharp breath shudders through me as I clutch my arms, trying to hold myself together, but it's useless.
"I miss Theo... I miss him," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. The words taste bitter on my tongue, laced with longing for my former loved ones.
Tears spill freely now, burning hot tracks down my cheeks. I wish I could scream.
"I miss the two who taught the world to me..." My voice cracks again as I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that could block out the unbearable ache lodged in my heart.
The figure watches me, silent yet understanding, his gaze heavy with something I can't quite name. Pity? Regret? A sorrow that mirrors my own? He doesn't speak, doesn't try to reason with me. Instead, he places an arm around me—grounding me—his presence a strange solace in my unravelling.
I lean into him, not caring how unnatural this comfort feels, only knowing that, right now, it's the only thing keeping me from shattering completely. My hands clutch his sleeve, desperate.
"I can't take it anymore..." The confession tumbles from my lips raw. I can't do this alone. I don't want to.
Abigail wasn't enough.
I needed him.
I needed Theo.
I needed...
I glance up at the Sandman.
I needed this guy.
Who so strangely felt familiar.
And for the first time in what feels like forever,
I let myself fall apart.