It was habit now, uprooting flowers in the woods and bringing them back to his Flowerbed. A reminder, he guessed, of the grave. Of his explorations. Of the mansion’s garden he so hazily remembered. Of the family that he used to love.
Sometimes he took more than the allotted day on his turns. He always traded off, made it even.
What would he do if they retreated back into the mindscape? Probably end up like them, if he was honest. Or maybe, without the Flowerbed to return to, he would leave.
He was kidding himself, of course. He was always drawn back. Some days he would think of going home, rapping on the door. Tell them that he was home, and that he was sorry, that it was all his fault, that he missed them. But he wouldn't. He had committed, and he needed to see. When would they come for him? It had been two years.
He had grown. He didn't know he could do that. His hair a little longer, his steps a little longer. He had grown past the need for the home where he belonged. His flowerbed comfortably held his shape now, when he laid down. The want to return to his life still stayed. Not yet, too soon, never again.
Warden, it had been two years.
Two years of spite and hurt. Two years of emptiness, of tears. Two years of nights spent comforted by a person more ghost than man, more memories than ghost.
He was only Three. Four, if you considered the year he spent dead. He didn't. He tried not to.
Maybe he could hazard a visit to the Mineshaft soon. Donti would probably appreciate the update. They'd both been avoiding it for too long.
Who was left?

















