It seemed that Arthur couldn’t have chosen a worse night to arrive in town than that Halloween evening. The streets were slick with rain, the air thick with fog that rolled in from the nearby marshes, and the few lamps that still burned flickered like tired eyes in the darkness. He had no place to stay, no friends to call on, and as the storm gathered its strength, thunder cracking like the laughter of unseen spirits, he realized how truly alone he was.
Luck, however, has a strange sense of humor. As he wandered through the crooked iron gates of the town cemetery, seeking any sort of refuge, he spotted a faint light glowing from a small stone chapel at the far end. The door creaked open at his touch, and though the air inside was cold and heavy with the scent of damp earth and old flowers, it was shelter all the same.
He curled up on one of the pews, his soaked coat pulled tight around him, listening to the rain lash against the stained glass. Somewhere outside, the wind whispered through the gravestones, carrying with it the low hum of voices that might have been nothing more than the storm—or something else entirely. Exhausted, Arthur drifted off to sleep among the resting dead.
When morning came, the storm had passed. The sky was a pale, washed-out gray, and the sun peered weakly through the mist. Arthur blinked awake, stiff and sore, realizing where he was. Out of a quiet sense of respect—or perhaps guilt—he muttered a small prayer to the souls around him before stepping back out into the waking town.
By midmorning, he found himself on the main street, the cobblestones still glistening from the night’s rain. People moved about their day—some chatting quietly, others hurrying past with baskets or tools in hand. Arthur stopped the first person who met his gaze, someone bundled in a heavy coat and scarf, their face half-hidden by the lingering fog.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice tentative, “would you happen to know if anyone’s looking for a roommate? I’m in need of a place to stay, and I’m not sure I can afford the fancy hotel up in Redwood…”
"Huh?" Kit said, her hand gripping the piece of paper she now had in her pocket. "Oh, uh... No, I don't." She didn't necessarily mean to be rude, but then again, she felt it was a rather strange question to ask someone that early, in the middle of the street.
Kit pulled her scarf a little lower, so her voice wouldn't be muffled. She decided she would try a little harder to help this guy, who seemed to be perfectly lost. "No place to stay? Been there," she said, though it would be hard to say whether that was out of sympathy. "Hey, if you mean the Neverland Hotel --that big one downtown --they actually got some really affordable prices for the smaller rooms. I've been staying there for a month or so, by now. Never had any problems." A month already? Jesus. How time flies when you're having fun...
Arthur knew he wasn’t being the most polite, but desperation had a way of eroding manners. His throat felt tight, scraped raw from cold nights and unsaid words, and every breath carried that faint bitter taste of humiliation. With his family’s door slammed behind him—quite literally—he doubted he’d be welcome back anytime this lifetime. The loaf of bread they had shoved into his hands on his way out, he hadn’t eaten out of sheer, stupid pride. Some last attempt at dignity, he supposed. Now that it had grown soft with mold and his stomach gnawed at itself, he regretted not taking their first and last sign of kindness
“Yeah… the thing is, there’s a difference between little money and no money, I fear—” Arthur managed, trying for levity, but it came out thin, like a cracked piece of glass pretending to be whole. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but the person in front of him.“I wasn’t… really given any money when my adoptive parent kicked me out—”
He winced, shoulders curling inward. “Ah—sorry. I’m not trying to gain your sympathy. I know it’s my fault.” His voice dropped to a threadbare whisper, words wobbling on their way out. He looked downward, posture folding in on itself like a kicked golden retriever that still wanted to believe someone might be kind. His fingers twisted nervously in the hem of his worn jacket.
“I’m sorry…” He added again, softer this time, as though apologizing for the space he occupied, for the sound of his own breathing, for daring to need anything at all.
