The day passed quietly. Too quietly.
Ivy went about her usual stuff. The house stayed still. Hale didn't leave the bedroom. He lay on the bed, flat on his back. In one hand, he held the photo of ALP. In the other, the sketch Gyroson had left behind.
He kept staring at both of them. Side by side.
"He said I decide when it happens..." Hale mumbled.
He tried to recall the full conversation. But it was like chasing fog—slippery and gone before he could grab hold of anything.
What did Gyroson mean by "remember when it's supposed to be done"? What was he even supposed to do?
Nothing came to him. So he just lay there, staring, until the silence eventually pulled him under.
The sketch slipped out of his fingers and landed on his face.
Then he fell asleep.
When he opened his eyes, he didn't know if it was day or night. It wasn't dark, but it wasn't light either. Just... off.
His eyes adjusted slowly. But something else caught him.
The sketch was moving.
Not like a cartoon. More like it was shaping itself around something unfinished, something undecided.
His breathing shifted. Became shallow. Faster.
His heart didn't speed up, but it hit harder. He tried to look away—but he couldn't. The sketch held his attention like it had claws in his brain.
"What am I even looking at...?"
"Why can't I look away...?"
He didn't know if he was dreaming or if the sketch had found a way to pull him inside. He gripped the paper tighter.
It was just graphite. Just a drawing.
But it didn't feel like that anymore.
It felt like the truth bleeding through the page.
And then, he saw it.
Gyroson. Fully drawn.
Slouched in a chair. Blood on his chest. Soaking through his shirt in slow, heavy lines.
But his face—that's what got him. It was calm. Too calm.
That same half-smile Gyroson always wore when he knew something Hale didn't. His eyes in the sketch didn't look out at just anyone. They were looking straight at Hale.
Then, in the corner of the drawing, another figure started to take shape.
Shadowed. Unfinished. Just a few rough lines at first. Broad shoulders. Crooked stance.
It was Hale. Watching from across the room in the drawing. Not moving. Not reacting. Just watching.
The pencil lines around Gyroson's mouth started to twitch. Once. Then again. Then faster—like the sketch was forcing him to say something.
And then the words became clear.
"You were the one who handed it to me."
Hale flinched.
Like someone had hit him.
"What... what did I give him?" he whispered.
He searched his memory for anything—any clue. But there was nothing. Just that one image. And that smile.
His breath caught. His chest felt tight. His mark pulsed—not with pain, but with something worse. A warning.
"No. This isn't real," he muttered. "This can't be real."
But the sketch didn't fade. It didn't disappear. It just sat there. Like it knew what was coming.
And Hale... he did too.
He shot upright, heart racing. Clutching the sketch like it might disappear if he blinked.
He looked again, expecting it to move. Shift. Show something new.
It didn't.
The image was still. No redraws. No whispers. No shadow of himself.
Just Gyroson. Bleeding. Smiling. And that was it.
"No... come on..."
He flipped it over. Nothing.
Held it up. Tilted it in the light. Still nothing.
"Show me again," he said.
Nothing.
He pressed his thumb to the edge. Closed one eye. Moved it slightly.
"Come on... just show me again."
Still nothing.
His fingers tightened.
"I saw more than this. I know I saw more than this."
But the sketch was silent now. Dead.
Like a dream that ends before it gives you answers.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Breathing uneven.
He stared at the page like it had betrayed him.
"Why won't you show me again?" he whispered. "Why then, but not now?"
He sat like that for a long time. Waiting.
But whatever moment had happened—it was gone.
The sketch stayed still.
But Hale didn't.
He sat with it all night. Eyes locked on the page. Never looked away. Not even once.
By morning, the sunlight started to stretch across the window.
Ivy's voice floated from the kitchen. Distant. Normal.
He didn't respond. Didn't move. He hadn't blinked in way too long.
The sketch was still the same. But in his head, he could still feel it—the flicker, the redraw, the scratch of graphite that wasn't actually moving anymore.
That smile.
Gyroson's smile. Right before dying.
And his own shadow, just standing in the corner.
"You were the one who handed it to me."
Hale whispered the words to himself again. And again.
He reached for a pen. Then a blank page. Then the sketchbook.
And started to draw.
Not from memory. From feeling.
He drew Gyroson's face first. Not perfectly, but close enough. Then the room. The chair. The blood. His own shadow in the corner.
But every time he finished, something felt off.
Like the paper refused to become what he needed it to be.
So he tried again.
And again.
And again.
His fingers cramped. His knuckles stiffened. His mark pulsed—low and steady.
By the third day, he'd drawn twelve versions of the same thing.
None of them moved. None of them reacted. None of them told him anything.
Meanwhile...
Ivy knocked gently on his door.
"Hey... you planning to shower this week or...?"
No answer.
"I brought coffee. That usually bribes you back to life."
Still nothing.
She pushed the door open a little.
Hale was sitting on the floor. Surrounded by pages. Eyes sunken. Still drawing.
One version of Gyroson after another.
"...Hale?"
He looked up. Didn't say anything.
She walked in slowly.
"Are you trying to recreate something you already have?"
"No... I'm just trying to draw it the way it actually was."
"Alright... you do your sketching. I'm heading to the market. Forgot to buy eggs."
Hale didn't reply.
Just nodded faintly, his expression blank.