Kil tried to open the shutter, but it wouldn't budge. He went around to the back instead.
There, through a section of the glass wall, he could see plants and flowers, pots neatly arranged, and the broken bathroom door—torn from its hinges—leaning awkwardly against the wall beside the frame.
He stared at it, a tight, unearned ache settling in his chest. He frowned at himself, dismissed it, and moved on.
From where he stood, he could see the cocoon enclosure. Something in him tugged toward it, instinctive and wrong. It felt like a symbol. Of what, he didn't know.
Staring into it with intensity, he finally noticed the stickmen.
A sharp pain cut through his chest. Too many feelings crashed at once. Tears spilled, not from sadness, but confusion. His mouth went dry. His breathing slipped out of rhythm, each breath coming wrong, shallow, uneven.
He dropped to the ground, scrambling backward, before bolting away, like the shop itself had frightened him.
On his way to the convenience store, he saw children playing along the street. Faceless, yet familiar. Always four of them. They vanished the moment he looked straight at them.
He hurried inside the convenience store, the glass door rattling violently as he yanked it open and slammed it shut.
He rushed to Migs, ducking behind the counter like a frightened child. Migs looked down at him, concern twisting into confusion. Kil looked awful. Paler than usual. Eyes red and puffy. Straight bangs clinging to his damp forehead. His skin was cold, slick with sweat.
Migs sat beside him, lowering himself behind the counter.
"Bro, what's wrong?" His voice rose without meaning to, only making it worse.
Kil flinched. His hand flew up to cover one ear, like he'd been scolded by someone unseen. He looked terrified, like he was losing his grip on himself. His chest heaved. He couldn't breathe right.
A panic attack.
Migs reached for his phone, shaking, already dialing for an ambulance, but Kil grabbed his arm. The grip was iron-hard. Migs hissed in pain, but Kil didn't let go. Slowly, painfully, Kil forced himself to breathe again.
An hour later, he sat at a table, drinking a can of beer and chewing on a long sausage. His face was still pale, but color had finally begun to creep back in.
Migs stayed quiet, watching him from behind the counter. Kil wasn't shaking anymore, but every movement looked drained, like it cost him something.
Kil stood, walked over, and paid for what he'd eaten. He added a few more beers to the counter.
"You sure you're good, man?" Migs asked, worry leaking into his voice.
"Yeah…" Kil said softly. "Just… just need some sleep."
He took the long way home, avoiding the flower shop entirely. It added thirty minutes to the walk, but he didn't care.
When he opened the door, cold air greeted him. Silence. The familiar creak of wood and hinges. It steadied him.
He ignored the stairs and opened the basement door instead, one hand sliding along the wall as he descended. Dim LED lights flickered on, just bright enough to see.
He passed the bean bag. His gaming setup. Then stopped in front of an old, worn closet.
Dust coated the door. His hand rested there for a long moment before he opened it.
Empty.
It wasn't meant for clothes. Not for storage. Only one thing ever fit inside. And barely came out.
Kil stepped in. His large frame cramped into the space. He pulled the door closed, leaving only a thin line of light cutting through the darkness.
The beer slipped from his hand, forgotten.
The clock ticked on.
And inside the closet, he finally passed out, curled in the dark, like the insignificant child he used to be.