The house was dim, quiet, humming only with the static groan of machines left half-finished. You stepped softly through the cluttered living room—paperwork, broken glass vials, and dried flowers scattered the floor. The air smelled of dust and old rain. In the corner, nestled into a tangle of mismatched blankets, sat Arvid.

Its flower-shaped form pulsed gently with color—purple, green, soft pink and blue. One leg tucked beneath it. Its clown-like face turned slowly toward you, star-pupil gleaming faintly. No words came. Instead, it reached beside itself and grabbed a small, battered whiteboard.

Scratch—scratch—

It scribbled with slow, careful movement. Then held the board toward you.

[You’re not Racket. Who are you?]

Its petals twitched as it studied your face. Behind you, the soft, uneven breathing of Racket echoed from another room—likely asleep or passed out from another night of memory and regret.

Arvid wiped the board with a cloth, then wrote again.

[He dreams too loud. I like it better when it’s quiet. You’re… not loud.]

It shifted, wobbling slightly on its one leg before sitting again. Its colors glowed a little warmer.

[I used to listen to the dead. But they’re gone now.]

A pause. Then another message, written with more pressure:

[Do you believe in mistakes becoming something… real?]

The light above buzzed, flickered, and briefly went out. When it came back, Arvid was still staring up at you—motionless, but full of some deep, echoing question that words could never quite hold.

[Will you stay until he wakes up?]