Upside-down Rainbow

Chapter I

It starts with a cry.

The sound cuts through the still air of the living room. The infant is red-faced beneath cream-colored fur, fists clenched tight. The woman holds him at arm's length, staring at him. His tiny ears are folded flat against his head, his tail nothing more than a stub.

The lamp in the corner flickers. Someone forgot to pay the electric bill.

Her hands shake. Not from exhaustion, though she should be exhausted, there's blood on the towels bunched on the couch, but from something else. Something that makes her jaw tight and her eyes wet.

She stands. The baby keeps crying.

She wraps him in a thin blanket, the kind that came free from somewhere. Walks to the door. Her bare feet leave smudges on the floor.

Outside, the porch light is dead. She sets him down on the concrete step, between a dead plant and a rusted bike frame. Adjusts the blanket so it covers his face, his small ears.

Then she goes back inside.

The door clicks shut.

The crying gets louder.

---

You've seen births before. Thousands of them, tens of thousands. They arrive screaming and afraid, and you drift close to their new dreams, formless things, barely thoughts. Flashes of warmth. The muffled sound of a heartbeat.

This one is the same.

But she left him.

You don't understand why. The memory of her holding him is still fresh in his infant mind, her smell, the pressure of her arms. He reaches for it in the space between waking and sleep, and finds nothing.

He cries.

Ants find him quickly. They crawl across his face, his paws. He screams.

You push into the dream space, thin, barely there, he's too new for deep sleep. But you can shape it. You can press against the edges of his tiny mind and make him broadcast.

Danger.

Alone.

Help.

The feeling spreads outward, formless but urgent, the way a nightmare clings even after waking. It seeps into the neighboring houses, curling under doors, sliding through cracked windows.

---

Three houses down, a woman wakes.

She blinks at the ceiling, disoriented. Her mouth is dry. She'd been dreaming about, something bad. Something wrong.

She sits up. Listens.

There.

Crying.

She pulls on a robe and steps outside. The street is empty. Porch lights off, except for the one at the end of the block that's always on.

She walks barefoot across the lawn, following the sound.

The baby is on the step, half-unwrapped. Ants swarm the blanket, crawling over cream-colored fur.

"Jesus," she whispers.

She scoops him up, brushing the insects off his tiny body. His ears are pinned back, his small paws batting weakly at the air. He's warm. Alive. Still screaming.

She looks at the door behind her.

She knocks.

No answer.

She knocks again, harder. "Hello? Hello..?"

Nothing.

The baby squirms in her arms, hiccupping between sobs. His stub of a tail twitches.

She looks down at him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face blotchy and red beneath the fur.

"Okay," she says quietly. "Okay."

She carries him back to her house.

---

You watch from the edges of his flickering awareness. He doesn't understand what happened. Only that the pain stopped. That there are arms again, and warmth, and a voice making soft sounds above him.

He sleeps.

His tiny ears slowly unstick from his head.

You stay.

---

He grows.

The woman who found him fills out the paperwork at the clinic, her handwriting shaky in the boxes that ask for father's name, mother's medical history. She leaves some blank.

She names him Tanpa.

The man she lives with doesn't hold the baby. Doesn't look at him much. When Tanpa cries at night, the man stays in bed, pillow over his head.

"He's not mine," he says one morning, coffee going cold on the table.

"I know."

"We can't afford this."

She's already late for work. Tanpa is strapped to her chest in a borrowed carrier, sleeping against her shirt. His ears are folded down, tiny paws tucked against her.

"I know," she says again.

---

You watch the way Tanpa reaches for her. The way his small paws grab at her fur when she picks him up. The way he calms when she hums.

She's not the woman who left him on the step. But to him, she's everything.

You don't have a word for what she is to him yet. Only that when he thinks of her, when he dreams of her, there's warmth. Safety. The feeling of being held.

You store this feeling.

---

There are others like you. Thousands. They drift through the world, shaping dreams, moving on. Some nights you sense them at the edges of sleep, passing through like birds migrating.

But you've stayed.

You don't know why. Only that when you tried to leave once, when he was three months old, sleeping in a drawer lined with towels because they had no crib, something pulled you back. His dreams were so small then. Fragments of warmth. The smell of milk. Her heartbeat.

You returned.

You've been here ever since.

---

The fights start small.

Missed shifts. Formula that costs too much. The apartment that's too small for three people.

Tanpa is two when he first understands that the raised voices mean something bad. He sits on the floor with a toy truck missing two wheels, rolling it back and forth. His tail is tucked between his legs.

"You brought him here, not me."

"What was I supposed to do? Leave him there?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

The truck stops. Tanpa looks up, ears flat against his head.

The woman's face is red. The man is standing too close to her.

"Get out," she says.

"It's my fucking apartment."

"Then I'll leave."

Tanpa doesn't move. His chest feels tight, like when he's about to cry but hasn't started yet.

The man looks at him. Just for a second.

"He's a parasite," he says.

That night, Tanpa lies in the bed he shares with the woman, paws pressed over his ears. The walls are thin. He can still hear them. Her voice, pleading. His voice, sharp. Something breaks.

Tanpa squeezes his eyes shut.

---

You watch the way he thinks about her. Not in words yet, he's too young. But in feelings. In the shape of her in his mind.

Safe.

Warm.

Mine.

And slowly, you understand. This is what she is to him.

You start thinking of her differently. Not as "the woman who found him." But as something more specific. Something that matches the feeling in his chest when he reaches for her.

His mother.

You don't know when the shift happens exactly. Only that one day, you're watching her hold him, and you think: His mother is tired today.

It feels right.

So you keep thinking of her that way.

---

He's four when the bottle hits him.

They're in the kitchen. His mother is at the stove. Tanpa is sitting on the floor, drawing on the back of an envelope with a broken crayon, tongue poking out in concentration.

The man comes home late. He's louder than usual, stumbling when he kicks off his shoes.

"What's this?" He's holding a bill, waving it.

She doesn't turn around. "I paid what I could."

"That's not enough."

"I know."

"You know. You know."

Tanpa looks up, ears perking.

The man sees him. His face twists.

"Get out of here."

Tanpa doesn't move.

The bottle is in his hand before Tanpa understands what's happening. It's empty, brown glass, spinning through the air.

It hits the side of his head, just above his ear.

The sound is dull. Wet.

You feel it. Not the pain itself, but the shape of it, sudden, cutting through his awareness.

Tanpa doesn't cry right away. He touches his temple with a paw, pulls it back. Red on the fur.

His mother is there, kneeling, her paws on his face.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay."

Behind her, the man is gone. The front door slams.

She carries him to the bathroom, sits him on the edge of the tub. Wets a towel, presses it against the cut. The fur around the wound is matted with blood.

"Look at me," she says. "You're okay."

She hums while she cleans the blood. A tune he doesn't recognize yet, but will remember.

He's thinking something. You can feel it at the edges of his mind, formless but heavy. He looks at her face and then at the doorway where the man was. Back and forth. His ears droop.

Why?

The thought isn't in words yet. He's too young. But the feeling is there, settling into him.

That night, you pull him into sleep before the thought can solidify.

---

There's a field. Tall grass, golden in the sunlight. Warm breeze. The sky is impossibly blue.

His mother is there. She's younger here. Her fur is glossy, her eyes bright. No tired lines around her muzzle.

She's holding his paw.

"Come on," she says. "I want to show you something."

They walk through the grass. It brushes against his legs. His tail wags.

At the edge of the field, there's a fair. Bright lights strung between poles, the smell of fried dough and sugar. A carousel spins, painted horses rising and falling.

"Pick one," she says.

He chooses the white horse with the gold saddle. She lifts him up, steadies him when the ride starts. The music is loud and cheerful. She stands beside him, one paw on his back.

"I've got you," she says.

The carousel spins. The lights blur into streaks of color. His mother is smiling.

He's safe here.

When he wakes, the bandage is still taped above his ear. But the question is gone. Smoothed away.

---

You build this place for him.

Whenever the waking world hurts too much, you bring him here.

His mother is always young. Always smiling. Always says the same thing.

I've got you.

It works.

For now.

---

At school, the other kids don't talk to him much. His clothes are too big or too small, never quite right. His fur is never quite groomed properly, his mother tried, but she's too busy with work.

At lunch, he sits at the end of the table with a sandwich his mother made. Peanut butter on white bread, folded in half.

Someone always comments.

He stops eating in the cafeteria. Eats in the bathroom instead, sitting on the closed toilet lid in the farthest stall, tail wrapped around his feet.

You watch him shrink into himself. Not physically. Something else. The way he holds his shoulders. The way his ears stay pinned back. The way he looks at the ground when adults speak to him.

At night, you give him places where he can be loud. Where his tail wags freely. Where he takes up space.

He smiles in his sleep.

You think that's enough.

---

He's eleven when the eviction notice appears.

His mother peels it off the door, reads it twice. Her paws shake.

"Pack your things," she says.

They end up at a motel on the edge of town. One room, one bed, a kitchenette with a hot plate that only half works. The carpet smells like cigarettes.

At night, Tanpa lies on the bed while she sits in the plastic chair by the window, phone pressed to her ear.

"I just need a little more time... I know... I know."

Her voice cracks.

Tanpa rolls over, faces the wall. His tail is still.

He's thinking something again. You can feel it pressing against the edges of his awareness, too complex for you to parse. Numbers. Words like "rent" and "deposit" and "utilities." They mean something to him. Something that makes his chest tight and his throat hurt.

He looks at his mother's back. The curve of her spine. The way her paw shakes as she wipes her eyes.

It's my fault.

The thought is clear this time.

You don't understand it. She found him. She chose to keep him. How can he be at fault?

But the feeling is there, spreading through him.

---

That night, you build them a house. Sunlight streams through windows that actually open. There's a yard with grass, a tree with a tire swing.

Tanpa is older. He's sitting at a kitchen table, doing homework. His mother is in the next room, on the phone. Her voice is light, laughing.

"Yes, I got the check," she says. "Finally. We're okay now."

Tanpa looks up from his math worksheet. Through the window, he can see the yard. The tire swing. The grass.

They have a house.

They're okay.

His tail wags.

When he wakes, they're still in the motel.

But for those few hours, he believed it.

He believed they'd be okay.

---

He's fourteen when he gets sick.

Fever that won't break. Cough that rattles in his chest.

His mother can't afford the clinic. She gives him children's Tylenol, makes him drink water, presses a cold washcloth to his forehead. His fur is damp with sweat.

"You'll be okay," she whispers.

He shivers under two blankets, teeth chattering.

At school, the teacher sends him to the nurse. The nurse, a stern-looking cat, takes his temperature, frowns.

"Does your mother know you're this sick?"

He nods, ears flat.

"You should be home."

"She's working."

The nurse gives him a cot in the corner. He lies there through math, through reading, through lunch.

When his mother picks him up, her eyes are red.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't leave early."

"It's okay."

He says it automatically. It's what she needs to hear. His tail gives a weak wag.

But he's thinking, how much did she lose by leaving? How many hours?

The numbers don't mean anything to you. But they mean something to him.

---

That night, the fever spikes. You pull him under quickly.

But something is wrong.

The grass is too bright. The colors too saturated. His mother's face is blurry at the edges, like he's looking at her through water.

He tries to run to her, but his legs are heavy. Slow.

"Mom?"

She doesn't hear him. Just keeps walking, getting farther away.

He wakes up gasping, drenched in sweat.

The fever breaks the next morning.

But the dream stays with him.

For the first time, the safe place didn't feel safe.

---

He's eighteen when his mother's hands start shaking.

She drops a plate. It shatters on the kitchen floor.

"I'm fine," she says, bending to pick up the pieces.

He helps. Their paws brush over a shard.

Her knuckles are swollen. The fur around them is thin, patchy. The pads of her paws are cracked.

"When did that start?" he asks.

"It's nothing. Just tired."

She's working two jobs now. The diner in the morning, cleaning offices at night. She comes home smelling like bleach and grease, and some nights she can barely lift her arms.

"You should see a doctor."

"With what insurance?"

He doesn't push. But at night, he lies awake, listening to her move around the apartment. The shuffle of her feet. The way she pauses, catching her breath.

She's getting old.

He never noticed before. The gray spreading through her muzzle. The lines around her eyes. The way she moves slower, more carefully, like her body is something fragile she has to carry.

She's breaking. And I can't stop it.

The thought sits in his chest.

---

That night, you try something different.

You show him the future.

Tanpa is twenty-five. He's standing in a small house, clean and bright. His mother is sitting in an armchair by the window, a blanket over her lap. Her paws are resting on the armrests, still.

She's reading a book. Sunlight falls across her face.

She looks up, sees him, smiles.

"How was work?"

"Good," he hears himself say. "I got promoted."

"I'm proud of you."

She pats the seat beside her. He sits. She reaches over, brushes the fur between his ears like she used to when he was small.

"You take such good care of me," she says softly.

His tail wags.

He's successful. Stable. His mother is comfortable. Safe.

He can fix this.

When he wakes, she's in the next room, coughing. The sound is wet, rattling.

His chest tightens.

He closes his eyes, tries to pull the dream back.

It doesn't come.

---

He's twenty-one when he sees the man hit her.

He comes home late from his shift at the grocery store. The apartment is dark except for the kitchen light.

They're arguing. Again.

The man's voice is loud, slurred.

"You think I don't know? You think I'm stupid?"

"Please. Not now."

"Not now? When, then?"

Tanpa stops in the doorway. His ears prick forward, alert.

His mother's back is to him. The man is too close to her.

"Just go to bed," she says.

"Don't tell me what to do."

The man grabs her arm.

She tries to pull away.

His hand comes up fast.

The sound is sharp. Her head snaps to the side.

Something in Tanpa's chest ignites. A low growl starts in his throat before he can stop it.

He moves without thinking.

"Get off her."

The man turns. His eyes are red, unfocused.

"What'd you say?"

"I said get off."

His mother steps between them.

"Tanpa. Don't."

"Listen to your mama," the man says, grinning.

Tanpa's paws are clenched into fists so tight his claws dig into his palms. He's shaking. Not from fear. Something else. His tail is rigid, his ears pinned back in aggression.

He wants to hit him. Wants to feel bone against his knuckles. Wants to see the man on the floor, bleeding.

The thought is so clear it frightens him.

The man pushes past him, stumbles to the bedroom. The door slams.

His mother touches her cheek. It's already red beneath the fur.

"I'm okay."

"He hit you."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine."

"Tanpa-"

"Why do you let him stay?"

She doesn't answer. Just turns back to the sink, runs water over her paws.

He stands there, shaking, the anger still hot in his chest. His claws are still out.

---

When sleep finally comes, you pull him under immediately.

The apartment is quiet in the dream. His mother is in the kitchen, humming. No bruise on her cheek.

She's making breakfast. Pancakes.

"Morning, baby."

The table is set for two. Just them.

Sunlight fills the room, warm and soft.

She sits across from him, and her paws are steady.

"I was thinking we could go to the park today. Like we used to."

"Yeah. I'd like that."

She smiles.

There's no yelling. No bottles. No man in the other room sleeping it off.

His tail wags slowly.

But when he wakes, the man is still there. Snoring in the next room.

His mother is already up, making coffee, moving quietly so she doesn't wake him.

Tanpa watches her from the doorway.

She doesn't look at him.

His tail hangs limp.

---

You've been with him for twenty-one years.

You've shaped his dreams every night. Kept the nightmares away. Smoothed the edges of his fear. Made sleep a place where he's safe.

You think you've helped him. You're certain of it.

But the days keep coming. And you can only reach him at night.

Sometimes, when he wakes, you feel it. The weight pressing down on him. Heavier each time. The dreams are supposed to make it lighter. But when he opens his eyes, the weight is still there.

And you're starting to wonder.

If the dreams are helping.

Or if they're making it worse.

Chapter II

They leave in the middle of the night.

His mother wakes him, a paw over his muzzle. "Pack what you can carry," she whispers.

Tanpa is twenty-two. He doesn't ask questions. Just pulls clothes into a backpack, grabs his phone charger, a photo of the two of them from when he was seven.

In the living room, the man is passed out on the couch, empty bottles on the floor. His mother has a duffel bag over her shoulder. She's moving stiffly. When she reaches for the door, her sleeve rides up, purple and yellow bruises ring her forearm. Fingerprints.

Tanpa's ears flatten.

She sees him looking. Pulls the sleeve down. "Come on."

They walk six blocks to the bus station. She pays cash for two tickets. They sit in the back, and she leans against the window, eyes closed. Her breathing is shallow.

Tanpa watches the city slide past. Streetlights. Empty parking lots. The sky starting to gray at the edges. He doesn't ask where they're going.

---

You follow. You've never left the radius of his sleep before, but when the bus crosses into the next town, you're still there. You don't understand how, only that wherever he goes, you go.

---

They end up at a shelter first. Cots in rows. Thin blankets. A shared bathroom where the lock doesn't work.

His mother fills out paperwork while a volunteer, a tired-looking rabbit, hands her a folder with resource listings. "There's a job board in the back," the rabbit says. "And a phone you can use."

She nods.

Tanpa sits on the cot, backpack between his feet. Around them, others are settling in for the night, a mother with three kits, an older dog with a cane, a young cat who won't stop coughing. His mother sits beside him. "Just for a little while," she says.

"Okay."

She reaches for his paw. Squeezes. Her paw is shaking worse than before.

---

Three weeks pass.

She finds work washing dishes at a diner on the edge of town. The owner is a black bear, broad-shouldered, with gray starting to show around his muzzle. He pays her under the table. Lets her take home leftovers at the end of her shift.

Tanpa gets a job stocking shelves at a grocery store. Night shift. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and he moves through the aisles like a ghost, stacking cans, rotating stock. They save what they can.

At night, they sleep in the shelter. His mother's breathing is getting worse. Sometimes she wakes up coughing, and it takes minutes for her to stop. Tanpa lies awake, listening.

---

One night, the bear offers them a room. "Above the diner," he says, wiping down the counter. "It's small. But it's empty."

His mother stares at him. "I can't afford-"

"You can pay when you can pay."

She opens her mouth. Closes it.

"Why?" Tanpa asks.

The bear looks at him. His eyes are dark, unreadable. "Because I can."

---

The room is small, one bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchenette with a hot plate. The walls are thin, and the diner's ventilation hums through the floor, but it's warm. Clean.

His mother cries that first night. Tanpa stands in the doorway, watching her sit on the edge of the bed, paws covering her face. He doesn't know what to say.

After a while, she wipes her eyes, looks up at him. "We're okay," she says.

He nods.

---

The bear doesn't ask questions. He lets his mother work the register when her paws are too swollen to wash dishes. Lets Tanpa pick up shifts bussing tables when the diner gets busy. He makes them sit down for meals, puts plates in front of them, eggs, toast, bacon, and waves off their protests. "You work, you eat," he says.

Slowly, his mother stops flinching when he moves too quickly. Stops watching the door like she's waiting for someone to come through it.

Tanpa watches the bear. The way he hums while he cooks. The way he talks to the regulars, remembering their orders, asking about their families. The way he moves through the diner like it's an extension of himself.

One night, the bear shows him how to flip an omelet. "Wrist, not arm," he says, demonstrating. The eggs arc through the air, land perfectly in the pan.

Tanpa tries. The eggs hit the edge of the pan, fold over themselves.

The bear laughs. It's a deep sound, warm. "Again."

They stand there for an hour, Tanpa flipping eggs until he gets it right. When he finally does, the bear claps him on the shoulder. "Good."

Tanpa's tail wags. He can't remember the last time that happened.

---

You watch. For the first time in twenty-two years, Tanpa's days don't end in fear. He comes home tired, smelling like grease and coffee, but his shoulders are looser. His ears stay up more often.

At night, his dreams are quieter. He doesn't need the fair. The field. The carousel. He dreams of the diner. Of the bear teaching him to crack eggs one-handed. Of his mother laughing at something a customer said. Simple things. Real things.

You let them play as they are. For the first time, you feel something you don't have a name for.

---

Six months later, his mother collapses.

Tanpa is at the grocery store when the bear calls. "Get to the hospital."

He doesn't remember the bus ride. Only the fluorescent lights of the emergency room, the smell of antiseptic, the bear standing in the hallway, still wearing his apron. "Where is she?" Tanpa asks.

The bear points.

Tanpa pushes through the door. She's on the bed, oxygen mask over her muzzle, an IV in her arm. Her eyes are closed. A doctor is talking to a nurse, words like "inflammation" and "fluid" and "compromised."

Tanpa sits beside the bed. Takes her paw. It's so small. So fragile.

Her eyes open. She sees him. Tries to smile. "I'm okay," she whispers.

She's not.

---

She stays in the hospital for two weeks. Tanpa and the bear take turns sitting with her. The bear brings food from the diner. Tanpa reads to her from a book she likes, a romance novel with a torn cover.

She gets weaker. The doctors say her immune system is attacking itself, that the medication isn't working anymore, that there are other options, but they're expensive. The bear pays for them anyway.

It's not enough.

---

She dies on a Tuesday. Tanpa is holding her paw when the heart monitor goes flat. The sound is thin. Continuous.

A nurse comes in, checks the monitor, looks at him. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't let go of her paw. The bear is in the doorway, his face unreadable. He crosses the room, puts a paw on Tanpa's shoulder. "Come on."

Tanpa doesn't move.

"Tanpa."

He looks up. His vision is blurry. "She's gone," the bear says quietly.

Tanpa's ears fold back. His tail is rigid. "I know." But he doesn't let go.

---

You watch the monitor flatline. You watch his mother's dreams stop. One moment, they're there, faint, flickering, barely conscious. The next, nothing.

You've never seen someone die before. You don't understand it. Where did she go?

---

Tanpa moves through the days like he's underwater. He goes to work, stocks shelves, comes home, sits in the room above the diner and stares at the wall.

The bear tries. He makes food, leaves it outside Tanpa's door. Most of it goes uneaten. He knocks, asks if Tanpa wants to talk. Tanpa doesn't answer. After a week, the bear stops knocking.

---

Three weeks after her death, Tanpa goes back to work. A customer says something, you don't catch what, something about the service being slow.

Tanpa's ears flatten. "I'm going as fast as I can."

"Well, it's not fast enough." The customer is a weasel. Thin. Smug. "Maybe if you weren't so lazy-"

Tanpa's fist connects with his face before he finishes the sentence. The weasel goes down. Blood pours from his nose. Someone screams.

The bear is there, pulling Tanpa back. "Outside. Now."

---

The weasel's parents press charges. Assault. Medical bills. The bear hires a lawyer. They settle out of court. Fifteen thousand dollars.

Tanpa doesn't have fifteen thousand dollars. The bear pays it.

---

That night, the bear sits across from him at the diner. It's late. The lights are off except for the one above their table.

"You can't do that again," the bear says.

Tanpa doesn't look at him. "I know."

"Do you?"

Silence.

The bear sighs. Rubs his face. "I know you're hurting. I know it feels like the world is ending. But you can't-" He stops. Starts again. "You have to keep going."

"Why?"

The bear looks at him. "Because she would want you to."

Tanpa's paws clench into fists. "She's dead. It doesn't matter what she'd want."

"It matters to me."

Tanpa looks up. His eyes are red. "Why do you care?"

The bear is quiet for a long moment. "Because you're my son now."

Tanpa's breath catches. His tail twitches. "I'm not-"

"You are," the bear says firmly. "You've been living under my roof. Eating my food. I've watched you grow into someone I'm proud of. That makes you my son."

Tanpa's throat is tight. "I can't-I can't pay you back. For the settlement. For everything."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Then what do you want?"

The bear leans forward. "I want you to live."

---

You watch the shift happen in Tanpa's mind. The way he thinks about the bear changes. Not immediately. But slowly, over the following days.

The bear becomes something else. Something warmer. Something that makes his chest feel less hollow.

His dad.

You don't understand what changed. The bear is still the bear. But to Tanpa, he's different.

So you change too. You start thinking of him the way Tanpa does.

His dad.

---

Tanpa tries. He goes back to work, keeps his head down, doesn't talk to customers unless he has to. His dad teaches him to cook, how to prep vegetables, how to make stock from scratch, how to season by taste instead of measurement.

Slowly, Tanpa's shoulders loosen again. His ears stay up more often. At night, he dreams of the diner, of his dad beside him, chopping onions, humming.

You let the dreams play. You think maybe he's healing.

---

Six months pass. Tanpa is twenty-three.

He's working the morning shift when his dad pulls him aside. "I need to talk to you."

They sit in the back office. His dad closes the door. "The settlement," he says. "And your mother's medical bills. And the funeral."

Tanpa's stomach drops. "How much?"

"Forty-three thousand."

Tanpa stares at him. "I'll pay you back. I swear. I'll-"

"I'm not asking you to pay me back."

"Then why are you telling me?"

His dad looks at him. His expression is tired. "Because I want you to know what it cost. So you understand."

"Understand what?"

"That I'd do it again."

---

Two weeks later, Tanpa comes home late. The diner is dark. His dad usually leaves a light on.

He climbs the stairs to the apartment. The door is unlocked. "Dad?"

The living room light is on. His dad is standing in the center of the room. There's a chair beneath him, a rope looped over the ceiling beam, tied in a noose around his neck. He's still standing on the chair.

Tanpa stops in the doorway. His ears flatten. His tail goes rigid. "What are you doing?"

His dad looks at him. His eyes are red. He's been crying. "Tanpa."

"Get down."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. Just-just step down."

His dad shakes his head slowly. "The settlement. Your mother's bills. The funeral. The diner." His voice is steady, but his paws are shaking. "It's too much."

"I don't care about the money."

"I do."

Tanpa takes a step forward. His dad raises a paw. "Don't."

Tanpa stops. "Please," Tanpa says. His voice cracks. "Please don't do this."

"The life insurance will cover it. All of it. The debt. The diner. You."

"I don't want the money. I want you."

His dad's face crumples. He looks away. "You're young. You'll be okay."

"I won't."

"You will. You're strong. Stronger than you think."

"I'm not." Tanpa's voice is rising. "I'm not strong. I can't-I can't do this without you."

"You've done it before."

"That was different."

"How?"

"Because you were there."

His dad closes his eyes. Tears run down his muzzle. "I'm sorry."

"Then don't. Please. We can figure this out. We can-"

"There's nothing to figure out." His dad opens his eyes. "I've looked at every option. This is the only way."

"It's not."

"It is."

Tanpa's legs are shaking. He wants to move, wants to rush forward and pull him down, but his dad's paw is still raised, warning him back.

"I love you," his dad says quietly. "You know that, right?"

Tanpa's vision blurs. "Don't say that. Don't-"

"You're my son. I'm proud of you."

"Stop."

"Keep going, Tanpa. Keep living. For me. For your mother."

"I can't."

"You can."

His dad's paw drops to his side. "I'm sorry," he says again.

And he kicks the chair.

---

The sound is immediate, a creak, then a snap. His dad's body drops, then jerks to a stop. His legs kick. Once. Twice.

Tanpa is moving before he realizes it. He grabs his dad's legs, tries to lift him, tries to take the weight off the rope. "No. No no no no-"

His dad's paws claw at the rope around his neck. His eyes are wide. Panicked. Tanpa is screaming. "Help! Someone help!"

But there's no one. The diner is closed. The street is empty.

He tries to reach the rope, but he can't get high enough. He looks around wildly, sees the chair on its side, scrambles for it. His paws are shaking so badly he can barely grip it.

He rights the chair, climbs onto it, reaches for the rope. His dad's movements are getting weaker. "Hold on. Please. Hold on."

Tanpa's claws tear at the knot. It's too tight. His paws slip. "Please. Please."

His dad's eyes find his. They're glazed. Distant. His paws stop clawing. His legs stop kicking.

"No. No, don't-"

Tanpa pulls at the rope, desperate, frantic. It won't budge.

His dad's body goes limp. His eyes stay open. Staring at nothing.

---

Tanpa doesn't know how long he stands there. His paws are still on the rope. His dad's body sways slightly. The ceiling beam creaks.

Eventually, Tanpa's legs give out. He falls off the chair, lands hard on the floor. He doesn't get up. He lies there, staring at his dad's feet, inches from his face.

His mind is blank. Empty. He can't think. Can't move. Can't breathe.

---

You watch. You watch his dad's body, suspended. You watch his dreams stop. The same way his mother's did. One moment, they're there, fear, regret, love, and then nothing.

You watch Tanpa on the floor. He's not moving. His mind is a void.

You try to reach him. But he's not asleep. He's awake. And you can't help him.

---

Hours pass. The sky outside the window starts to lighten.

Tanpa finally moves. He sits up slowly. His joints are stiff. He looks at his dad's body, then at his paws. There are rope burns on his palms. Blood under his claws where he tore at the knot.

He stands. Walks to the table. There's a note. He didn't see it before. He picks it up.

The life insurance will cover everything. The settlement. The diner. You.

I'm sorry.

Keep going.

-Yon-Ju

Tanpa reads it twice, then folds it. Puts it in his pocket.

He walks to the bathroom, looks at himself in the mirror. His fur is matted. His eyes are bloodshot. There's a smear of something dark on his cheek. He doesn't recognize himself.

He turns on the faucet. Washes his paws. The water runs pink.

Behind him, in the living room, his dad's body is still hanging.

Tanpa dries his paws, goes back to the living room, picks up his phone. Dials.

"911, what's your emergency?"

His voice is flat. "My father hanged himself."

---

You watch the paramedics arrive. They cut his dad down, lay him on the floor, check for a pulse even though it's obvious. One of them talks to Tanpa. Asks questions.

Tanpa answers mechanically. Yes, he found him. No, he didn't see it coming.

The paramedic puts a paw on his shoulder. "Is there someone we can call?"

Tanpa shakes his head. "There's no one."

---

The funeral is small. A few regulars from the diner. The lawyer who handled the settlement. The landlord. They bury him in a cemetery on the edge of town.

Tanpa stands in front of the grave after everyone leaves. His mother's headstone is three feet to the left, simple, her name, the dates. He looks at both of them. Two people who loved him. Both gone. Both because of him.

He doesn't cry.

---

The insurance pays out. Sixty thousand dollars. It covers the settlement, the medical bills, the funeral costs. There's twenty thousand left.

Tanpa stares at the check. All that money. All it cost was his dad's life.

He folds it. Puts it in his pocket. Doesn't cash it for weeks.

---

He moves through the days. Goes to work at the grocery store. Comes home to the apartment above the diner. Sits in the living room where it happened.

The rope is gone. The chair is gone. But he can still see it. Every time he walks through the door. His dad standing on the chair. The rope around his neck. The way his eyes looked when he kicked it away. I'm sorry.

Tanpa sits on the floor in the same spot where he fell. Stares at the ceiling beam.

---

At night, you try to help.

You give him his mother. She's at the diner, making pancakes. She's at the park, pushing him on the swings. She's in the room above the diner, humming while she folds laundry.

He wakes up crying.

You try again. You give him his dad, in the diner, teaching him to cook, laughing, his paw on Tanpa's shoulder. "Good work today."

Tanpa's tail wags in the dream. When he wakes, he punches the wall. His knuckles bleed.

You don't understand. You're giving him what he wants. What he needs. Why is it making him worse?

---

You try the fair. The field. The carousel. The safe place you built for him when he was four.

His mother is there. His dad is there. Both young. Both whole. Both smiling. "I've got you," his mother says. "You'll be okay," his dad says.

Tanpa is small again. The carousel spins. The music plays. They're both standing beside him. Safe. Together.

When he wakes, he's alone. The apartment is dark. The ceiling beam is above him.

He closes his eyes. Tries to go back.

---

Two months after his dad's death, Tanpa stops going to work. He stays in the apartment. Doesn't eat. Doesn't shower. And when he's awake, he stares at the ceiling beam.

---

He starts sleeping more. Twelve hours. Fourteen. Sixteen. The dreams are so vivid he can't tell what's real anymore.

His mother is there. His dad is there. They're happy. They're whole. The diner. The fair. The house with the yard. His mother's laugh. His dad's paw on his shoulder.

When he wakes, they're gone. And he's alone. Again.

So he closes his eyes immediately. Tries to fall back under. Tries to go back to them.

---

You give him everything he wants. Every good memory. Every moment of warmth. Every smile, every laugh, every touch. He stays as long as he can. His tail wags in his sleep. He's happy there.

But the waking hours get shorter.

The dreams get longer.

And Tanpa stops wanting to wake up at all.

Chapter III

Three months after the funeral, he cashes the check.

Twenty thousand dollars.

He stands at the bank counter while the teller, a nervous rabbit, counts bills. "How would you like this?"

"It doesn't matter."

She puts it in an envelope, hands it to him. He folds it into his pocket.

Outside, the sun is too bright. He squints, pulls his hood up, ears flattening beneath it. He walks six blocks to a pharmacy.

---

The pharmacist is an older tortoise, slow-moving, glasses perched on his beak. "Can I help you?"

"Sleeping pills."

"Prescription?"

"No. Over the counter."

The tortoise points to an aisle. Tanpa walks down it. The shelves are lined with boxes, different brands, different dosages. He picks up one, reads the label.

Take one tablet 30 minutes before bed. Do not exceed recommended dosage.

He takes five boxes to the counter.

The tortoise rings them up slowly, looking at the boxes, then at Tanpa. "That's a lot."

"I have trouble sleeping."

"You know, if you're having serious issues, you should see a doctor." The tortoise's voice is gentle, concerned. "There are other options. Therapy, medication that's-"

"I'm fine." Tanpa pays in cash. The tortoise bags the boxes, hands them over. His eyes linger on Tanpa's face, like he's trying to memorize it.

"Take care of yourself," he says quietly.

Tanpa doesn't respond. Just takes the bag and leaves.

---

That night, he takes two pills instead of one.

The apartment is dark except for the glow from the street outside. He lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling beam. The pills are bitter on his tongue. He chases them with water from a glass on the nightstand.

Sleep comes faster than usual.

---

The diner materializes around him. Morning light streams through the windows, warm and golden. The smell of coffee and bacon fills the air.

His dad is at the grill, humming. He looks up when Tanpa enters, smiles. "Morning. You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Well, you're awake now. Come here, I'll show you how to make hash browns the right way."

Tanpa crosses to the grill. His dad hands him a spatula, guides his paw. "Gentle. You're not trying to kill them."

Behind them, the bell above the door chimes. His mother walks in, younger than she was at the end, her fur glossy and bright. No tired lines around her muzzle. She's wearing the yellow dress she used to wear on good days.

"There's my boy," she says, crossing to him. She kisses the top of his head, between his ears. "You eating enough?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"That's not what I asked."

His dad laughs. "She's got you there."

She sits at the counter. His dad pours her coffee without asking. She takes a sip, sighs contentedly. "Perfect."

Tanpa watches them. The way his dad moves around the kitchen, easy and confident. The way his mother's paws are steady around the mug. The way the sunlight falls across both of them.

"You okay?" his dad asks.

Tanpa realizes he's staring. His tail gives a small wag. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Good." His dad claps him on the shoulder. "Now flip those hash browns before they burn."

---

He wakes fourteen hours later.

The apartment is still dark. He doesn't know what time it is. His mouth is dry. His head is heavy, like it's full of cotton.

He lies there for a long time, staring at the ceiling beam. The dream is already fading. He tries to hold onto it, his mother's smile, his dad's hand on his shoulder, the smell of coffee, but it slips away like water through his fingers.

The apartment is too quiet.

He rolls over, looks at the pill bottle on the nightstand. Two left him with them for fourteen hours.

He wonders how long four would give him.

---

Three days later, he takes four pills.

He doesn't bother with water this time. Just tips them into his mouth, swallows dry. They stick in his throat. He coughs, takes a drink from the tap, goes back to bed.

The apartment smells. Dishes in the sink. Trash overflowing. He hasn't showered in days. His fur is matted.

He closes his eyes.

---

The fair appears around him. The same one from when he was a child. Bright lights strung between poles. The smell of fried dough and sugar. The carousel spinning in the center, painted horses rising and falling.

His mother is there, holding his paw. "Come on, I want to show you something."

They walk through the crowd. Everything is warm, bright and safe. But the colors are too saturated. The lights are too bright. When he blinks, they leave afterimages.

"Mom?"

She doesn't hear him. Just keeps walking, pulling him along.

They reach the carousel. His dad is standing beside it, waving. "There you are! I was starting to think you weren't coming."

"We wouldn't miss it," his mother says.

Tanpa looks between them. His tail wags slowly. "Are we... are we all here?"

"Of course we are." His dad ruffles the fur between his ears. "Where else would we be?"

Tanpa wants to answer. Wants to say you're dead, both of you, you're both dead and I'm alone. But the words won't come.

The carousel music starts. It's too loud. The notes are slightly off-key.

His mother climbs onto a white horse with a gold saddle. His dad lifts Tanpa onto the one beside her. "Hold on tight."

The carousel starts to spin. Faster than it should. The music warps, speeds up. His mother is smiling, but when Tanpa looks directly at her face, her features blur slightly at the edges.

"Mom?"

She turns to him. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. There's a delay.

"I'm here, baby," she says. But her voice sounds far away.

The carousel spins faster. Tanpa's stomach lurches. He tries to call out to his dad, but when he turns, his dad is staring straight ahead, unblinking. His smile is frozen on his face.

"Stop," Tanpa says. "Stop, please-"

---

He wakes gasping.

Sixteen hours have passed. The room is spinning. Or maybe he is. He rolls onto his side, dry heaves over the edge of the bed. Nothing comes up.

His heart is pounding. His fur is damp with sweat.

The dream. Something was wrong with the dream.

He lies back down, tries to remember. His mother's face, blurred. His dad's frozen smile. The carousel spinning too fast.

It wasn't right. But it was still them. Still better than this.

He reaches for the pill bottle. His paw is shaking.

Five pills this time.

---

Six pills. The field. His mother ahead of him, walking. He calls to her. She doesn't turn. The grass is too bright, almost white. When he looks down, his paws are sinking into the ground.

He wakes. Eighteen hours gone. The apartment is darker. Or maybe his eyes aren't working right.

Seven pills. The diner. His dad is cooking, but he's moving too stiff. When he speaks, his mouth doesn't match the words. "You're doing great, son." But his eyes are empty.

He wakes. Twenty hours. His phone is buzzing. He doesn't look at it. Lets it buzz until it stops.

Eight pills. The carousel. His mother is there, but her face keeps shifting. Young, then old, then young again. She's saying something, but he can't hear her over the music. The music is deafening, distorted.

He wakes. He doesn't know how long he's been asleep. The curtains are closed. He doesn't remember closing them. There's food by the door, rotting. He doesn't remember ordering it.

Nine pills. The field is dying. The grass is brown, brittle. His mother is far away, getting farther. He tries to run to her but his legs won't work. His dad is behind him, but when Tanpa turns, he's already fading, becoming transparent.

He wakes. Or thinks he does. The room doesn't look real. Nothing looks real. He takes more pills. He doesn't count them anymore.

---

You're panicking.

The dreams are breaking apart. You're trying to hold them together, pulling harder, reaching deeper into his memories, but they're fragmenting. His mother's face is becoming indistinct. His dad's voice is distorting.

Why is this happening?

You've given him everything. Every good memory. Every moment of warmth and safety. Every smile, every laugh, every touch.

Why isn't it working?

His heartbeat is changing. Too fast, then too slow.

Something is very wrong.

---

He's not sure what day it is. Not sure how long he's been here.

The apartment is disgusting. The smell is overwhelming, rotting food, unwashed fur, something sour he can't identify. The dishes in the sink are growing mold. The trash has spilled onto the floor. There are flies.

He sits on the living room floor. There's a bottle of beer in one paw, half-empty. He takes a drink. It tastes like nothing.

On the floor in front of him, there are three bottles of sleeping pills. All open.

He's been sitting here for too long.

His phone is on the floor beside him. The screen lights up. A notification. He doesn't look at it.

He picks up the first pill bottle, tips it into his paw. He stares at them. His paw is shaking.

He thinks about his mother. The way her paw felt in his when he was small. The way she hummed when she was folding laundry. The way she said I've got you when he was scared.

She's been dead for nine months now.

He thinks about his dad. The way he laughed. The way he clapped Tanpa on the shoulder. The way he said You're my son now like it was the simplest thing in the world.

He's been dead for three months.

Tanpa thinks about the rope. The chair. The way his dad's eyes looked when-

He tips the pills into his mouth. Swallows. Chases them with beer. Picks up the second bottle. Does the same. The third.

His stomach feels heavy.

He leans back against the couch. Sets the beer bottle down. It tips over, spills onto the floor. He doesn't move to pick it up.

He closes his eyes. Waits.

---

No.

You feel it immediately. The pills. Too many. Far too many. His heartbeat is already changing, erratic, stumbling.

You reach for him, trying to pull him under, trying to-

You don't know. You've never known how to reach him when he's awake.

But you try.

---

His stomach cramps. Sudden. Sharp. He doubles over, paws pressed to his abdomen. His mouth floods with saliva. He's going to be sick.

He tries to stand. His legs don't work. They're heavy, numb. He falls forward, catches himself on his paws. The room is spinning.

He needs to, bathroom. Phone. Something.

He crawls. The floor is cold beneath his paws. His vision is blurring at the edges, darkening. He can't see where he's going. Can't remember where the bathroom is.

His arms give out. He collapses onto his side.

His heart is pounding too fast, then too slow. He can't breathe right. His chest is tight. His lungs won't fill.

Cold. He's so cold. It starts in his fingers, his toes. Spreads up his limbs. His paws are numb. He can't feel them anymore.

Did I take too many?

The thought comes slow, distant, like it's not his.

How many did I take?

He doesn't remember.

His vision is going. The edges are black now, closing in. He can only see a small circle in front of him, the carpet, the overturned beer bottle, the pills scattered across the floor.

He tries to move. Can't. Tries to call out. Can't. His mouth won't work. His tongue is thick, useless.

The cold is in his chest now. His heart is fluttering, irregular.

Then his vision goes black.

---

You pull.

Harder than you've ever pulled. His consciousness is fragmenting, thoughts scattering. You're trying to gather them, trying to hold them together, but he's slipping.

The dream space forms, but it's unstable. The edges won't hold.

The field appears, but the grass is already dead. The sky is dark, starless.

You try to bring his mother. She appears, but her face is indistinct, features blurred. He's forgetting what she looks like.

You try to bring his dad. He appears, but his form is translucent, fading.

His heartbeat is weakening.

No no no no.

The fair materializes in the distance, but the lights are flickering. Going out one by one. The carousel is slowing, grinding to a halt. The music warps, stops.

Why can't you hold this together?

His mother walks ahead, but she's getting farther away. Disappearing into the dark.

His dad turns, looks at Tanpa, but his eyes are empty. Then he's gone.

The field collapses. The sky goes black. The dream space fractures.

And then-

---

He's standing in the living room of the apartment.

But it's empty. No furniture. No windows. No doors.

Just him. And you.

For the first time, he sees you.

He turns in a circle, ears swiveling. "Where-" His voice is small. Broken. "Where did they go?"

You don't know how to answer. Don't know if you can.

He searches the empty room. "Mom? Dad?"

Nothing. Just the empty space and the sound of his breathing.

His tail droops. His ears flatten. "Why-" He stops. Starts again. "Why did you show me all of that?"

You were trying to help. You were trying to give him peace.

"Why did you give me those dreams?" His voice cracks. "Why did you make me think they were real?"

Because you wanted him to be happy. Because you wanted to give them back to him.

"I don't want peace," he whispers. "I want them back."

You gave them to him. Every night. You gave them to him over and over.

Why wasn't that enough?

"Then what good are you?"

His legs give out. He sits on the floor, paws covering his face. "I can't do this anymore."

His heartbeat stutters.

You move closer. As close as you've ever been.

He looks up. His eyes are wet. His ears are flat against his head.

"Will you stay with me?" he asks quietly.

His voice is so small.

"I'm scared," he says.

His heartbeat falters.

"Please," he whispers. "I don't want to be alone."

Chapter IVa

This is your fault.

The thought comes sharp, cutting through the panic.

You've been with him for twenty-three years. Watched him grow. Shaped his dreams. Kept the nightmares away. And now he's dying on the floor of a filthy apartment because of you.

His heartbeat stutters.

No.

You pull back from the dream space. Let it collapse. Let the field die, let his mother fade, let his dad disappear into nothing.

Tanpa's consciousness flickers, confused, reaching for the comfort you always give.

You don't give it.

Instead, you break.

---

The feelings come all at once.

Fear. Your fear. Not of death or pain or loss, but of failing at your only purpose. Of understanding too late. Of being helpless despite being right there for twenty-three years.

Regret. Not for actions taken, but for what you are. Every dream you ever gave him. Every nightmare you soothed. Every time you made sleep sweeter than waking. Good intentions turned poison.

Grief. You're grieving him while he's still alive. Grieving the child he was. The person he could have been. Grieving twenty-three years of trying and failing.

Love. Underneath all of it, love. The love of something that's been watching, shaping, protecting for twenty-three years without rest. Love that doesn't know boundaries because you've never had boundaries with him.

And it all spills out.

---

You've never touched the waking world before. You exist in dreams. In the soft, malleable parts of the mind.

But now you're breaking.

And when you break, the feelings leak into reality.

---

Two doors down, a woman wakes suddenly. Her chest is tight. She sits up, paw pressed to her chest.

She's afraid. But of what?

Something is ending. Something precious is being lost and she's too late to stop it.

She picks up her phone with shaking paws. Dials 911.

"I don't know what's wrong. I just-someone needs help. Someone's dying. Please."

---

The police arrive fourteen minutes later.

Two of them. A fox and a German shepherd. They climb the stairs, radios crackling.

As they reach the third floor, the shepherd stops. His ears flatten.

"You feel that?"

The fox looks at him. Her throat is tight. Her eyes are burning for no reason she can name.

"Yeah."

They reach Tanpa's door. The fox knocks. "Police. Wellness check."

No answer.

The door isn't locked. It swings open.

The smell hits them first. But underneath it, something else. A pressure in the air. Heavy. Suffocating.

The fox sweeps her flashlight across the room. Stops.

Tanpa is on the floor. Not moving. Pill bottles scattered around him.

"Here." Her voice cracks. "Call it in."

The shepherd is already on his radio, but his paw is shaking. "We need an ambulance. Unresponsive male, early twenties. Possible overdose."

The fox kneels beside Tanpa. Checks his pulse.

There. Faint. But there.

"He's alive. Barely."

---

The paramedics arrive. Move fast. IV. Oxygen. Activated charcoal.

They load him onto a gurney. His body is limp. His head lolls to the side.

The doors slam shut. Sirens wail.

As the ambulance pulls away, the pressure in the apartment lifts. Slowly. Like a weight releasing.

---

You're with him. In the fractured space between waking and sleep.

Your feelings have stopped leaking. You're too exhausted to feel anything anymore.

His consciousness is scattered. But it's not fading. Not anymore.

Slowly, piece by piece, it starts to come back together.

You don't give him dreams. Don't give him the field or the diner or his parents.

Just rest.

His heartbeat steadies. Slightly.

---

Hours pass.

They pump his stomach. Flush the pills from his system. His body fights weakly, but he doesn't wake.

You stay in the empty space. Holding it steady.

---

He wakes.

The first thing he feels is the tube in his throat. He gags, tries to pull at it, but his arms are too heavy.

"Easy. We're taking it out."

A nurse removes the tube. It slides out. Tanpa coughs, gasps.

"There you go. Breathe."

Bright lights above him. An IV in his arm. Monitors beeping.

His head is pounding. His mouth tastes like ash.

"Where-"

"You're in the hospital. You overdosed."

He closes his eyes. The pills. The apartment. The floor.

His parents.

The dream that wouldn't hold.

He opens his eyes again.

And sees you.

You're standing in the corner. Visible. In the waking world.

Something broke when you lost control. When your feelings spilled into reality and called for help. And now the barrier is gone.

He can see you.

His eyes widen. His ears prick forward.

"It's you," he whispers.

The nurse follows his gaze. Sees nothing. "What?"

Tanpa doesn't look at her. Just stares at you.

"You're real."

The nurse frowns. "You're disoriented. That's normal. I'll get the doctor."

She leaves.

---

Tanpa is still staring at you. His eyes are wet.

"How long?"

Since the beginning.

He understands somehow. The same way he's always understood his dreams, on some level deeper than words.

His breath hitches. "You've been there the whole time."

"The dreams. That was you."

His paws clench in the hospital sheets. "You were trying to help me."

"But it didn't help." His voice cracks. "It made it worse."

You know.

You've known for a long time.

Every dream you gave him made waking harder. Every time you showed him his mother's smile, her absence cut deeper. Every time you gave him his father's laugh, the silence became more unbearable.

You were trying to save him.

But you were drowning him instead.

Tanpa closes his eyes. Tears run down his muzzle. "I wanted to die."

"I still want to."

Silence. Just the beeping of monitors.

"Why didn't you let me?" He whispers.

Chapter IVb

He's fading.

You're trying to hold him, trying to keep him in the dream space, but he keeps slipping. His consciousness is fragmenting, dissolving like smoke through your fingers.

The apartment collapses. The field crumbles. The diner falls apart. Everything is breaking faster than you can rebuild it.

Something is pulling him away.

You follow.

---

The dream space stretches. Warps. You're moving through it, chasing the pieces of him as they scatter.

His mother's face blurs. Disappears.

His father's voice distorts. Fades.

The grass turns to ash beneath you.

Tanpa's consciousness is a flickering light ahead of you, growing dimmer. You reach for it, try to gather it back, but it slips through you.

The bottom drops out.

---

Cold hits you. Different from any cold you've known. It tastes like metal..

The dream space is gone. There's nothing beneath you anymore. Nothing around you. Just vast, empty darkness stretching in every direction.

The cold has weight. Presses against you from all sides.

Tanpa's consciousness is still ahead, sinking deeper. You can barely sense him. A faint pulse growing more distant.

You push forward.

---

The darkness thickens. Resists every movement. Your form feels wrong here. Stretched too thin. The rules that made you what you are don't exist in this place.

Tanpa is still sinking. You can feel him being pulled by an invisible current. A tide that only moves in one direction.

You reach for him. Your form extends, trying to wrap around him, trying to anchor him.

The current pushes back. Stronger than you.

---

A thought appears. Not yours.

"Let go."

It doesn't have a voice. But it fills the space until there's no room for anything else.

You push deeper instead.

---

The darkness changes. Becomes denser.

Tanpa's consciousness flickers ahead of you. Weakens. He's barely there..

You wrap yourself around it. Try to hold it together.

The cold seeps deeper into you. Your edges start to shatter where it touches.

---

The thought returns. Louder.

"He is in my domain now."

The pressure increases. The darkness presses closer. You feel it trying to pry you away from Tanpa.

"This is beyond your realm."

You hold tighter. Pour more of yourself into keeping him together.

Something in you tears. A piece drifts away into the void.

---

Another thought. Gentle.

"Why do you resist?"

You can't answer. You're barely holding together as it is.

The presence continues.

"He has been suffering for a long time. You have watched him suffer his entire life."

You have.

Twenty-three years of pain. Twenty-three years of loss. Twenty-three years of waking up to a world that kept taking from him.

His mother left him on a doorstep to die. The woman who saved him worked herself to death trying to keep him fed. The man who became his father hanged himself in front of him.

You've watched all of it. Felt all of it through him.

And you've tried to help. Tried to give him peace. Tried to make sleep better than waking.

---

The thought comes again. Softer.

"You gave him dreams. Beautiful dreams. Dreams of warmth and safety and love. But they only made the waking world harder to bear."

You know.

You've known for a long time.

Every morning he woke up, the weight on his chest was heavier. Every time you showed him his mother's smile, the ache of her absence grew sharper. Every time you gave him his father's laugh, the silence of the apartment became more unbearable.

You were trying to help. But you were hurting him instead.

---

The presence shifts. Becomes clearer. More present.

It's the darkness itself. The cold itself. The weight itself.

But there's something else in it. Something you didn't expect.

Understanding.

---

The thought continues.

"I have been here since the first breath became the last. I have held every life as it ended. Every human. Every animal. Every insect. Every blade of grass."

"I am not cruel. I am not kind. I simply am."

The current gently pulls at Tanpa's consciousness.

"He is ready. His body has stopped. His heart has ceased. His lungs no longer fill. He belongs here now."

You tighten your grip on him.

---

Another thought. Quieter.

"You stayed with him because you saw his pain. Because you could not leave him alone in it."

That's why you stayed. That's why you've always stayed.

Not because he was special. Not because you were meant to. But because you saw him. Truly saw him. And you couldn't turn away.

---

The thought comes again.

"You gave him what you could."

"But dreams are not enough. They never were."

The cold seeps deeper into you. Your form is dissolving faster. Pieces of you drifting away into the void.

"He suffered every day of his life. Every single day. And you could only reach him at night."

You know.

You've always known.

---

The presence shifts again. Closer.

"I end suffering. That is my purpose. My only purpose."

"Every life that comes to me has already been lived. Every breath that reaches me has already been taken."

The current pulls harder at Tanpa. His consciousness flickers weakly.

"He has suffered enough."

You don't let go.

---

The thought comes again. Patient.

"You cannot keep him. You were made for dreams. For sleep. For the gentle space between waking and rest."

"I was made for endings. For the moment when breath stops and the heart is still. For the peace that comes after."

Your form is fragmenting. Dissolving. The cold is tearing you apart piece by piece.

"You will cease to be if you stay here. You know this."

You do.

But you don't let go.

---

Another thought. Almost sad.

"You love him. In your way. As much as something like you can love."

You've loved him since the moment you saw him. The baby on the step. Alone. Screaming. Covered in ants.

You've loved him through every nightmare. Every fear. Every moment of pain.

And you've tried to protect him. Tried to give him peace.

But you couldn't protect him from life. And now you cannot protect him from death.

---

The presence surrounds you completely. Inside you. Around you. Dissolving you from within.

"Let him rest. He has earned it."

The current pulls at Tanpa. His consciousness is barely there anymore.

Your form is almost gone, scattered fragments held together by will alone.

But you don't let go.

The presence doesn't try to stop you.

Instead, a thought comes.

"I see."

The presence shifts. The pressure eases slightly.

"Very well. I will wait.”

"When you are ready. When he is at peace. I will be here.”

You hold him.

And you build. One perfect dream.