Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~ Down the rainbow spiral playlist.🌈💫

any art displayed doesn’t belong to me!! Creds to the owner. Recommenced song for this specific chapter.

🏠⭐️

The world didn’t spin. It bled. It leaked through the cracks in your skull like oil through broken pavement. The sky looked wrong—too open, too uncaring. A void painted in soft orange and fading lavender, almost beautiful in its indifference. You sat hunched against the cold bite of a chain-link fence, knees drawn to your chest, one hand weakly pressing against the side of your head. Blood smeared your fingers. It dripped along your jaw and neck, clinging to your skin like the shame you couldn’t scrub off.

You didn’t cry anymore. That part was gone—dried up with your pride. Even the pain in your stomach from the earlier kick had dulled into a slow, numbing ache, spreading across your middle like cold ink in water. You couldn’t move much. Every breath stretched something wrong inside your ribs. Your cough—persistent and clawing—threatened to erupt again, but you swallowed it down. Like everything else.

It was quiet now. Not peaceful. Hollow. Heavy. Like the world had taken a deep breath after watching what happened and now didn’t know what to do with itself.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not like this. You’d trusted them—your friends, or whatever pale imitation of the word they once were. You’d believed them when they called you their favorite, when they joked and laughed with you like you were wanted. Needed. They’d held your hands, sat beside you during lunch, shared secrets in corners of the school where teachers never looked. You let them in.

But today… today they showed you what they really thought.

It started with a joke. Always does.

You said something—nothing cruel, nothing loud. Just a nervous laugh and a comment. But the moment it left your lips, you saw it shift. The atmosphere. The way one of them, Callen, narrowed his eyes like you’d committed a crime. You tried to backpedal, explain, but they didn’t care. They started laughing. At you.

And then the comments came. The ones you thought they'd stopped making months ago.

“Why do you always talk like that?”

“Do you think you’re special or something?”

“You're so damn sensitive, it's pathetic.”

Then the first rock came. A small one, meant to scare you. It did. Then another. And another. Laughter rising behind each one like a chorus of monsters who once wore familiar faces.

You ran.

You didn’t get far. You turned a corner, lungs already burning, when someone caught your arm. You remember the sound of your body hitting the metal fence. It rang like a warning bell—like the universe itself was flinching at the violence of it.

You remember the foot. The way it drove into your stomach and folded you in half. You collapsed, wheezing. Someone else kicked your side. You don’t remember who. The last thing you really saw was them walking away—Callen’s smirk sharp as glass in the fading light.

You didn’t chase them. You couldn’t.

Now here you were.

Your phone buzzed weakly from your jacket pocket. You blinked through the black edges creeping into your vision and reached for it. Your fingertips trembled as you gripped it, thumb sliding across the cracked screen. It was a miracle it still worked. You’d landed on it hard when you fell.

Your contacts blurred in and out of focus, but one name stood out among the mess: Petal.

Your aunt.

God, if anyone could help you now, it was her.

You didn’t hesitate. You tapped her name, the light from the screen casting a pale glow against your bloodied face. Your thumbs moved slow, but deliberate.

- Can you pick me up. I don’t feel good.

sent; 5:59 pm.

No punctuation. No explanation. You couldn’t bring yourself to type more. She would understand. She always did.

Petal wasn’t just an aunt—she was your lifeline. A soft place to land in a world filled with barbed wire. She had this way about her, calm and steady. Her voice always carried warmth, even when the topic was cold. She liked jazz—real jazz. The kind that crackled on old vinyl records, pouring from the speakers like candlelight. She wore long sweaters and made tea the old-fashioned way. She never asked for more than what you could give, and she never judged what little that was.

She never raised her voice. She never looked at you the way others did—like you were a burden wrapped in skin.

You clutched the phone to your chest, breathing shallow. Each inhale pulled at bruised ribs, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even register the cold biting into your arms where your jacket had fallen open. The grey t-shirt beneath was soaked through with sweat and blood. You were a mess. But you were her mess. Maybe she’d still come.

Your limbs started to feel heavy. Sleepy.

You leaned your head back against the fence, the metal digging into your scalp. You stared upward, watching the sky shift to dusk. Streetlights buzzed weakly a few feet away, but none lit the alley where you sat. Of course they didn’t. You weren’t in the part of town where things were supposed to be safe.

Your vision fluttered. A swirl of green, then blue. Stars danced at the edges. You shook your head, trying to stay awake, but it felt like trying to swim in wet cement. Exhaustion curled around you like a serpent.

You weren’t dying. You knew that. But it felt like something in you was.

The part that believed in others.

The part that wanted to be good.

You let your hand fall into your lap. The phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the pavement with a soft clack. Your gaze drifted down to it, too tired to retrieve it.

There was a soft vibration—another message.

But you didn’t check it.

Your eyes closed.

And the world vanished.

The screech of tires broke through the silence of the alley, headlights casting two golden arcs through the dim, empty corridor. A car door slammed, quick footsteps followed.

"Sweetheart?"

A voice. Familiar. Distant. Frantic.

“God, no—no, no, no…”

The sound of shoes scraping against gravel. Knees hitting concrete. Then hands—gentle, warm, trembling—cupping your face.

“Baby, hey—look at me. Look at me.”

You stirred, eyes fluttering weakly. The shape above you blurred into soft browns and a gentle scent of tea and lavender.

“Auntie…?”

Her face crumpled into relief and sorrow all at once.

“Oh, thank the stars,” she whispered, stroking your hair. “I’m here. I’m here.”

You were safe now. For the first time today, maybe in a long time, you could finally fall. 

🌈💙

Julie Joyful sat perched on a vividly painted bench, its surface smooth with layers of bright, artificial varnish—red, blue, yellow, and polka dots swirled together like icing on a cake. The seat was the kind you might see outside a candy store in a children’s picture book: innocent, cartoonish, and oh-so-delightfully perfect. It never faded. Not a scratch, not a chip. Not ever.

The sky above was a warm pastel blue, so gentle it could lull even the most restless soul into a daze. Puffy white clouds drifted lazily overhead, shapes too precise to be natural—hearts, bunnies, maybe even a pie if you squinted. The air held a faint cotton candy scent. Sweet. Inviting. Cloying.

Julie kicked her little fuzzy feet back and forth slowly. Her pink plush hands rested on the wooden bench like they belonged there—like they’d always belonged there. Her smile was gentle and fixed, as was her gaze as she followed the painted bugs crawling across the cobblestone path in front of her. Ladybugs with perfectly symmetrical spots. Butterflies that fluttered in predictable figure-eights. A blue squirrel darted by, waving hello with a paw and a little acorn hat on its head. Julie waved back. Of course she did.

Today was a normal day in Home.

And in Home, normal was always the same.

From somewhere beyond the perfect hedges and lollipop-shaped trees, music began to play. Not just any music—this was the kind of soft, cheerful melody you’d hear from a record player in a warm living room, circa 1950. Piano chords skipping along like children at play. A gentle jazz flute. Everything carefully stitched together, like someone had handpicked the notes for maximum comfort.

Julie closed her eyes for a moment and let it wash over her. She could hum this tune in her sleep. She had hummed this tune in her sleep. It was the kind of song that wrapped around you like a blanket. That reminded you you were safe.

Nothing bad ever happened here.

Nothing would ever happen here.

“HEY-YA, JULIE!”

A loud, familiar voice snapped her eyes open.

Bounding down the cobbled street, a blue blur zipped by with a satchel bouncing at his hip. It was Eddie Dear, the ever-dutiful mailman of Home. His wide, stitched smile was practically glowing as he hurried along the path, waving at every neighbor-shaped bush and mailbox he passed. A stack of envelopes clutched in one gloved hand.

Julie grinned wider—if that was possible.

“Heya Eddie!!” she called, lifting a hand with an overenthusiastic wave.

Eddie paused for just a second—long enough to tip his mail cap toward her in reply.

“Mail for Howdy and Frank!” he shouted cheerfully, as if that explained everything. “Can’t keep ‘em waiting!”

“Never would dream of it!” Julie replied with a giggle.

And off he went, moving in a blur of navy blue and pinstripes.

Julie chuckled to herself, her hand falling back to the bench. She leaned back slightly, letting her body soak in the artificial sunlight that poured from a sun that never moved in the sky. Warm but not too hot. Bright but not blinding. A perfect day. A perfect moment.

Her dress—a lovely patchwork number in lavender, sunshine yellow, and petal pink—fluttered gently in a breeze that shouldn't exist. There was no logical source for the wind in Home. No weather systems. No natural cause. But that was the thing about Home: logic was an intruder here.

Julie liked the wind anyway.

She brushed her fuzzy fingers along the edge of the bench again, feeling the faint texture of paint ridges underneath her plush padding. There was a softness to her movements, a practiced grace. She knew this bench. She had sat on it countless times. Talked to friends. Sang songs. Watched butterflies dance and bugs pretend.

Yes—pretend.

Because nothing here was real.

Not truly.

But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t supposed to matter.

This was Home.

And Home… was paradise.

Wasn’t it?

Julie tilted her head as a nearby tree gave a little shake. Leaves fluttered down—not crunchy, dead leaves, but soft felt ones in bright, fabric green. One landed on her head and stuck to her ear. She didn’t move to brush it off.

Instead, her gaze drifted toward Eddie’s retreating form as he vanished behind Frank’s library. She watched a long moment, her smile softening just slightly.

Eddie was always so… earnest.

So perfectly put-together. So routine. Every morning at precisely 9:05, he would emerge from his cottage, give a wave to the “camera” (whatever that meant), and begin his rounds. He loved delivering the mail. It was his calling. And if someone were to ask him what was in the envelopes?

Well.

“Just a little joy,” he’d say with a wink. “Letters, packages, and maybe a dream or two.”

And no one questioned it.

Julie leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, hands folded together. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass of a nearby bakery window—distorted but smiling. Always smiling. Always—

She blinked.

The music—soft and sweet a moment ago—hiccuped.

Just a little.

Like a tape winding backwards for a beat before continuing.

She sat still, listening, but the next note fell exactly where it should. The flute trilled. The piano tiptoed. All was well.

Probably just a hiccup.

Nothing bad ever happened here.

But the wind... the wind tickled the back of her neck.

Julie glanced behind her.

Nothing but a flowerbed. Daisies. Tulips. Roses shaped like hearts.

Still, she turned back around and stood from the bench.

Her legs wobbled slightly.

She frowned—only a little. Barely more than a twitch of her mouth. She didn’t stumble, didn’t fall. But her body felt lighter than normal. Or was it heavier? She couldn’t tell. Her fingers flexed at her sides, brushing against the edge of her skirt. The breeze tugged at her again, this time colder.

Something had shifted.

She looked up the path Eddie had taken. His hat had disappeared around the corner, but she could hear the faint jingle of his mailbag and the creak of Frank’s gate as it opened and shut.

Julie took a step forward.

Then another.

And stopped.

Her shoes made the faintest squeak against the cobblestones. It was the kind of detail that used to delight her. A cartoonish sound, perfectly timed. Predictable. Familiar.

But now, it rang too loud in the silence.

Too loud in a place where everything was meant to be comfortably quiet.

She rubbed her arms—pink plush on pink plush—and tried to smile again. Tried to regain the joy she’d felt only moments ago.

But something was off.

Wasn’t it?

She turned her gaze back toward the bench. It looked the same. Perfectly painted. Unweathered. Eternal.

And yet...

Julie took a breath. A long one. One she felt.

And the wind replied.

Only this time, it whispered something.

She wasn’t sure what.

It wasn’t words. It wasn’t language. It was more like… pressure. Like something brushing against the inside of her ears. Like a hum from a speaker that shouldn’t be on.

Julie turned fully away from the bench, facing the street.

She decided to follow Eddie.

Meanwhile…

Eddie Dear hummed to himself, pushing open the creaky gate to Frank’s garden. It always squeaked the same way. He loved that gate.

"Mail delivery!" he called cheerfully. "Frank! Got something from the Archives!"

He waited. No answer.

Odd. Frank was never late to accept a delivery.

Eddie stepped inside. The plants were neat, trimmed, controlled. Books stacked on the steps as usual. But the front door... was ajar.

That wasn’t normal.

“Frank?”

No answer.

Eddie’s smile faltered—only briefly. He stepped closer, mailbag hugged tightly to his chest. His boots made soft thuds on the stone path. He raised a hand to knock, hesitated… then gently pushed the door open further.

The light inside was dim.

The warmth?

Absent. 

Julie reached the garden minutes later.

She spotted the open door and paused.

The gate didn’t squeak this time.

She frowned.

For the first time in perhaps her entire life, Julie Joyful did not feel joyful.

She felt a chill—like someone had peeled back the wallpaper of this perfect world and showed her the darkness behind it.

“Eddie?” she called.

No answer.

The music skipped again.

Harder this time.

Like the tape had been stretched too far.

Julie froze when the cheerful music went back to normal. Maybe she’s just having a bad day. Maybe someone or- something was on its way. She just needed to take her mind off of it. Think on the bright side.. Like always.

Chapter Text

You heard it before you saw it—the sickening, hollow crack of shattering glass.

The sound rang through the air like thunder in a quiet church, too sharp, too final.

Your breath caught in your throat, but your body refused to move.

Time slowed.

The frame—the picture—lay broken on the ground, its shards scattered like teeth. The smiling photo of your little brother, the last one you had, was torn apart beneath the weight of what had just happened. Paper bent. Glass fractured. His face, now sliced into pieces. His memory, wounded a second time.

And standing over the wreckage, like a nightmare with painted lips, was Lilian.

She grinned.

It wasn’t a smile meant for joy—it was the kind that tasted like poison. Her head tilted just slightly, like a child admiring a butterfly she’d torn the wings off of. Her eyes, wide and glossy, stared at you with something that felt older than hatred. Something feral. Something practiced.

Your fingers trembled. The muscles in your legs screamed to move, but your knees had turned to stone. So you dropped to the ground. You reached out, trembling hands moving through the glass.

Blood bloomed instantly across your palms as the shards bit into your skin. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Your vision blurred as red streaks ran between your fingers, staining the pale photograph. You could barely feel the pain.

The voices started again.

Too many. Too loud.

All of them, echoing, overlapping, each one crawling into your skull like insects made of guilt.

“You're always breaking things.”

“This is your fault.”

“He wouldn’t have died if you weren’t here.”

You dug harder into the glass.

You wanted to fix it. You wanted to rewind. You wanted to scream.

Instead, you whispered—barely audible. A cracked breath of disbelief, of pleading that no one was going to answer.

“Why are you doing this to me…?”

Lilian’s eyes narrowed, her smile stretching at the corners. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. She just stood there, drinking in the sight of you bleeding on the floor like it was art. Like it was entertainment.

And then, something inside you broke.

You raised your voice, throat burning, every word tearing out of you like a blade you’d swallowed long ago.

“You— I hate you! I FUCKING HATE YOU!”

Your voice cracked but you didn’t care. You were trembling now, shaking all over, blood running freely down your wrists.

“YOU RUIN EVERYTHING! WHY CAN’T ANYONE SEE IT?! WHY CAN’T THEY SEE HOW TERRIBLE YOU ARE?!”

Lilian didn’t answer. She just tilted her head in that same eerie way, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was on the verge of laughter. Or violence. Or both.

“JUST BECAUSE YOU LOOK INNOCENT DOESN’T MEAN YOU ARE.”

Your vision blurred again, whether from tears, sweat, or the blood—you didn’t know anymore. Your chest burned like fire, lungs seizing under the weight of your fury and sorrow. Your fingers curled tighter around the shards. They sank deeper into your skin. You welcomed it.

The pain felt real.

More real than her.

More real than the screams.

More real than the silence after your brother’s name stopped being spoken.

Then, as if the universe heard your cry and decided to punish you further, you felt the shift in the room.

The tension in the air thickened. Like a pause before a scream. A crackle, silent but oppressive.

Lilian moved again.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Her arm rose, and in her hand was a dagger—long, silver, gleaming with something cold and final. The way she held it wasn’t hesitant. There was no pause, no fear. She had done this before. Would do it again.

You couldn’t move.

The point hovered above your head, suspended like an executioner’s blade.

Then—

You sat up.

Gasping.

Choking.

The room around you flickered back into existence like a bad signal snapping into place.

Your old room. The one at your aunt's house.

A place that used to mean safety.

Now?

Now it felt like a coffin with a window.

Your chest rose and fell in erratic heaves, beads of sweat sliding down your temples and collarbone. Your hands—though no longer cut—still ached. The memory of the glass lingered in your nerves. Phantom pain. Phantom blood.

You brought your trembling fingers to your face.

No wounds.

No stains.

It was just a dream.

But it didn’t feel like just a dream.

It felt like a memory clawing its way back into the present.

You scanned the room. The curtains were closed. A sliver of morning light tried to pierce through, failing miserably. The posters on the walls were the same—faded movie prints and childhood stickers peeling at the corners. Your old books still lined the shelf crookedly. The air smelled faintly of lavender from your aunt’s never-ending supply of scented sachets.

It should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

Everything felt… wrong.

You pulled your knees to your chest, curling inward. Your fingers dug into your arms, nails pressing deep enough to leave crescent marks in your skin. It was the only way to stop the shaking. To feel something besides the terror that still lived in your lungs.

It wasn’t real, you told yourself.

It’s over.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Because part of it had happened.

Not all. But enough.

Enough to know what Lilian was capable of.

Enough to know that nobody had stopped her.

Your aunt had tried. She had always done her best to be a shield, to keep you safe in whatever small ways she could. But Lilian wasn’t someone who could be reasoned with. She didn’t need a reason. Just an excuse.

And you had given her one. Existing had been enough.

You could still hear her voice echoing in your head, even in this quiet room.

“You think anyone would miss you if you were gone?”

“You’re just a leech. A sob story in the shape of a person.”

“You were never supposed to survive.”

You slammed your fists into the mattress, once, twice—quietly. Just enough to jolt your body back into the present.

You had to get up.

You had to move.

If you stayed here too long, it would consume you. The air would grow heavy with memories, and then your brother’s voice would come back, soft and sweet, and you couldn’t handle that right now. Not today.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed. They felt like lead.

Your feet touched the cool floor, and you leaned forward, pressing your hands to your temples. They were damp with sweat. Your hair clung to your forehead.

You took one breath.

Then another.

Inhale. Count to five. Exhale. Count to seven.

Again.

Again.

The panic didn’t vanish—but it dulled. Just enough to think. To exist without splintering.

A knock came from the door.

Gentle.

Not her.

Aunt Petal’s voice filtered in, warm and hesitant.

“Sweetheart? You awake?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, hoarse, you said, “Yeah.”

A pause.

“I made tea. Peppermint. Your favorite.”

You swallowed. Your throat hurt. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Another pause, then the sound of retreating footsteps.

You didn’t cry.

You wanted to. God, you needed to.

But you were too tired.

Too broken.

And for now, that had to be enough.

You stood slowly. The sun behind the curtains glowed a little brighter, like it was trying to remind you that you’d survived the night. That morning had come, whether you wanted it or not.

You opened the drawer next to your bed. Inside was a small envelope, worn at the edges. You opened it, revealing a new photo of your little brother.

One that Lilian hadn’t touched.

You stared at it for a long moment. Then, with trembling fingers, you placed it gently on the windowsill.

No frame.

Just light.

You weren’t fine.

But you were still here.

And for now, that mattered.

🏠

Days passed.

You stopped counting after the first four. Or five. It didn’t matter—each one bled into the next like ink into water, heavy and slow. They stretched endlessly, and still somehow vanished before you could make use of them. The hours were coated in something sticky, something that clung to your thoughts and made it harder to breathe. You weren’t sick. Not in a way doctors could diagnose.

No, this was something else.

It was like bugs crawling inside you.

Tiny, invisible things chewing at your insides, biting where you were soft, where you were weakest. They moved beneath your skin like phantom spiders, each step whispering old names, old voices, old betrayals.

You didn’t fight it.

Fighting meant you were still hoping for something to change. And you weren’t.

Instead, you sat at the kitchen table in Petal’s house, eating a sandwich that had been made with every ingredient you liked. It tasted like paper.

The crust was perfectly cut. The bread soft. There was just the right amount of tangy mustard and crisp lettuce. If you were younger—happier—you might’ve called it your favorite.

Now?

It was a placeholder.

Something to do with your mouth that didn’t involve crying.

Across the room, your aunt moved like she always did—graceful, steady, and humming some half-forgotten tune that probably lived in a record sleeve somewhere in her living room. The hem of her cardigan swayed as she reached up, adjusting the kitchen window to let in just a bit of the crisp air from outside. Her cat—a plump Siamese named Mallow—rested like a queen on her shoulder, purring faintly.

Petal pulled a steaming apple pie from the oven. The smell filled the room immediately, like warmth and cinnamon and safety wrapped into a single, golden halo. She set it carefully on the sill, letting it breathe.

Then, she turned to look at you.

“You alright, honey?”

Her voice was soft. It always was.

You nodded. “Mhm.”

A non-answer. But it satisfied her, or at least, she let it.

You kept chewing, eyes drifting toward the window. The street outside looked gray. Not stormy, not violent. Just… blank. Colorless cars passed in silence. Leaves rustled halfheartedly in the wind. A paper bag tumbled down the sidewalk like a tired dancer that forgot why it started moving in the first place.

You didn’t want to go out there.

You didn’t want to go anywhere.

Petal turned back toward the oven, then paused with a finger to her chin, clearly thinking.

“Why don’t you explore a bit?” she offered brightly, though there was a tiny thread of concern woven into her tone. “You’re always inside. And ever since you left that apartment of yours, you’ve barely said a word to anyone.”

You tensed.

She didn’t say it cruelly. She didn’t mean to hit that nerve.

But she had.

Petal went on, unaware—or maybe pretending not to notice how your jaw clenched.

“It’d do you good to see your friends again! Get some fresh air. A little walking helps clear the mind. You know that.”

Friends.

That word.

Like sandpaper across your heart.

She didn’t know.

You hadn’t told her what happened. The truth was buried deep, pressed under layers of silence and half-lies. You were ashamed of it—ashamed of being left behind, of being mocked, of trusting people who tore you to pieces and smiled while they did it.

So instead of explaining, you just shrugged.

Mallow meowed softly on Petal’s shoulder, her large, soulful blue eyes blinking at you like she understood something no one else did. She tilted her head and let out a warm little chirp, the kind meant to soothe.

You managed a small twitch of your mouth in response. Almost a smile.

Almost.

Your eyes drifted toward the hook on the wall, where your jacket hung. The same one.

Dark fabric, heavy and worn from time.

You reached for it and slid your arms in slowly. The weight of it settled around your shoulders like a reminder. Like a ghost wrapping its arms around you from behind.

This was the jacket you wore the day they turned on you.

The day they left.

The day everything shifted and nothing felt safe again.

It was also the jacket you wore the first time you met them. When things were good. When laughter didn’t taste like betrayal.

You swallowed and stood up, grabbing the sleeves tight at your wrists.

“Just gonna go for a walk,” you muttered.

Petal nodded gently. “Good. Take your time. And stay near the roads, alright?”

You gave a vague noise of agreement and stepped outside.

The air hit you like a sigh.

Cool, still, quiet. A little heavier than it should’ve been. The kind of air that made you feel like you were walking through someone else’s memory.

You kept your eyes forward and began down the sidewalk.

The sky was the same color as dishwater—gray, lifeless, smudged with thinning clouds that refused to decide whether they wanted to rain or not.

You didn’t take a destination.

You just walked.

Your boots tapped rhythmically against the pavement. The sound was oddly loud in your ears. You passed quiet houses, rusting fences, abandoned bikes leaning against trees like old memories no one wanted to claim.

The further you went, the more distance you felt from the warmth of Petal’s home.

Eventually, your feet took you to the edge of the forest. It wasn’t deep, not like the thick woods you saw in stories. But it had that same hush to it. Like the trees were keeping secrets. Like something waited in the shadows with patience.

You stepped onto the dirt path slowly.

The ground here was damp. Not muddy, just soft enough to remember your footsteps. The leaves on the trees barely moved. The wind whispered here too, but not in words. In feelings.

Tired ones.

You ran your fingers over the bark of a nearby tree, feeling the deep grooves in the trunk. Your jacket creaked slightly as you adjusted it, still holding it shut like armor.

You let your gaze drift.

Birds rustled above. A squirrel darted past.

And for a moment—just a moment—you forgot everything.

Not permanently.

Just long enough to breathe.

Then, your eyes caught something. 

A odd colorful looking house. Building? Like it was meant to be here, it was dirty. Made as if it were here to recover childhood memories.. but then you saw more.

A small figure, hunched low near a fallen log. Too pale for an animal. Too still for a person. It was shorter than you- that was rare.

You froze.

Your heart kicked up in your chest, a warning drum.

You took one step forward.

It didn’t move.

Another step. Closer.

Now you could see it more clearly. It looked like a puppet—maybe. No, not a toy. Not cloth. Something else. Its head turned slowly, like it had just remembered how. Eyes—round and painted—looked toward you without blinking.

You stopped breathing.

The figure didn’t speak.

It only tilted its head.

Then the forest got quieter.

The wind died completely.

The air thickened.

You turned and walked away.

Not quickly.

Not running.

It was probably just an realistic uh.. Cutout.

Back on the sidewalk, the world returned to gray.

By the time you reached your street again, the clouds had darkened just slightly. A few droplets began to fall, light and harmless.

You opened the front door to Petal’s house and stepped inside.

The smell of cinnamon still lingered.

Petal was sitting in her chair now, book in hand, Mallow curled in her lap. She looked up, hopeful.

“You find anything interesting?”

You shook your head.

“No.”

Then after a pause—

“Just… trees.”

She nodded like she believed you.

Chapter Text

🏠⭐️☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The next day, you went back.

You weren’t sure why.

It wasn’t like the small abandoned house had anything you needed. You’d found it by accident yesterday—if you could even call it a house. Really, it looked more like one of those playhouses you’d see in a toy store or in the backyard of a kid whose parents wanted them to “play outside more.” Brightly colored, plastic, and oddly untouched despite the weather. The sort of thing a five-year-old might gasp at and claim as their castle.

You stood in front of it now, chewing lazily on an apple you’d grabbed from Petal’s kitchen before leaving. You hadn’t touched the mountain of eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit she’d set out for you this morning. Somehow, a single apple felt right—something simple, portable.

Part of you joked in your head that you were some kind of Disney protagonist: mysterious troubles, a single piece of fruit, wandering into strange places.

Then you remembered how badly things usually went for those kinds of characters.

You shook the thought away.

The little yellow plastic doorknob was smooth under your hand. It clicked when you turned it, the sound oddly loud in the morning quiet. You ducked your head and crouched to fit inside. The air inside was cool, still, and smelled faintly of dust.

And that’s when you saw it—sitting in the far corner of the cramped little room.

A book.

No, a scrapbook.

You stepped forward, brushing cobweb threads from your jacket sleeve as you reached for it. The cover was coated in a thin layer of dust and something sticky—sap? You wiped it against your thigh until the title came into view.

"THE NEIGHBORHOOD!"

The font was bubbly, playful. The kind of thing meant to be inviting. But instead, it made your skin prickle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you muttered to no one, your voice sounding small inside the hollow walls.

You flipped it open.

Inside were page after page of faded photographs—bright, cartoony puppets frozen mid-smile. Some of them were posed in front of colorful backdrops; others looked like they’d been caught mid-performance. Wide felt eyes, stitched mouths, big hands. You could almost imagine the music, the cheerful voices.

But all of it was… old. Abandoned.

Like someone had taken the joy out of them and left only shells.

You lingered on one in particular—a yellow puppet with large blue eyes. Something about the expression felt too aware, too there for a still photograph.

Your chest tightened. Maybe Petal knew something about this show. She’d grown up around here, after all.

The ache under your ribs pulled your attention away. You shifted uncomfortably, the bruises beneath your clothes pressing with that deep, tender soreness that never really left.

With a practiced motion, you reached into your pocket and found your small bottle of painkillers. A couple of pills, dry-swallowed, the bitterness catching in your throat. The plastic click of the cap snapping back on was louder than it should’ve been.

You rubbed your face with the heel of your palm. Your eye bags felt heavier than usual—like you hadn’t slept in days instead of just one restless night.

Still holding the scrapbook, you turned another page.

And stopped.

The paper here was different. It was pitch black—wet-looking, but without any shine. Fresh ink bled across the surface, the scent sharp and metallic. It wasn’t just on the paper. It was seeping, trailing in thick rivulets down the page’s edge.

You blinked hard, trying to make sense of it.

It was dripping. Onto your hands. Onto the floor.

Your stomach dropped.

You reached out instinctively to brush it away—just enough to see what might be underneath. But when your fingers touched it, it didn’t smear or wipe off.

It stuck.

The black substance clung to your skin like tar, stretching in thin, sticky threads when you tried to pull back.

You let out a small, panicked squeak, trying to shake it off.

That’s when the book pulled.

It wasn’t your imagination.

A sharp tug yanked your arm forward, so sudden it knocked you off balance. The world tilted—no, it swirled—colors bleeding into each other in dizzying spirals. Your breath hitched as the cramped playhouse seemed to melt away, replaced with a twisting, rainbow haze.

Your arm was inside the page now, up to the elbow.

The black ink writhed against your skin, tugging you deeper.

“No—no, no—!” Your words came out muffled, as if you were shouting through a heavy curtain.

Then you saw them.

Eyes.

Not drawn. Not painted.

Real.

Set deep within the rainbow static, staring back at you. Too far away to touch, but too close to escape.

They blinked once—slowly.

Your chest tightened, panic clawing up your throat. You pulled against the scrapbook, but the grip only tightened. The colors spun faster, dragging at your vision until shapes and shadows merged into one dizzying, nauseating blur.

Your breath was coming too fast now.

The edges of your sight began to fuzz, black creeping inward like a camera lens closing. The pressure in your skull mounted, each heartbeat pounding behind your eyes.

Your knees buckled.

The scrapbook was still pulling.

You tried to scream again, but something pressed against your lips from the inside—soft, suffocating, like cloth over your mouth.

Your hands scrabbled at the edge of the book, nails catching on the cardboard cover, but you couldn’t get a grip.

The eyes in the haze seemed to grow brighter.

The last thing you felt before the darkness took you was a gentle, almost affectionate tug—like something welcoming you home.

The pull didn’t stop when the darkness closed in.

It deepened.

You were weightless—spinning in a slow, endless tumble through something that didn’t feel quite like air. The world was gone, replaced with an endless spiral of colors that stretched in every direction. They weren’t the wild, chaotic swirls of panic before. These hues were… softer. Cheerful.

Too cheerful.

The kind of colors you’d see painted on the walls of a kindergarten classroom—yellows that hummed like a lullaby, blues that felt almost warm. But beneath that brightness was a static hum, a faint vibration under your skin, as if the colors themselves were watching.

You tried to move, but the spiral didn’t allow it. The current of color carried you, gentle but inescapable.

Shapes began to form in the haze.

Flat, painted clouds drifting lazily past, each with comically rounded edges. Trees with perfectly circular tops and thick, blocky trunks rolled by, their shadows somehow always pointing the same way. The ground—if it was ground—had a strange fabric-like texture, like painted felt.

Everything looked two-dimensional, yet it moved with depth, stretching and bending as if the laws of physics were… optional here.

Your breath echoed faintly. Or maybe that wasn’t your breath at all.

You turned—no, the spiral turned you—and for a moment, you saw them again.

Those eyes.

The same pair from the scrapbook’s pull, but farther now. The spiral spun them away before you could focus, tucking them behind curtains of color.

You blinked, and the spiral shifted.

The shapes around you became clearer—houses now, in bright shades of red, blue, and mint green. They were perfect in their simplicity, each with oversized doors and windows, almost too big for anyone normal-sized. And yet… something about their stillness made the back of your neck prickle.

The spiral slowed.

You felt the ground coming.

The moment before you touched it, the colors bled upward, swirling into a final whirl of blue sky and green hills—

Far away, in a bright little neighborhood with its own perpetual sunshine, Wally Darling was painting.

His brush swished across the canvas in smooth, deliberate strokes. Blue sky, green hill, a little house with a yellow door. The colors came easily today, but… his hand slowed.

He tilted his head.

Something felt… different.

Not wrong exactly, but strange enough to make his smile falter for just a moment. The air around him seemed thicker, warmer. He set the brush down carefully, the bristles resting in a cup of water.

The feeling was hard to name, but it pressed just enough at the back of his mind that he glanced toward the horizon.

The houses across the street stood still in their perfect little rows. The grass didn’t stir.

Yet somewhere, beyond the painted hills and stitched clouds, there was a pull.

Like the world had just taken a deep breath.

“Hmm…” Wally hummed softly to himself, his round eyes narrowing just a fraction. His neighbors were inside—he could hear faint music from Sally’s place, the hum of Eddie sorting letters—but that wasn’t where this feeling came from.

It came from far away.

Or… maybe not so far anymore.

He straightened, smoothing the front of his striped sweater. That smile returned, softer this time, but his gaze didn’t leave the edge of the neighborhood.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered, as if telling the sky itself.

And somewhere, still between the spiral and the ground, you felt those words like a tap on your shoulder.

Back at home, Petal knelt among her flowerbeds, the tips of her fingers damp with the spray from her watering can. The late-afternoon sun cast everything in a honey-gold light, catching the edges of her red cardigan so it seemed to glow. Her cream-colored Siamese was still perched comfortably on her shoulder, purring in a steady rhythm that almost matched her own soft hums.

“Oh, you’re loving this, aren’t you?” she murmured to the cat, shifting the can so its spout angled over the roses. The air smelled faintly of earth and sweetness—a scent she’d come to cherish. Her garden was looking particularly beautiful this season; petals unfurled like brushstrokes, each color neatly tucked beside the next in an artist’s careful composition.

When she came to the far corner, she slowed, lowering the watering can over the rarest blooms she owned—skeleton flowers. Their ghostly petals were translucent in the light, almost impossible to spot unless you knew exactly where they were. A friend had once called them “flowers made from moonlight.”

She smiled to herself.

Too bad you weren’t here to see them right now.

If she’d known the truth—that you weren’t off sulking somewhere, or browsing old shops, or hunting for your next favorite pastry—her hands might have shaken. But to her, you’d simply… wandered again. You always did. You were restless.

She adjusted her grip on the watering can, not noticing at first when a faint drip spattered against the grass nearby. The sound was different—not the bright, thin splash of water, but a thicker patter. She glanced down briefly, assuming the can was leaking.

But there, in the grass between her gladiolus and a patch of daisies, were dark spots. Ink.

“Hm.” She tilted her head, dismissing the thought almost instantly. Probably from someone dropping an old quill while passing through—there’d been a street fair last weekend, after all. Nothing to fuss about. She’d clean it later.

The cat nuzzled deeper into the curve of her neck, blue eyes half-lidded with contentment. Petal chuckled, stepping back to admire the view. The sky was already shifting toward twilight, streaked with lavender and orange.

“You’d better come home soon,” she said to no one in particular, voice light but carrying a faint thread of concern. “Before the pie cools too much.”

She didn’t notice—couldn’t notice—how one of those ink drops shivered in place, as though it was breathing.

Petal lingered by the flowerbeds longer than she intended, her shadow stretching across the grass as the sun dipped lower. The watering can in her hand had long since emptied, but she still moved along the rows, fingertips brushing petals with the careful precision of someone who treated her plants more like friends than decorations.

The cat shifted on her shoulder, kneading into the knit of her cardigan. Its purr was loud in her ear, a soft rumble that made her smile even as her thoughts wandered. She wondered if you’d taken her advice from earlier in the week—ventured out, maybe even spoken to someone new. You were always so quiet these days. A little too quiet.

Her gaze drifted toward the fence at the back of the yard, where the neighborhood’s tree line began. A few leaves fluttered down, the first hints of the coming autumn. For a moment she imagined you walking there, hood up, lost in thought, hands buried in your pockets as you paced the same path you’d taken countless times before.

But the yard was still. Empty.

Petal sighed, adjusting the watering can in her grip, and turned to head back toward the house. That was when she noticed the ink again.

The black drops hadn’t dried like she’d expected. They glistened faintly in the fading light, too dark and too thick to be anything spilled from an ordinary pen. They looked… wet. Fresh. A small trail of them led away from where she’d first spotted them, curving toward the flowerbeds as though someone—or something—had walked through the garden and bled the stuff into the grass.

She crouched slowly, her knees pressing into the damp earth, and reached out a hand. She stopped just short of touching it. The surface of the droplet trembled, like the ripples of a disturbed pond, and a chill ran down her spine.

“That’s strange…” she murmured under her breath.

The cat shifted again, its blue eyes flicking toward the ink. For the first time all afternoon, its purr faded into a low, uneasy chirp. Petal straightened, brushing her hands against her cardigan as if to shake off the moment.

“Probably just paint,” she said to the cat, though the words felt too quick, too rehearsed, even for her own ears. She stepped over the droplets and made her way toward the porch, convincing herself it was nothing.

Inside, the smell of fresh apple pie filled the air. The crust had cooled to the perfect temperature, its sugared top glistening under the warm kitchen light. She set the watering can down by the door and took a knife from the drawer, intending to cut a slice for herself.

But as she reached for the pie, her eyes flicked to the window. Out in the yard, the trail of ink was no longer just a few scattered drops. It was a line now—thin but unbroken—leading from the base of the garden straight toward the fence. And there, just for a second, she thought she saw movement. A flicker of something slipping between the trees.

The cat’s tail puffed slightly, its gaze locked on that same spot outside. Petal’s fingers tightened around the knife handle.

She told herself you were fine. That maybe you’d wandered home late and spilled something without thinking. That the ink wasn’t strange at all, that she was being ridiculous.

And yet… she found herself standing by the door, staring into the deepening shadows of the yard, waiting for you to come home.

But you didn’t.

Not that night.

Not the next.

And the ink didn’t dry. It only spread.

Chapter Text

Your head was pounding. A hollow, aching drumbeat that rattled behind your eyes as if someone had stuffed your skull full of stones and shaken it. The world around you felt too bright, too sharp, too wrong. Your eyelids cracked open to find a sky painted like a storybook illustration—thick swaths of turquoise with clouds outlined in thick white, like chalk on a child’s board.

You blinked rapidly. This wasn’t the forest. This wasn’t your aunt’s yard, or your little room, or anything close to reality. The grass beneath your palms was the green of construction paper, soft but fake. Your fingers dug into it instinctively, and you hissed when pain shot up through your knuckles. Your hands were bandaged in bruises, thin cuts still raw from the glass you’d picked up days ago. Every bone in your body screamed with the memory of fists and kicks and laughter that hadn’t been kind.

You pushed yourself up slowly. Each movement tugged at sore muscles, and your chest burned as if invisible fingers pressed against your ribs. You coughed, a weak sound that hardly felt like it belonged to you, and for a moment all you could do was cradle yourself in the technicolor grass and stare.

The world was alive in a way that unsettled you. Flowers turned their painted faces to follow you as you shifted. Trees swayed to a wind you could not feel. The dirt path in front of you looked like a crayon sketch, chalky and imperfect, as if drawn by a hand far too large to belong to any person you knew.

Your stomach turned.
Where were you?

You tried to stand. Your knees wobbled beneath you, threatening to buckle with every step. You wrapped your arms around yourself, your jacket hanging loosely, far too heavy for such a bright day. The bruises beneath the fabric throbbed with each beat of your heart.

That was when you heard it.

The sound of footsteps. Not small ones. Not cautious ones. But heavy, deliberate thuds, each step pressing into the ground with the weight of something massive. Your eyes darted toward the source, your pulse rising.

From behind a bend in the path, a figure emerged.

At first you thought it must be a trick of your aching head. A cartoon. A puppet brought to life, towering higher than the tallest man you had ever seen. He was striped like a candy stand, his limbs lanky but strong, his hands—four of them—each carrying parcels that seemed too neat, too flat, too drawn. His eyes blinked slowly, wide and stunned as they locked onto you.

You staggered back a step, breath hitching, your throat too dry to speak.

The creature—no, the person—dropped one of his parcels in surprise, the thick “thump” sounding almost hollow against the painted ground. His mouth opened, corners tugging down in alarm.

And then his voice rumbled, low and resonant, yet impossibly warm even in its confusion.

“What in tarnation…?”

He stared at you as though you had been plucked from the stars themselves and dropped into his world.

🐛🍎 ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Well, he’d be. He didn’t expect to see this on his morning rounds.

Howdy Pillar stood frozen, all four of his hands momentarily useless. His deliveries nearly slipped from his grip again as he stared at the strange figure swaying weakly before him. They weren’t colorful, not like the neighbors. They weren’t stitched or patched or painted like everyone he knew. No, this thing—this person—looked so… different.

Their skin wasn’t fabric. It was raw, bruised, cut. Their clothes weren’t bright costumes or tidy overalls; they were scuffed, torn, dusted with dirt and something darker at the edges. And the way they stood, trembling like a leaf about to snap from its branch, set his gut twisting.

He’d seen plenty of things before—new deliveries, misplaced tools, a neighbor with a scraped knee—but this?

This wasn’t from here.

“Uh…” Howdy cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on his many legs. His antennae twitched as he crouched slightly, trying not to loom too frighteningly over the stranger. Seven feet of bug wasn’t exactly easy to make friendly, but he gave it his best shot.

“Now, don’t go faintin’ on me, partner,” he said slowly, his southern drawl thick, gentle. “You’re lookin’ more than a little banged up. Where’d you crawl out from, huh?”

No response. The figure’s chest heaved, shallow and quick, their wide eyes darting over his hands, his face, his arms. They looked scared. Real scared.

Howdy set his deliveries down carefully, stacking them neat at his side, and raised one of his hands, palm open in peace. “Easy now. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Name’s Howdy. Howdy Pillar. I run the shop down yonder.” He nodded his head in the vague direction of his store.

But the stranger only winced, clutching at their side as if the act of breathing was agony. Howdy’s frown deepened, all four of his hands twitching to help though he didn’t know how.

This wasn’t like the neighbors. Neighbors didn’t bleed. Neighbors didn’t bruise. Neighbors didn’t look at him as though they’d fallen through the world and landed someplace they weren’t meant to be.

“Shoot,” Howdy muttered under his breath. He glanced around, half expecting Wally or Barnaby or Eddie to come bounding along the path, but the neighborhood was strangely still. Just him. Just the stranger.

“Alright, partner,” he tried again, softer this time, like coaxing a frightened critter from its hiding spot. “Let’s get you sittin’ down ‘fore you keel over, huh?”

He reached out one careful, massive hand, moving slower than molasses, giving them every chance to pull away.

And as his shadow fell across their battered frame, Howdy Pillar wondered—not for the first time in his life—if something had finally wandered into their neighborhood from the outside.

Howdy didn’t like the way the stranger swayed on their feet. They looked like a stiff breeze could send them tumbling down, and he wasn’t about to let someone collapse right there on the painted road. With a gentle grunt, he eased forward, lowering all four arms so they’d see he meant no harm.

“Easy now,” he said softly, his deep voice rolling like a calm river. “I gotcha. Don’t you go fightin’ me on this, partner. You’ll feel a whole lot better off your feet.”

Before the stranger could protest—or even think to—Howdy scooped them up with all four arms. Two cradled their back and legs, while the other two supported their shoulders and steadied their head, as though they were something fragile he couldn’t risk dropping. The weight barely fazed him. He carried deliveries heavier than this before breakfast most days, but the way they winced and stiffened in his hold made him treat every movement like glasswork.

“There we go,” he muttered, adjusting his stride so it was smooth and easy. “That’s better. You just rest.”

As he walked, his long legs carried them down the cheerful road, past tulips that waved hello and trees that leaned in curiously. The whole neighborhood seemed to brighten at his passing—colors popping richer, clouds puffier in the sky, as if the world itself was alive and listening.

“This here’s Home,” he explained, his antennae twitching as he glanced down at the stranger. “Sweetest little place you’ll ever find. Peaceful as can be. Ain’t much trouble, aside from the occasional ruckus Julie stirs up with her play ideas.”

His mouth tugged into a small smile, though his tone carried worry. “Speakin’ of Julie, I hope she ain’t causin’ no mischief right about now. Always dreamin’ up games, that one. Got a heart bigger than she knows what to do with, but land sakes, she’ll run herself ragged someday.”

He adjusted his grip slightly, careful not to jostle the bruises he’d already noticed along their arms. The stranger leaned against him, weak, their eyes trying to drink in the painted houses and smiling fences that lined the path. He could feel their confusion in the way their body tensed every time a flower turned its head or a mailbox blinked curiously at them.

“I reckon it’s a lot to take in,” Howdy continued, his voice a steady anchor. “Bright colors, chattin’ critters, houses that hum along with ya. But it’s home, partner. Safe. Peaceful. That’s what matters.”

He paused, glancing up at the sky that looked more like a mural than anything natural. “Or at least… it’s s’posed to be.”

The unease that had prickled at him since the moment he found them stirred again. Something about this wasn’t right. Not their sudden appearance, not the bruises, not the way they looked at everything like they’d never seen it before.

But Howdy Pillar was nothing if not neighborly. And right now, this poor soul needed kindness more than questions.

“You hang in there,” he murmured, lowering his voice so it rumbled like a lullaby. “We’ll get ya fixed up. Maybe sit you down with Barnaby or Wally, let ‘em make ya smile a bit. Won’t be long now.”

Still, even as he carried them toward the heart of the Neighborhood, Howdy’s antennae twitched restlessly. Julie might be playin’, the sun might be shinin’, and the houses might all be hummin’ their happy tunes—

—but something told him things weren’t as peaceful as they oughta be.

Chapter Text

Home made apple juice,

Howdy set the glass down with a solid clink, the golden liquid catching the warm, painted sunlight as if it glowed from within. The smell hit first—sweet, crisp, a touch of cinnamon he must’ve slipped in for comfort. He slid it across the table toward you with one of his lower hands, the others already busy wiping down the counter and straightening a jar of jam that wasn’t even crooked to begin with.

“There ya go, partner,” he said, his voice gentle yet sturdy, like the wood beams of a porch. “Homemade. Picked the apples myself this mornin’. Fresh as can be.”

You stared down at the glass, hesitant at first. Your hands ached, bruises blooming beneath your sleeves, but the scent alone made your stomach tighten with need. Carefully, you wrapped your fingers around it and took a sip.

…It was good. Really good. Tart but balanced, the sweetness not overbearing, a taste that made your throat ease with relief. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth had been until now. The cup emptied faster than you expected, and you found yourself looking at the bottom almost mournfully.

Howdy chuckled, a deep, warm sound that filled the little kitchen like sunlight. “Well, reckon that tells me you liked it.”

You shifted awkwardly, rubbing your wrist. “…Yeah. It’s… honestly pretty good.”

The corners of his mandibles curved in what could only be a smile. He pulled the pitcher from the icebox with another hand and poured you a second glass without asking. “Nothin’ but the best for guests. ‘Specially unexpected ones.”

That last part hung in the air a second too long, and you felt his eyes on you—curious, but not sharp, like a neighbor trying to piece together a puzzle. He leaned one set of arms on the counter while the other two crossed loosely.

“So.” His antennae twitched. “You got a name, stranger? Or should I keep callin’ ya ‘partner’?”

The juice cooled your throat, but your chest still burned with unease. You fiddled with the rim of the glass, avoiding his gaze. “…I do. Just… feels weird to say it here.”

He tilted his head. “Nothin’ wrong with weird. Whole Neighborhood’s built on it, if you ask me. But if you’re not ready, that’s alright. No rush.”

His patience was disarming. The way he spoke—slow, steady, with all the time in the world—made it harder to keep your guard up. For once, you didn’t feel interrogated. Just… seen.

“You’re… really kind,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.

Howdy let out another low chuckle, scratching the back of his neck with one arm while the other three busied themselves—adjusting jars, straightening a stack of cups, folding a towel. “Aw, shucks. Nothin’ to it. Bein’ neighborly’s what I do. World’s tough enough without folks bein’ cruel, don’tcha think?”

You nodded faintly. The bruises on your body pulsed as if in agreement, but you said nothing.

For a while, the two of you sat in quiet, broken only by the faint hum of the painted refrigerator and the way the house itself seemed to creak cheerfully, like it was listening in.

Eventually, Howdy cleared his throat. “Y’know, I can’t help but notice you’re lookin’ a little worse for wear. Not judgin’, just… concerned. Julie’s been runnin’ herself tired, and now here you come tumblin’ in lookin’ like you been through the wringer. Makes a fella wonder if somethin’s brewin’ out there that we don’t quite understand.”

The way he said it—gentle but firm—made it clear he wasn’t prying. Just worried. The kind of worry that stretched further than politeness, into something protective.

You held his gaze this time. “I don’t even know how I got here. I just… opened a book. Next thing I know, I’m falling into… this.” You gestured at the cartoony, colorful walls around you. “Your world.”

Howdy’s antennae twitched again, his expression thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, folding his four arms in a more serious stance. “…A book, huh? Well, ain’t that somethin’.”

His gaze softened again as he tapped a finger against the counter. “Don’t you worry none. You’re here now, and here’s safe. I’ll see to that myself if I gotta.”

And for the first time since arriving, you almost believed it.

You shook your head and sighed.

The barn loomed cheerfully ahead, its red paint shining under the sun as though it had been freshly brushed on by a giant hand. Julie pushed open the door without hesitation and peered in.

“Poppy! My favorite bird!” Julie sang, twirling into the space with a dramatic bow.

Poppy, the towering hen, nearly dropped the mixing bowl in her feathered hands. “O-oh goodness, Julie, you startled me! You should knock before barging in like that.”

Julie pressed her fuzzy pink fingers against her cheeks. “But knocking is boring! And besides, I knew you wouldn’t mind. You never mind when I visit.”

With a resigned cluck, Poppy set the bowl down. “Well… you’re right about that. It is nice to have company.” Her feathers puffed a little with warmth. “I was just finishing up a pie for Howdy.”

Julie gasped, clutching her chest as if it were the most shocking news she’d ever heard. “Another pie? Poppy, if you keep this up, Howdy will never let you leave his shop again! He’ll tie you down with all those arms and force you to bake forever!”

“Julie,” Poppy said gently, shaking her head though her beak twitched into a smile. “That’s ridiculous.”

Julie giggled, satisfied she got even a tiny smile out of the nervous hen. She flopped down into a chair, swinging her legs like a child. “So what’s the news? You always have something fun to tell me.”

Poppy folded her wings and sat across from her. “Well… Sally came by earlier. She’s been working on a new project. She said she wants to make outfits for all of us. Fashionable ones. She even mentioned pajamas for the whole neighborhood.”

Julie’s eyes went wide, glittering like polished glass. “*Pajamas?! Matching pajamas?! Oh, Poppy, we’ll look like the coziest, most stylish bunch of friends anyone has ever seen!” She clasped her hands together dreamily. “I hope mine are sparkly. Maybe polka dots. Or stripes. Or both!”

Poppy chuckled softly, her feathers relaxing. “I’ll make sure to tell Sally your requests. She’ll be delighted.”

Julie leaned forward eagerly. “And what about you? What do you want your pajamas to look like?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Poppy tilted her head, beak thoughtful. “Something simple. Perhaps floral? Something comfortable.”

Julie gasped again, nearly falling off her chair. “Floral! Of course! Because you’re my sweet little garden hen. Oh, Poppy, you’ll look adorable.”

Despite herself, Poppy let out a little laugh, shaking her head at Julie’s boundless energy. But the lighthearted moment dimmed as her eyes wandered toward the barn window. Her feathers shifted uncomfortably.

“…I wonder how Wally and the others are doing,” she murmured. “It’s strange, Julie. Today has felt… odd. Like something in the air has shifted.”

Julie blinked, tilting her head. She thought about the way her dress had swayed earlier, the breeze that wasn’t supposed to exist, the faint tug in her chest she’d brushed off as silliness.

“…You felt it too?” Julie whispered, unusually serious.

Poppy nodded. “Yes. Like a… hum in the background. Something stirring. I can’t explain it.”

For a moment, Julie sat still, her painted smile unwavering but her eyes thoughtful, as if even her boundless joy couldn’t fully cover the unease creeping into her seams.

“…Well,” she said finally, forcing cheer into her tone, “if something has changed, then we’ll face it together! Because that’s what neighbors do!”

Poppy tried to smile, but her feathers stayed ruffled. The pie’s sweet smell filled the barn, but underneath it, there lingered something heavier. Something unspoken.

Chapter Text

weeks passed. In your world, time trudged forward with a cruel sort of indifference. Your room remained empty, untouched except for the thin layer of dust that had begun to settle across your dresser, your old sketchbooks, your half-finished cup of water by the bedside. Your aunt Petal begged the police for help every single day—phone calls, visits to the station, even letters. Each time she was turned away with the same dismissive response:

"There’s no trace. No evidence of foul play. People go missing. Sometimes they don’t want to be found."

Their words were like cold knives. No trace. No evidence. As if you had simply dissolved into thin air, forgotten by the world you left behind. In this small town, things were always swept under the rug. The kind of place where gossip was louder than justice, where tragedies became stories to whisper behind closed doors. And you—just another name lost to the shadows.

Petal’s garden still bloomed, though her hands trembled when she watered the flowers. The cat on her shoulder pressed close, sensing her heartbreak. She still placed a plate for you at the table out of habit, then quietly carried it away when dinner ended. To her, the silence in the house was unbearable. To the police, it was nothing.

But outside her red-brick home, the story was different.

Your old “friends” had their own theories. They didn’t bother helping. Didn’t bother searching. They whispered cruel things in hushed tones, things they thought would never reach Petal’s ears. Lilian, especially, was radiant with laughter. She was the loudest voice in the crowd, the one spinning tales about how you must’ve finally snapped, how you probably ended it yourself. She spoke with such certainty, such eagerness, that the others listened if only to avoid questioning her.

“The forest,” Lilian said one afternoon with a grin too wide. “That’s where it happened. Everyone knows. Perfect place to disappear, don’t you think?”

She said it as though it were a joke, as though your absence was something to laugh about. Her cheerfulness was a mask, but it was convincing enough that the others forced themselves to laugh along.

Almost all of them.

Logan didn’t. His smile faltered every time Lilian’s voice grew sharper, her joy too sharp-edged to be genuine. He stared at her in moments when she thought no one noticed, eyes narrowed as though he were piecing together something he should’ve seen long ago.

The others—those so-called friends who once abandoned you—shifted uncomfortably in their seats when Lilian spoke. They laughed less with each passing day. They traded glances with one another when she wasn’t looking. A strange unease grew in their chests, a slow dawning realization that maybe, just maybe, Lilian’s innocence had been nothing but a performance all along.

And yet no one confronted her.

No one dared.

So the town carried on. Petal prayed quietly in her garden. The police closed their files and muttered excuses. Lilian laughed and laughed, her voice echoing like broken glass through the streets.

But Logan couldn’t shake the feeling. Couldn’t silence the thought that while everyone else was blind, he was finally beginning to  realize what was wrong with these people..

You waited until Howdy’s back was turned, the long sweep of his arms disappearing around the corner toward his bedroom. The kitchen felt impossibly big when he wasn’t holding you—counters like cliffs, the sink a mountain, the floor stretching out in neat, colorful squares. Your bruised body ached with every movement, but adrenaline pushed you forward.

Carefully, you slid off the counter. Your legs wobbled under you, the weight of your own arms strange without Howdy’s support. Every step made your sore muscles protest, every footfall soft against the cartoonish floor, yet you couldn’t stop. You had to try.

The kitchen seemed endless now. Fruit baskets teetered on the edges of shelves, apples glinting like little suns, pears spilling their yellow-green curves into the air. The scent of fresh juice lingered warmly, reminding you briefly of home, of Petal, of something tangible that wasn’t this strange, vivid world.

You glanced over your shoulder at the doorway where Howdy had disappeared. His four hands were busy rummaging in his bedroom, rustling something from a drawer. Perfect. You were small, nimble, and maybe—just maybe—you could slip past the house unseen.

The counter you had just climbed off of felt like a launchpad. You crouched, muscles coiling with the effort it would take to leap down. Your knees buckled slightly under the pain, but determination carried you. One careful hop, then a staggered step, and you were on the floor.

Your gaze darted around, calculating. The hallway was long, painted in warm reds and yellows, the walls adorned with framed pictures of the neighborhood—images of smiling neighbors, oversized flowers, and buildings with windows that seemed to wink. Every detail was cheerful, cartoony, yet the perfection made your stomach twist. You were an intruder in someone else’s paradise.

The living room was at the end of the hall. Beyond it, a door likely led outside. You padded forward, toes barely making a sound, each step a careful negotiation between speed and balance. Your jacket scratched faintly against the floorboards, the sleeves catching on the edges of furniture, but Howdy still hadn’t returned.

As you moved, you passed by a tall fruit rack. The bounty spilled over in rainbow arcs of apples, oranges, and strange, exotic fruits you couldn’t name. He had offered you any of it earlier, always ready to share, always kind. His generosity tugged at something in your chest, but it didn’t stop your heart from hammering with urgency.

A sudden creak behind you made you freeze. The sound was faint but enough to send your mind spinning. Howdy was coming back.

You pressed yourself flat against the nearest counter, peering around the edge. He wasn’t there yet. Good. Keep moving.

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of a chair, pushing yourself toward the next stretch of hallway. Each step made your bruises scream, the aches in your ribs and shoulders a dull roar. But you had to keep going.

The front door. Outside. Freedom.

You could almost taste it. Almost.

A shadow moved in the doorway ahead. Howdy’s silhouette, taller and broader than any person should be, paused. You pressed yourself lower.

“Heh… where’d they—” Howdy muttered under his breath, looking confused. Then he froze. His antennae twitched.

And you realized—he hadn’t fully expected you to try this.

Your chest thudded painfully. Every step from here on out had to be silent, careful, deliberate. One wrong move and he’d see you. And yet—freedom was so close, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the thought of being somewhere else, anywhere else, made the pain in your body almost bearable.

Your fingers brushed against the edge of the doorknob. The cool metal was a tiny comfort, grounding you in the tactile, real-world sensation amid this surreal, vibrant landscape. You turned it slowly, and the door creaked just slightly.

Outside, the world stretched before you—rolling hills of green felt, flowers waving as though they knew you belonged nowhere, buildings bright and impossibly cheery. The sun hung low, soft, casting long, exaggerated shadows across the path.

You stepped out, wincing as your bruised legs protested. The air smelled like fresh apples, like juice and sun and something… impossibly alive.

Behind you, Howdy’s voice called softly, concerned, warm. “Partner? You—”

You didn’t look back.

Not yet.

The streets were empty, the perfect opportunity to move, to explore, to understand this strange, colorful world that had taken you in. You swallowed against the burn in your throat and took your first careful step forward, each footfall a mix of pain, hope, and determination.

Howdy knew he was faster—hell, stronger. Every step of his long, lanky legs ate up the distance between him and you effortlessly. His four arms, each coordinated like clockwork, could have scooped you up without effort, returned you to safety before you’d even had a chance to realize you were running.

But he hesitated.

There was something in your movement, the way you pushed yourself despite bruises and aching limbs, that made him pause. He didn’t understand it yet. Didn’t know why he felt it—an odd mix of worry, respect, and… maybe a little admiration. You were terrified, yes, but determined. Alive in a way that demanded he let you run, even if only for a moment.

So he followed.

Not immediately catching up, not trying to overpower you. Just keeping pace, long legs eating ground behind you as you ran past the painted landscape, past bushes that looked like they had been drawn with crayons, past flowers that swiveled gently to watch you fly by. Tiny, cartoonish bugs zipped in loops through the air, their little bodies glittering like confetti in the sunlight.

You barely registered them.

Your own colors—muted, bruised, gray-brown streaks of pain and exhaustion—felt like a wrong note in this cheerful symphony. Every step of yours clashed with the brightness around you, like smudges on a perfect canvas. The world was alive with saturated yellows and reds and blues, all soft and friendly, but you moved through it like a storm cloud, dragging shadows behind you.

The sidewalk curved, rising over a hill that looked more like a half-painted ramp than a street. You pushed yourself harder, legs trembling under the weight of your body, bruises screaming with every movement. The air smelled sweet and sharp, like candy apples, but all you felt was your heartbeat pounding in your ears, your lungs burning with the effort of escape.

Behind you, Howdy’s shadow stretched long and warped over the ground, four arms swinging gently as he matched your pace. He wasn’t chasing recklessly—no, he was watching, gauging your exhaustion, making sure not to overwhelm you. He had the strength to end this in seconds, but something made him hold back.

The neighborhood blurred past. Cartoonish trees leaned forward, branches swaying as if urging you onward. Tiny birds with beady eyes hopped from fence to fence, chirping notes that somehow sounded like they were holding their breath. Mailboxes blinked and hummed softly, painted doors creaked in rhythm with the invisible wind.

Your legs burned, your chest heaved, and yet you ran. Each step made your bruised body ache anew, but every step also made your resolve grow sharper. You weren’t just running from Howdy. You weren’t even really running from the town. You were running from everything you had left behind, from the dull, gray world that had refused to notice you, from the people who had turned against you.

Your pace faltered for a heartbeat, knees wobbling, but Howdy didn’t close the distance. He fell back slightly, giving you space, letting you keep your rhythm. He saw it—the tiny, broken movements, the stubbornness that made you stand taller than your own body allowed. He felt something stir in him, deep and protective, a need to let you be in control even though he could fix this in an instant.

And still, the town remained bright, impossibly cheerful, oblivious to the storm of your presence. Cartoonish bushes waved as you passed. Crayon-like bugs looped in the air, tracing shapes that should have been friendly, but you couldn’t smile. Your colors didn’t belong here. You were a shadow moving through paradise, a wounded note in a symphony of joy.

Yet the chase continued, silent except for the rhythm of your labored breaths and the gentle hum of Howdy’s careful pursuit behind you.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath before you ran straight into something—or rather, someone—big and fluffy.

Barnaby Beagle. His fur was golden-brown and soft-looking, ears drooping in that signature way that made him look perpetually friendly. His round, dark eyes blinked at you, wide and curious, as if he’d just stumbled into a story himself. You skidded to a halt, heart hammering, knees trembling, and he didn’t flinch at all.

“Well, well,” Barnaby said, voice low and cheerful, “look what we’ve got here! A runaway, huh?”

You could only gape, unsure whether to step back or keep moving, your hands trembling. The world was dizzying, your bruised body screaming, and here was this enormous cartoon dog smiling at you like you’d walked into a friendly neighborhood surprise party.

Barnaby cocked his head, one floppy ear brushing his shoulder. “You look like you could use a laugh,” he said, wagging his tail lazily. “So I’ll try a joke. Knock… knock.”

You froze, confused, more overwhelmed than before. “Uh… who’s there?” you croaked, voice weak.

“Woo.”

“Woo who?” you managed, voice shaking as your chest heaved.

Barnaby’s smile widened. “Don’t get too excited! It’s just me, Barnaby, checking in on you!”

He let out a hearty, rumbling laugh, tail wagging so hard the ground beneath his paws vibrated slightly. Despite everything, you felt a faint flicker of amusement—or maybe disbelief—at the sheer absurdity.

Ohmygoodiegumdrops..

Chapter Text

You wheezed, a strange little sound caught between a laugh and a gasp, still trying to process the knock-knock joke Barnaby had told. It was ridiculous, ridiculous and somehow perfect. Your bruised chest tightened with every inhale, but the tension eased just a little, just enough for you to feel… light.

Barnaby chuckled again and gently lifted you higher, balancing you carefully on his broad, fluffy shoulder. The warmth of his fur pressed against your side, soft and steady, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you were falling, or being hunted, or trapped in pain. You stayed there, holding back the small urge to kick your feet in rhythm, a tiny, childish motion of joy that made your ribs ache in the right way.

It was strange, this comfort.

New.

Like you’d stumbled across someone who actually cared, who didn’t see you as broken, as weak, or as a shadow in someone else’s world. Someone who offered their presence without question, without judgment. And Barnaby’s cheerful chatter filled the space between you, light and unthreatening, like a patch of warmth in the middle of a storm.

“Now lemme tell ya,” Barnaby began, skipping lightly on the painted sidewalk, tail wagging so hard it almost bounced him along with you, “the other day I was helpin’ Wally with his garden—he’s a neat little feller, but lemme tell ya, he’s got no clue how stubborn them tulips can be!”

You blinked up at him, eyes tracing the soft waves of his fur as he moved. There was something hypnotic about the rhythm of his steps, the way he carried you effortlessly, the way he spoke as if the world around him was just as normal as he was.

“Julie came by, y’know,” he continued, voice bouncing over each syllable as if even the words had weight and cheer. “Always with a plan, that one. Wants to make the fanciest pajamas this neighborhood’s ever seen—got the whole crew lined up like they’re goin’ to a fashion show or somethin’. And don’t get me started on Sally. I swear, she’s got more ideas than a whole library!”

You let yourself smile faintly, a ghost of amusement; curling at the edges of your lips. It felt… safe, being here. Listening. Not worrying about bruises or broken hearts or a world that had forgotten you. Just Barnaby, skipping along, ranting and laughing, and letting you ride along with him.

“And y’know what?” Barnaby’s ears twitched, and his eyes sparkled. “Even when somethin’ feels off—like that strange vibe we all got today—I still think the Neighborhood’s the safest place to be. At least while I’m around, anyhow.”

You nodded against his shoulder, the warmth of his fur and the steady rhythm of his steps grounding you in a way you hadn’t felt in ages. Your hands rested lightly on his fluffy coat, gripping just enough to feel secure.

“You—uh,” you said, voice quiet, hesitant. “You really… care, don’t you?”

Barnaby’s eyes softened, and his mouth curled into a warm grin. “Course I do, partner. Ain’t nothin’ worse than seein’ someone alone and hurt in this world. Not on my watch.”

A strange sensation swelled in your chest. Gratitude. Relief. Something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in weeks, if not months. And as Barnaby continued to skip along his merry path, talking and laughing and pointing out the quirks of the Neighborhood, you felt… lighter.

You let yourself lean just a little closer, surrendering to the sense of safety he radiated. Your feet twitched faintly, a suppressed joy that made your bruises ache less, made the dull throb in your chest ease. For the first time since everything had gone wrong, you weren’t running from the world—you were riding with someone who wanted you here.

And that was… new.

You felt your eyelids grow heavy, the soft rhythm of Barnaby’s rambling voice lulling you into an unfamiliar calm. His words became distant, the bright colors of the Neighborhood blurring at the edges. Your chest ached less, your bruises throbbed in muted pulses, and for a moment, it felt like you could finally rest.

Dreamland claimed you gently at first, a soft tug at the edges of your consciousness, pulling you into a space unbound by the laws of reality. You drifted into darkness, but not the comforting sort. This world felt alive, and sinister.

When you opened your eyes, you were no longer in the cheerful Neighborhood. The air was thick, heavy, almost wet. 

Darkness stretched around you, swirling with shadows that moved unnaturally, as if the blackness itself were breathing. Beneath you, the floor felt slick, almost alive, and your pulse spiked as a presence revealed itself.

A shape rose from the shadows, a viscous, writhing mass, eyes forming in the inky substance. It lurched toward you, and as it moved, it emitted a sound that made your chest vibrate with discomfort: a screeching, shrieking howl that pierced your ears.

“WHY ARE YOU SO HOPELESS?” the voice bellowed, jagged and cruel, echoing off the invisible walls.

“NOBODY WILL BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU PATHETIC, INSIGNIFICANT THING,” it spat, the words writhing around you like living daggers.

“MAYBE YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER OFF BEING OBEDIENT TO THOSE FRIENDS OF YOURS,” it hissed, tendrils of shadow lashing outward.

Panic surged through you, twisting your stomach. The black mass lunged, tendrils coiling around you, cold and wet, constricting your body as if the darkness itself were trying to consume you. 

Squelching sounds filled the air, wet and oppressive, and your cries were muffled, swallowed almost as soon as they left your throat.

“Nobody will miss… Youuu…”

The whisper was soft now, intimate, impossibly close. And yet, familiar. It sounded like you. Your own voice, mocking, twisted, echoing all the fears you had buried.

“Nobody will miss me. Us. We… don’t deserve them,” you choked out internally, voice trembling as the darkness pressed further.

Your chest tightened. 

Air became a precious, fleeting commodity. You gasped and clawed at the shadows, trying to tear yourself free from the sentient nightmare that gripped you, but it was relentless, a living embodiment of every fear, doubt, and self-loathing you had ever felt.

You let out a choked cry, a wordless sound of desperation, as the blackness threatened to swallow you entirely. 

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The tendrils recoiled. The screeching faded. The shadowy mass shrank back into the depths, leaving only silence and the memory of its touch.

And you woke.

Not in your own room, not in the Neighborhood, but a strange, cartoony house bathed in soft, warm light. Your body was sweaty, your heart still racing, your chest tight from the lingering panic. The bruises from before throbbed faintly, reminders that your body had been pushed, even in dreams, to its limits.

The room smelled sweet.. warm apples, baked and spicy, like a pie fresh from the oven. Your stomach rumbled almost instinctively, though fear still lingered in your veins. You groaned and rubbed your temples, trying to shake the heaviness from your head, trying to remember where you were and how you had gotten here.

From somewhere nearby, you heard the faint clatter of dishes and the warm, gentle hum of someone moving about in a kitchen. It was oddly comforting, grounding, a sharp contrast to the suffocating nightmare that had just ended.

You shifted slightly, glancing around the room, but failed to notice the pair of enormous, window-shaped eyes silently observing you from the shadows. They followed your every move, unblinking, patient.

Your fingers rubbed at your temples again, sweaty and trembling. Confusion clouded your thoughts, mixing with the residual panic. This house wasn’t your aunt’s. The colors were brighter, more exaggerated, the walls curving impossibly in places, the furniture almost too tall for you- but the warmth, the scent, the faint promise of safety, made you hesitate.

Somewhere deep in your chest, you felt the slow, cautious rise of curiosity. And despite the lingering echoes of the nightmare, despite the suffocating sense of dread that still hovered at the edges of your mind, you realized something crucial: you weren’t entirely alone.

The kitchen sounds continued soft, rhythmic, mundane. and your breathing began to slow. For a moment, the cartoony world outside and the surreal terror from the dream were replaced by the simplicity of baked apples, warm light, and the vague, comforting presence of someone or something, nearby.

You exhaled shakily, trying to steady yourself. The black substance, the mocking voice, the suffocating tendrils they were gone. You had survived the nightmare. And now, here you were, in a strange, cartoony home that somehow felt… alive.

You blinked, the sweat cooling on your skin, and slowly sat up. Every muscle ached, every bruise protested, but your gaze began to wander across the room. The scent of pie, the strange warmth of the air, the soft clatter from the kitchen—it was enough to pull your attention outward, away from the lingering darkness in your mind.

Somewhere, behind the sounds and shadows, you sensed you were being watched. And though fear still lingered like a thin fog, you also felt… something else. Something new. Something that might just help you begin to understand where you were, and why.