The wind continued in. The Westwinds collided with the Eastwinds for the first time in twenty years. This phenomenon brought down frigid air from over the ocean and made the northern coast even colder; snow fell again. Over the following fortnight, snow had fallen in slow motion, coating the ground with about two inches of white powder.

Aiden had the windows to the apartment open. He sat, crossly, staring east across the ocean towards the departing ships. He sat each night, watching Antham’s lights like some sort of dreamy heaven. He was attentive the airships and ocean-going vessels departing from the harbor, glowing colored dots in the starry night backdrop sailing against the moon and the pitch-black sea.

He had never yearned for anything more than that of Antham.

Aiden’s intense solitude was what crushed him first. He didn’t know anyone at Raychester Citadel, and the activities that he rarely participated in were menial and repetitive. Meals were served in the formal dining room facing the sea, but it only made the boy homesick.

He left the windows open for the remainder of winter. The wind-whipped snow that fell on the floors eventually warped the floorboards, but he liked them like that; it matched the scenery. There were a few scattered times where the maids of the health resort would come and attempt to clean the forward saloon, but Aiden always went into a dangerously violent fit that cast them away. He stacked furniture in front of the faux door, blocking off the hidden servant’s entrance behind the bedroom. He was sure no one could enter.

Aiden had very few details to go on about the length of his stay at Raychester Citadel; in the end, he had lost track of the days. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his captors had simply forgotten about him completely, leaving him to rot in the sanitarium for the rest of his life. He was always tired and lacked any motivation in doing anything. Aiden was very contented with lying around the apartment going through bouts of self-pity.

The staff knew of his terrible behavior, and, with the warden of the sanitarium gone for an extended winter holiday, knew to stay away from the boy. The warden had not met him yet.

So that afternoon, a tea set had been set outside the door; Aiden brought to the dining table. A yellowed paper had slipped through the space between the door and the floor.

Aiden cracked open the door, staring into the dark, dusty hallway; the light from the window brought in a further sense of isolation that the resort seemed to create. This was the sort of stillness that existed very rarely in Eagleshaw. He remembered, as a young child, wishing that the city would stand still only for a night. Now the stillness was mind numbing - it was quiet enough that the boy could drop a pin on the marble floor and the resulting echo could be heard through the West Wing for a considerable amount of time.

He picked up the paper, folded it, and tossed it away onto the table, hiding it underneath the teapot, hoping that the heat from the teapot would set the message on fire. This was impractical, but Aiden still hoped that it would work.

“’You are currently forbidden to wander the West Wing’,” he mocked. So Aiden threw open the one of the doors and shouted, “So try to stop me!” The only sound was the wind whistling through the cracks of the window frames. It wasn’t snowing anymore, but now the wind was simply taunting everyone with the cold gusts and the threat of more snowfall.

No one came. Most of the staff was off in another part of the sanitarium, being schooled in more aggressive methods in dealing with Aiden.

The floor was lined with five other apartments on either side of the West Wing, which were a similar size to Aiden’s, or at least that’s what he assumed. At the end of the hallway by the window were two golden, ornate elevator doors, the doors frozen open, revealing the bare shaft and its inner works. Next to the elevator was a staircase that wrapped around the elevator shaft and descended into what Aiden knew as oblivion.

There was a smell that lingered in the air. It was a distinct smell that drifted lazily through the air, like his attraction to the smell of fresh made pastries. It was paint.

Aiden stepped lightly down the stairs towards the landing on the floor, the setting changed. Scaffolding obstructed a considerable amount of wallspace in the hallway; large, overlapping pieces of cloth splattered in lumpy plaster and paint lay on the floor. The elevator’s doors had been removed and redressed with plain steel doors. The hallway’s lights were off, devoid of the naturally soft, golden light; they were replaced by makeshift construction lights, which were harsh and bright white. The large windows were open, letting in cold air. The boy continued further down the staircase to an even more disturbing scene.

Half of the hallway had simply been removed of everything decorative, all the way down to the rotted, bare wood and rusted pipes. The floor’s decorative tiling had also been stripped down to its original floorboards. The other half of the hallway mimicked the floor immediately above it. It was almost like looking into some sort of magic mirror where anyone could see what once was or what will be. The elevator doors were shut.

Slowly, the doors opened, and out stepped three workers, engaged in conversation before it stopped, their eyes resting on the disfigured, perplexing creature. “Loo' at tha'!” one commented in an accent Aiden didn’t recognize. The man kneeled down. “Wonder if i’s 'scaped from the 'ospital.”

“Ah knew it,” another said, smacking him in the back of the head. “Ah knew them doctors were doin' unhuman things.”

The third man stepped forward, his arms opened. “Don’t frighten it. It might be confused.” He took two steps forward and whispered, “It’s all right. We’ll help you.”

Aiden recoiled.

“Come on, lets see if we get an reward for returning this freak.” The man lurched forward and attempted to grab him. Aiden stepped back.

“N…no,” Aiden spluttered, stepping towards the staircase.

“Loo' at tha',” one commented, his tone like he’d seen a miracle. “i' knows 'ow to speak.”

“Stay back.” Aiden put his hands up. “I’m warning you.”

The men laughed. One stepped forward and grabbed Aiden’s fleshy masquerade mask. “You know, you’re one ugly thing,” he whispered, slowly twisting and popping a few of the threads that held it to Aiden’s face. After the boy screamed from the pain, he bit into the man’s hand. He swung Aiden away, peeling away a corner of his fleshy mask and drawing blood. Aiden pulled away, turned, and ran up the stairwell.

The men weren’t in pursuit, but still shouted terrible things at him as Aiden ascended the steps back to his apartment. They lampooned his appearance, his mannerism, his intelligence, his masculinity. The three men eventually turned back, ready for work again.

The boy hadn’t heard them turn around, and he feared that they were going to attack. He gently touched the ripped seams and the torn skin. A whimper escaped from the corners of Aiden’s mouth as he continued to push open the door. He pulled his hand away, his fingers layered with blood. Aiden pushed his hand into his face again then dropped it against his leg, revealing a shocking amount of blood. His teeth pressed together so hard that they could’ve shattered, he slammed his hand on the door, leaving a bloody handprint across the white-painted wood. He chuckled. “Finally, some color,” he whispered.

Upon reentering the apartment, Aiden returned to the tea, which had now turned lukewarm. Aiden slipped the eleventh wireless message from the girls out from under the teapot and sighed heavily.