A huge oak double-door appears as Hector approaches the wall. Its handles are gold, curved. A gargoyle's head serves as a door-knocker. Hector pushes against the wood, and the doors part easily.

Inside is a dimly lit staircase. Where it leads, he can't tell. He can only hope it's straight to Damien.

But there's a part of him — a small part — that wants another trial on another floor. Something that'll delay his ascent just a little bit longer.

Because what do you say to someone who's been dead for five years? Not even in his dreams did he ever reunite with Damien. That would've been too painful— making him wake up to reality like that.

'I don't even have a welcome back speech for you,' Hector mutters. He begins to climb, staring straight into the darkness ahead. 'You want me to say I missed you or something?'

It wouldn't be a lie. Hector had missed him; he still misses him. He's been missing him since his parents sat him down on his bed and said, honey, it's about your friend.

After that, he had locked himself in his room for days. He barely ate; he could barely wash. It was Alex who dragged him out by the shirt, haggard and barely coherent through his angry tears, so he could attend the funeral.

A bit much for a reunion, Hector thinks.

There are no more detours, however. Hector's legs are burning when he reaches the top of the staircase, and his eyes are sore from straining against the darkness. Even his breathing is laboured as he sucks hot air into his lungs.

He blinks hard as the light on the top floor shocks his senses. Spots danced in front of his eyes as he tried to reorient himself. The room is a yellow-orange smudge—a photograph all out of focus.

Hector realises that the squat brown things are tables and stools, the splotches of colour a scattering of pillows and books as it clears. Papers are strewn haphazardly around the room, jars of ink — empty, full — sit on bookshelves, on desk corners, and a cold granite floor. There's a threadbare rug in the middle of the room (maybe red once) and a pile of dirty plates and goblets. He steps forward, wary, and almost trips over an overturned chair with a tunic strewn over its legs.

And strangely— there are feathers.

Feathers everywhere.

Most are white, others brown and speckled. It reminds Hector of a pillow fight he once had with his brothers. Alex had won, of course, but they were all grounded for their brutal treatment of the goose-down pillows.

To his left is the arched window that faces the woods and the beach. Damien isn't there anymore, and the flickering candle on the sill has been reduced to half.

Movement at the corner of his eye makes him flinch— there's nothing there. Just curtains. White billowing sheets ride the wind, fanning out and settling back into place.

And as they settle, the second window is revealed.

Hector steps towards it, heart hammering.

'What…?'

Outside, the sky is different: the rain has subsided, and the sky is no longer upset. A sweet cloudless blue has replaced the purples, the reds. The sun seems close enough to touch. Stretching out towards the horizon, the sea is calm as a sleeping babe.

And on the edge of the window stands Damien Frisk.