Chapter Text
A child sits upon a stool at a table all by his lonesome. This child has white locks of hair that barely reach the nape of his neck, and looks as if it hasn’t been brushed; instead, its appearance is that of one that has been playfully ruffled with a loose lock on top. Perhaps the color is inherited by one of his parents, or maybe it is a genetic deformity that the parents weren’t expecting. This curious color is complemented by eyes that are pink, and that has to be some type of genetic deformity, right? Ah, but here we are mulling over what is and isn’t natural while this child seems to be working on something.
And working on something he is. The child’s hands are so small yet so diligent as they work to assemble something just as small. If one looks closely, it seems to be an engine of sorts. If one looks closer still, now we can see that not only are these hands diligently working to put this engine together but they are also...shaking? And where are these drops of water coming from?
A child sits upon a stool at a table all by his lonesome. He works to assemble a small engine for a reason unknown to us. Is it a hobby? Little boys like to take things apart and then put things back together, right? Maybe that is why he is doing it. He seems to have a few sheets of paper next to him, all scrawled with equations and diagrams and the diagrams are a little sloppy but that is to be expected from a child, and some of the equations are incorrect but that is also to be expected from a child.
Oh! He’s put the engine down to wipe at his eyes, and then add a little note to a sloppy diagram. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps he is going to bed.
I hope this is good enough for Father…
Do you hear that? Those are his thoughts, and they are gentle and tender thoughts that should be treasured.
Mother’s flowers are doing well… I hope I can see them again tomorrow.
A child sits upon a stool at a table all by his lonesome. It seems he is done assembling the small engine. He places it aside on top of his papers, and then he stands up to move to his bed.
A child crawls into bed as a nearby clock on the wall chimes. Once, twice, three times, and then four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. It is midnight and far, far past this child’s bedtime.
...It’s kind of cold in here...
This child is Edward Grenore.
This child is you.
Your name is Edward Grenore, and you are loved by your mother and father.
But if you are loved, why are you alone? If you are loved, why are you crying? If you are loved, why are you so afraid of tomorrow?