August's house had its own laws of physics.
For example: If you wanted to use the bathroom in peace, then one of your sisters would suddenly develop a five-step skincare routine and need the sink immediately.
Or: If you decided to take a quiet nap on the couch, then a spontaneous family argument would break out five feet away, involving someone's missing hairbrush, someone's phone charger, and someone crying over the wrong pizza order.
The house wasn't big. Three bedrooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that leaked into the living room like they were the same thought. But it felt alive. Loud. Comforting. Like a storm that knew your name.
August didn't mind. Most days.
He sat in the living room that afternoon, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil in one hand, slice of mango in the other. The TV stand was missing a leg, propped up with old textbooks. The couch had a permanent dent where his mom always sat. Everything smelled faintly of the vanilla candles she bought in bulk.
His youngest sister, Maya, was watching cartoons with wide eyes and an even wider pile of snacks. Goldfish crackers scattered around her like confetti. The middle one, Keisha, was FaceTiming a friend and acting like she wasn't in a shared space.
"Girl, no, I told him that already," Keisha said at maximum volume. "He thinks he's slick but I got screenshots."
"Can you not yell in my ear?" August said, not looking up from his sketch.
"I'm not yelling," Keisha said, somehow louder. "You're just sensitive."
"Your volume has trauma."
"Your face has trauma."
August pointed at her with the mango slice. "That's not an insult. That's just accurate."
"True." She went back to her call. "Sorry, my brother's being weird again."
Maya giggled, then flopped over dramatically, her pigtails bouncing. "Augie, draw me as a wizard."
"You're seven," he replied. "You already think you have magic powers."
"Because I do." She blinked slowly, mango juice on her chin. "I made the goldfish disappear."
Keisha and August both turned to look at her.
"What goldfish?" August asked carefully.
"Exactly." She smiled, showing the gap where her front tooth used to be.
He gave her a very long stare. The kind that said I don't know if you're joking and I'm scared to find out.
"Okay, I'm concerned," he muttered, turning back to the page.
His drawing was taking shape. A character concept, loose and unfinished. Not Arthur, or at least not on purpose. But there was something similar in the body posture. Tired shoulders. Guarded expression. The kind of quiet that had gravity.
The pencil moved in small, careful strokes. Building shadows. Adding weight.
He didn't remember learning how to draw. It was just always there. Like breathing. Some days he thought in images before words. Some days, only images made sense.
He flipped back a few pages, past doodles of clouds and half-hearted geometry notes. Saw Arthur's sketch again. The scar. The eyes that looked like they'd seen too much. Something ached in his chest, sharp and sudden.
He closed the book harder than necessary.
"You good?" Keisha asked, finally noticing. She'd put her phone down, which meant she was actually worried.
"Yeah," he said, rubbing his face. "Just thinking about a story I wrote when I was younger. Old character."
"Was it sad?"
August paused, considering. "Kind of. I think I gave him a bad ending."
"So change it," Maya said from the floor, matter-of-fact. "That's what erasers are for."
He looked down at her. Seven years old and already smarter than him.
"Maybe I will," he said softly.
That night, August couldn't sleep.
Not because of stress. Not even because Maya kept sneaking into his room claiming there was a "math ghost" in her closet that whispered about fractions.
He just felt too full. Like his thoughts were carbonated, fizzing against the inside of his skull.
His room was small but his. Band posters covered water stains on the walls. Clothes formed geological layers on the floor. His desk was buried under sketchbooks, markers, and a coffee mug growing its own ecosystem.
He sat at the desk under the yellow lamp that buzzed when it got too hot. Outside, someone's car alarm went off for the third time that week. City lullabies.
The sketchbook opened again, pages whispering.
He didn't think, just drew. A hand reaching upward through water or smoke or something in between. A scar over an eye. A sword that looked broken but somehow still whole, like light that learned how to bleed.
Arthur again.
This time, the man was kneeling. Head bowed. Not in prayer, but something quieter. The weight of existing when you weren't supposed to.
"Man, I made you up when I was twelve," August whispered to the paper. "Why do you still feel real?"
No answer. Just the hum of the old radiator kicking on. The distant sound of Denise coming home from her shift, keys jingling, trying to be quiet and failing.
He kept drawing. Added rain. Or tears. Or both. The lines blurred together.
August closed the sketchbook and leaned back, chair creaking. His hands were graphite-stained, and his back hurt from hunching over.
Through the thin walls, he could hear his sisters sleeping. Maya snored like a tiny chainsaw. Keisha had her TV on low, some reality show murmuring about drama and roses.
Their mom had left her usual note on his door before her night shift:
"Be good. Lock the door. Don't let Maya eat candy after 9. Love you - Mom"
Below it, in purple crayon: "P.S. the math ghost is real - Maya"
He smiled despite himself.
August didn't think he was a sad person, exactly. He just felt everything at once sometimes. Like he was a radio picking up too many stations. Happy felt loud. Sad felt heavy. And art was the only place where the static made sense.
Sometimes that was enough to get through a day.
Other times, he'd stare at an old character like Arthur and wonder why looking at him felt like grief.
He got up, clicked off the lamp, and navigated the obstacle course of his floor in the dark. His bed was a twin that felt even smaller with Maya starfished across it.
"Scoot," he mumbled.
She made a noise like a disgruntled cat but moved approximately one inch.
Close enough.
Tomorrow was school again. Which meant pretending to understand Chemistry, dodging questions about college plans, and probably spilling something on himself. Standard Tuesday activities.
But tonight, with Maya's elbow in his ribs and the city humming outside, he closed his eyes and made a wish to no one in particular.
"Let me dream something that makes sense."
He dreamed of rain. And someone calling his name from very far away.
The next morning, August woke up with Maya's knee in his stomach and her stuffed elephant on his face.
"Why are you like this?" he groaned, pushing the elephant aside.
Maya, still fully asleep, mumbled something about "carry the two" and rolled into the wall.
He stared at the ceiling, where a water stain looked vaguely like a map of somewhere he'd never been.
"Right. Tuesday."
Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with morning chaos. Coffee percolating. News playing on the ancient TV that only got three channels. A note from his mom on the counter: "Leftovers in fridge. BE GOOD. Maya's lunch money is in the cookie jar."
Denise sat at the table in her scrubs, looking like she'd seen the end of the world and decided it wasn't worth mentioning.
"Rough night?" August asked, opening the fridge.
"Some lady tried to convince me that her cat's aura was making her sick." She took a long sip of coffee. "The cat wasn't even there."
"Valid."
He grabbed leftover rice and beans, eating them cold because the microwave took forever and made suspicious noises. Breakfast of champions. Or at least breakfast of teenagers who hit snooze too many times.
"You drawing anything good?" Denise asked, the way she always did. Like she actually wanted to know.
"Maybe. Working on something old."
"Old like vintage or old like that notebook you filled when you thought you were gonna write manga?"
"Stop exposing me before 8 AM."
She snorted. "Love you too, weirdo."
He packed his sketchbook carefully, checking twice that it was zipped in his bag. It came with him everywhere now. Like a talisman. Or a habit he couldn't shake.
The morning air hit different today. Sharper. The trees on his street stood too straight, like someone had posed them. Even the usual stray cat that hung around the dumpster sat perfectly still, watching him with eyes that seemed too knowing.
Then he blinked, and everything moved normally again. Wind in the leaves. Cat licking its paw. Just Tuesday being Tuesday.
"Maybe I need more sleep," he muttered, adjusting his hoodie against the wind that felt colder than it should.
The bus pulled up late, brakes screaming. Same driver who never smiled. Same kids in the same seats like assigned seating was a law of nature.
He slid into his spot by the cracked window and pulled out the sketchbook before his brain could talk him out of it.
Arthur looked back at him from the page. But different this morning. The lines seemed deeper. The eyes more present. Like the drawing had spent the night thinking too.
August touched the scar over Arthur's eye with one finger, gentle as a apology.
For the first time, he noticed something else in the drawing. In the background, barely visible.
A door. Just the outline. Like it was waiting to be opened.
His hand trembled slightly as the bus rumbled toward school.
"What are you trying to tell me?" he whispered.
The drawing, of course, didn't answer.
But somewhere deep in his chest, August felt like it already had.