Saturday afternoons were sacred.
Not because of religion. Because of ritual. The kind only teenage boys with too many feelings and no weekend plans could maintain properly.
August and Alex had a system:
- 12:00 PM: Acquire snacks (two salty, one sweet minimum)
- 12:10 PM: Mock whoever showed up late
- 12:30 PM: Movies, books, weird YouTube videos
- 2:00 PM: Inevitable existential crisis
- 3:00 PM: Debate whether hot dogs are sandwiches
Today, they'd skipped straight to crisis mode.
"You ever think maybe books are alive?" Alex asked from his spot on the floor, a bag of pretzels balanced on his chest. The afternoon light made dust particles dance above him like tiny ghosts. "Like, they know when you're ignoring them."
August sat cross-legged on the carpet, his old sketchbook open in his lap. The binding was coming loose, held together with duct tape and determination. "If that's true, then mine hate me. I haven't touched some of these in years."
"Tragic." Alex placed a pretzel over his eye like a monocle. "Forgotten gods. Trapped. Waiting for their creator to return."
"Why are you like this?"
"ADHD and too much free time."
They laughed, the sound bouncing off Alex's bedroom walls. His room smelled like orange cleaner and old carpet, with a hint of whatever "Ocean Mist" was supposed to be from the candle on his dresser. Posters covered most of the walls: bands August had never heard of, movies they'd watched together, and one inexplicable photo of a hamster in sunglasses.
"I've been looking at my old stuff lately," August said, shifting to lean against the bed frame. "You remember Arthur?"
Alex's pretzel monocle fell off. "Wait, Arthur? Tall, tragic, had a sword, looked like he needed therapy and a protein bar?"
"That's the one."
"Dude, of course I remember Arthur. He was like if Batman and a poetry anthology had a baby and then left it at a Renaissance fair." Alex sat up, suddenly interested. "You were obsessed with him for like a year straight."
"I was twelve," August defended, though his face felt warm.
"You wrote a whole saga! Ten chapters of pure angst. You used words like 'redemption' and 'the weight of duty.' I was still trying to figure out how to spell 'necessary.'"
"Two C's, two S's."
"Still don't care." Alex grabbed another handful of pretzels. "But seriously, that story was intense. What made you think about it?"
August traced the edge of a drawing with his finger. Arthur stared back from the page, eyes hollow but somehow still watching. "I don't know. It keeps coming back to me. Like I forgot something important about it."
"Then write it again."
"What if it's terrible?"
Alex threw a pretzel at his head. "Then it's terrible. But at least it's yours."
"Wow. Inspirational. You should do motivational speaking."
"I'd charge extra for the pretzels."
They settled into comfortable silence, the kind you could only share with someone who'd seen you ugly-cry over a broken Nintendo DS. Outside Alex's window, the trees swayed in the October wind. But something felt off.
No birds. Again.
August frowned, listening harder. The leaves rustled. Cars passed on the distant street. But no chirping. No crows. Nothing.
"Do you hear that?" he asked.
Alex paused mid-chew. "Hear what?"
"Nothing. That's the problem."
"Bro, you're being cryptic again. Use your words."
August shook his head. "Never mind. I'm probably just tired."
He flipped to the next page in his sketchbook, and there was Arthur again. Different angle, same weight in his shoulders.
"So what was the actual story?" Alex asked, sprawling back on the floor. "I remember Arthur being sad and violent and wearing too much black. Very thirteen-year-old energy. But the plot?"
August closed his eyes, trying to piece together memories that felt like dreams. "He was a soldier. But not military. More like… the last person you'd call when things went wrong."
"Professional bad-day-haver."
"Basically. He hunted these things called the Lost."
Alex's eyebrows went up. "Okay, that's actually a cool name. What were they?"
The words came slowly, like pulling teeth. "They used to be people. But when someone died wrong—with no closure, or in too much pain—they'd come back broken. Not zombies. Just… stuck. Between dead and gone."
"Jesus." Alex's voice had gone serious. "And Arthur hunted them?"
"All of them. No matter who they used to be. Kids. Old people. Lovers. Didn't matter. If they were Lost, he had to—" August stopped, throat suddenly tight.
He looked down at the sketch. Arthur in profile, sword lowered, covered in what might have been blood or shadows. The expression on his face wasn't heroic. It was exhausted.
"He wasn't a hero," August said quietly. "Just the only one left to clean up what everyone else abandoned."
The room felt heavier. Even the dust had stopped dancing.
"Did he win?" Alex asked. "At the end?"
August stared at the drawing. His chest ached in a way that didn't make sense. "I think I killed him. I think that's how it ended. Him dying. And I remember crying while I wrote it."
"Damn."
"Yeah."
Alex was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You ever wonder why you had to kill him?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, why did it matter so much? He was just a character, right? But you're talking about him like he was real."
August's hand trembled slightly. Because that was the thing, wasn't it? Arthur had never felt like just a character. Even at twelve, even playing pretend, some part of August had believed.
"I used to talk to him," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Alex didn't laugh. "Yeah?"
"After school. When things were bad. I'd open my sketchbook and just… talk. Tell him about my day. Ask him questions. Like he could hear me."
"Maybe he could."
August looked up sharply, but Alex's expression was thoughtful, not mocking.
"I'm serious," Alex continued. "You ever read about tulpas? Or thought-forms? The idea that if you believe in something hard enough, it becomes real?"
"That's not—"
"I'm not saying he's gonna walk through the door. But maybe… I don't know. Maybe some stories are bigger than we think."
August looked back at the sketch. Arthur's eyes seemed sharper now. More present. Like he was waiting for something.
The air in the room shifted. Colder.
"Anyway," August said quickly, trying to shake the feeling. "It's just weird nostalgia. I was a lonely kid with too much imagination."
"Was?" Alex grinned. "Past tense?"
"Shut up."
"Never."
They switched to video games after that, mashing buttons and yelling at the screen like the world was normal. But August kept the sketchbook close, and every few minutes, he'd glance at it.
Arthur hadn't moved. Obviously. Drawings didn't move.
But his expression had changed. August was sure of it. Less distant. More focused.
More aware.
During a loading screen, August flipped through the rest of the sketchbook. Past Arthur's pages, looking for his other drawings. The dragon made of clock parts. The forest that grew buildings instead of trees. That vending machine with too many teeth.
Blank.
Page after page of nothing.
His hands moved faster, flipping desperately. Where were they? He remembered drawing them. Remembered the late nights, the cramped fingers, the satisfaction of finishing each piece.
Gone. All of it gone.
Everything except Arthur.
"Alex?" His voice came out strangled.
"One sec, I'm about to destroy this boss—"
"Alex, look at this."
Something in his tone made Alex pause the game. He scooted over, looking at the empty pages. "What am I looking at?"
"Nothing. That's the problem. There should be… there were other drawings. Dozens of them."
Alex frowned. "Maybe you're thinking of a different sketchbook?"
"No, it was this one. I know it was. Look, you can see the indentations where I pressed too hard with the pencil." August held a page up to the light. Faint lines were visible, ghosts of drawings that should have been there.
They stared at each other.
"Okay, that's weird," Alex said finally.
"You think?"
"Don't get snippy with me, I'm processing." Alex chewed his lip. "Is it just the Arthur pages that survived?"
August nodded, flipping back. Every drawing of Arthur was intact. Pristine, even. Like they'd been protected while everything else vanished.
"Maybe there's a logical explanation," Alex offered, but he didn't sound convinced.
"Like what? Art thieves with very specific taste?"
"I don't know! Maybe… maybe the other pages were in pencil and faded? Or you're having a weird false memory thing?"
August wanted to agree. Wanted there to be a simple answer. But looking at Arthur's face on the page, he knew there wasn't one.
The drawing stared back at him with eyes that shouldn't have been able to convey emotion. Just lines and shadows. But August felt seen.
"I need to go home," he said suddenly.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know." August closed the sketchbook carefully, like it might bite. "I just need to think."
Alex drove him home in comfortable silence, occasionally glancing over with concern. The afternoon had shifted into evening, painting everything orange and strange. Still no birds.
At home, the house felt too normal. Maya was in the living room making her dolls have an elaborate wedding. Keisha was in the kitchen burning popcorn. His mom's music drifted from her bedroom, something smooth and old.
August went straight to his room and locked the door.
He sat at his desk, sketchbook closed in front of him. His hands shook slightly as he opened it again.
Arthur. Same page. Same pose.
But now there was something else. In the background, so faint he almost missed it.
A door. Just the outline, sketched in light strokes he didn't remember making.
"You're just a story," August whispered to the drawing. "Just something I made up when I was sad and twelve."
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true.
Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.
The drawing didn't respond. But somehow, the silence felt like disagreement.
August closed the book and pushed it away. His head hurt. His chest felt tight. Everything was wrong in a way he couldn't name.
From somewhere in the house, Maya laughed. Normal sounds. Normal life.
But in his room, in the growing dark, August felt very far from normal.
And on his desk, though he couldn't see it, Arthur waited.
Patient as a memory.
Real as grief.