Chapter 2

The next day was Christmas. Not that it mattered in our cold, quiet apartment.

Leo woke up with a shiver, his breath a small white puff in the air. He looked at me, his expression serious. He had a mission.

He went to the small closet and pulled out his best clothes. A pair of slightly-too-short trousers and a little red sweater I had knitted for him. It was worn, with a small hole near the elbow, but it was his favorite. He dressed himself carefully, his small fingers fumbling with the buttons.

He tried to comb his hair with his fingers, looking at his faint reflection in the dark screen of the television. He wanted to look nice for his father.

My heart twisted. Oh, my sweet, foolish boy. Your father won't notice your sweater. He won't notice you at all.

I floated towards him, my spectral hands reaching out. "Don't go, Leo. Please, don't go. It's dangerous. He won't help you."

My words were silent. My hands passed through his small shoulders. He didn't feel a thing.

A wave of cold, terrifying certainty washed over me. This wasn't a bad dream. I was dead. Truly, irreversibly dead. The last thread of hope that this was all a nightmare snapped. I couldn't protect him anymore. I was just a memory, a ghost trapped by my own grief.

"I'm ready, Mommy," Leo announced to my still body. He leaned down and kissed my cold cheek. "I'm going to get the pen. We'll have Christmas together when I get back. We can bake cookies. Daddy will be here, and we'll be a family again."

His innocent words were a torment. He didn't understand that our family was shattered, that his father had chosen another. He still believed in fairy tales and magic feathers.

He found his worn-out sneakers, the ones with the velcro straps that were losing their grip. He put them on and walked to the door.

He paused, his hand on the knob, and looked back at me one last time.

"Don't worry, Mommy. I'll be back soon."

My soul screamed in silent protest. I was terrified for him. The city was big and cold. The Miller mansion was miles away. He was just a little boy.

But I could do nothing.

I could only follow.

He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. I drifted after him, a powerless guardian angel. The world outside the apartment was loud and bright. The contrast to our dark, silent room was jarring.

Leo walked down the three flights of stairs, his steps small but determined. He pushed open the heavy main door of the apartment building and stepped out into the snow.

The city was alive with Christmas cheer. Lights twinkled on every lamppost. Cheerful music spilled from storefronts. People hurried past, their arms full of gifts, their faces flushed with holiday spirit.

No one noticed the small boy in the thin red sweater, walking alone.

He knew the way. He had been to his father's house many times before, back when it was his house, too. But the journey was long on foot.

He walked with his head down against the biting wind, his small hands stuffed in his pockets. He was cold, but he didn't stop. He just kept thinking about the pen.

The feather pen. It was more than just a pen to him. It was a key. A magic wand that could fix everything. It could wake me up. It could bring his daddy home. It could turn back time to when we were all happy.

He clutched that hope to his chest like a shield, and it kept him moving forward, one small, frozen step at a time.

And I followed, a shadow of sorrow in his wake, my silent tears lost in the falling snow. I could only watch.