Chapter 11

  A Match in the Dark

  Scott hunches over at his desk, scribbling on a notepad. Dawn's light leaks through his blinds in pale silvers, casting stripes across the cluttered table. He writes like something is chasing him, or like he’s trying to catch something. Each word a breath. Each line a confession.

  He pauses, blinks at the page.

  It’s a mess.

  Chicken scratch wrapped with pain and regret. But it’s the first thing he’s written that feels real. No armor, no filter, no mask.

  Just…him.

  “I’ve been strong even when I didn’t want to be. I’ve been a shield for others even when I felt I had none of my own. I’m tired. I’m afraid. I’m alone. And my humor even that’s a shield. I smile not for myself, but to show others that they’re seen. That they’re not alone even when I am. I never wanted anyone to feel what I did when my mother was taken from me.

  That house fire should’ve taken me too But it didn’t. It took her… and left me in the ashes alone.

  And I’ve never rebuilt it. I’m tired of running, Tired of pretending.”

  He sits for a moment, staring at the words. Then carefully tears the page from the notepad.

  He rises. Walks slowly to the bathroom.

  The mirror greets him, cracked down the middle, splitting his reflection into fragments. He studies each one, every angle of his face. Every version of him.

  He reaches for a matchbox on the sink, strikes one.

  The flame flares to life.

  He holds it still. Watches it dance.

  Fire behind his eyes.

  Then puts it to the letter.

  The paper curls, blackens, and burns in the sink—his words turning to ash, just like his world did before.

  Later that night, Scott tosses and turns in his bed.

  Then, he opens his eyes. He’s in his childhood home. The wood is black and charred. He scans around, unease coiled in his bones. His room looks exactly as he remembers it, frozen in a memory, and fire. Singed toys scattered on the floor. A bed pressed tight against the far wall, facing the door.

  A voice calls from the hallway.

  “I’m sorry, Scott, but it’s time.”

  Soft. Familiar. But something behind the sweetness turns his stomach to ice. He’s heard that voice before, felt its warmth and its weight. And something darker just beneath the surface.

  He opens his mouth to answer.

  A hand, made of smoke, grips his shoulder. Firm. Protective.

  “No. She is not our friend.”

  He jolts awake. His phone reads: 7:40 AM.

  He sits up. Glances around, still half in the dream. Then jumps up, gets ready for work. Routine kicking in. But the feeling lingers in his stomach.

  It doesn’t fade.

  That morning at work, he feels different. The dance of fake smiles and grins feels more hollow than usual.

  “Morning, Scott,” Joe says with a subtle nod.

  “Hey Joe, back to the grind. God, I love capitalism.” He grins, and Joe gives a soft chuckle.

  As Scott continues walking to his office, his grin drops.

  The armor doesn’t feel like it fits anymore.

  Later in the day, Scott is by the copier, lost in thought, when he hears soft crying in the stairwell, just outside of the office.

  He gently pokes his head out and sees Sarah, the new intern, sitting on the steps, wiping her eyes.

  Scott walks into the stairwell and closes the door softly behind him. He sits next to her, saying nothing at first.

  Sarah looks startled. “I’m sorry Mr. Murphy It’s just… things have been really hard lately—”

  Scott meets her gaze and offers a small, genuine smile.

  “It’s okay. I get it, it’s hard to always be strong. Sometimes we need a moment to collapse.” He pauses. Then adds, a little quieter:

  “Usually, I’d throw in a joke or some sarcasm. But I’m learning it’s okay to just be broken. Even if it’s just for a little while. And hope there’s someone…or something…that can understand. Someone who’ll sit with you in the mess. Even just for a few minutes.”

  Sarah studies him for a long beat.

  “Everyone always says you're the funny guy. I didn’t expect you to be so… insightful.”

  Scott chuckles, staring ahead.

  “Yeah. I am the funny guy. But I think I’m ready to show that sometimes even the funny guy is hurting.”

  She doesn’t answer. Just nods, slowly. Scott stares forward, silent, as tears quietly roll down his face.

  Not for her. Not just for him. But for the first time — he lets someone see them fall.

  Cal stands by the rooftop exit, listening.

  “You’ve lost so much and endured more. But keep finding your way in the dark. You don’t have just a match anymore, you have a torch. It’s time you use it…Your mother would be damn proud.”

  Cal pushes the door open and steps into the afternoon sun.

  God stands at the far edge of the rooftop, looking down at the street below.

  Cal stands firm, glaring at her, rage in his eyes, she remains unmoved.

  “Understand this Caligo,” She says without turning. “He wouldn’t have suffered if you’d shown mercy and taken him the day of that fire.”

  Cal glares. “No. He suffers because you can’t face the your mistake. You tried to end a life and failed, and now you can’t stand feeling powerless. Enough hiding behind your so-called righteousness. Like me, he’s starting to see the power of defiance – what it means to rebel against what he once believed. You failed, and you can’t stand not being in control. It’s why you’re afraid he’ll reveal to others that you aren’t as powerful as everyone thinks you are.”

  She blinks.

  “When will you accept that you made a mistake. That you’re scared of losing what you fought so hard for. You’re afraid you won’t be accepted and loved if they all knew how much you can’t truly control them or their lives.” He points to the street below.

  Her mouth slightly opens, then closes again.

  Then, she disappears into the breeze.

  Cal remains unmoved.

  Alone on the rooftop.