text: The room was empty and pale, except for the old man and the boy asleep on the floor. The window in the center of the wall directly in front of the old man was streaked with dirt, and the paint that had once given the crossing panes a dark black color was now flaking and dull. The floor boards creaked as the old man paced; the uneven floor joists between the floor and the damp ground below groaning in protest. There would be spiders there, and mold. The joists themselves were probably mostly mold at this point. A family of ants walked single file through the cracks in the boards, up the wall, and out the window where a small vine from a bush outside had made its way in. There were no lights. The house had never been wired for electricity. There was no heat, save for a small wood-burning stove that was not safe to use. The man stopped his pacing in front of the window with his hands behind him, lost in thought. The youth was glad the man was there. Waking up was never easy, and he could tell he was about to fade again. Before he could say anything, the man looked over at him noticing he had finally regained consciousness. “Ah, you’re awake! Good! I wasn’t sure this time that I hadn’t lost you. Quickly, tell me what you saw?” He walked closer to the boy, the echoes of his heavy boots reverberating like hammers in the boy’s head. He crouched down so that his eyes were even with the boy, and took his head into his hands and peered into his eyes like he was a doctor and the boy was his patient. The physical contact made the boy’s skin crawl, though he wasn’t sure why. Had the youth really been glad for his company only moments ago? From somewhere he pulled a cup of water and tried to get the boy to drink. With what little strength he had, the youth pushed his hand away and tried to stand up. “You ask me that every time, and every time it’s the same. I saw nothing! I always see nothing! I am not aware of being conscious until I wake up here in this god-forsaken room.” The youth did not know how long he had been in this room. He could remember having a family, going to school, playing with friends. The memories felt old, as if they belonged to someone else. He had lost count of how many times he had woken up to find this man pacing in front of the window. “I’m thirsty”. The old man passed the cup back to the boy without looking at him. He was already lost in thought as he stood up and walked back to the window, his hands behind his back. The boy drank the water greedily, his throat feeling less constricted as the liquid made its way down into his stomach. These trips were taxing on his body. If there were a mirror, he would see that the boy he had been before being brought to this place had aged a good five years. Was the age natural though? Had he really been here that long? He knew he was no longer the boy he had been even without seeing the proof for himself. A man knows when he becomes a man. The boy had been a man since the first time he woke up with the Old Man crouching over him, the worry clearly etched in his face and his wrinkles folding his skin into artful patterns. “What are you thinking Old Man? Usually you try harder for information when I wake, but this time you barely asked anything.” The Old Man turned around and looked at the boy, mild surprise and humor touching his eyes. The Boy used to fear those eyes, but now they were just another puzzle he knew he would never figure out. The Boy knew he would probably die in this place, whether from old age or the elements. He often wondered if maybe he was insane and would die from hunger or thirst while his brain convinced his body that he was fine. The Old Man seemed very real though. The Old Man stared for a few moments more before turning back to the window, his hands still behind him and his back straight. His frame didn’t seem to be touched by age, though it had clearly taken his face and hands. The Boy could see the age spots, clearly visible on those hands. Those hands had comforted him when exhaustion and sadness had taken him to the brink of death, and those hands had beat him into submission after being taken from his home all those years ago. “I’m thinking that we may need to leave this place soon. You’re a bit of a disappointment, but you clearly have the gift and the strength of spirit necessary to grow into it.” The Old Man shook his head and turned around again, his eyes now tired and reflecting the age of his soul if not his frame. “I misspoke. It’s not you who are the disappointment. I have failed so far to direct you where you need to go. These last few years have been taxing for both of us, and I can no longer feel the wind as I could when I was a young man like you. I could never dream the way you do, and that strength is hard to control and shape. You may be the greatest dreamer who ever lived, and I am not sure I can teach you what you need to know.” The Boy stared at the Old Man in disbelief (did he say years?). He still thought of himself as a boy, but the Old Man had just called him a man. Did this really make him feel .... proud? He tried to remember his own father, to see his face and hear his voice, but couldn’t. He still ached for the loss of his parents, but it was a distant echo. It had just been him and the Old Man for a long while. *Years? Really?* He barely had time to reflect on this when he began to fade again. The Old Man watched him crumple into the floor, gravity winning though he tried to will himself awake. Swirls of color began to cloud his vision and the last thing he was aware of was the Old Man turning again to look out the window, his hands clasped together tightly behind his back.