Chapter 1
He was hardly a stranger to these feelings—yet he insisted on acting as if he were. Cold, unfeeling, monotonous. Such was the behavior many ordinary people so readily adopted. He did not hate, nor was he despairing. But Lewnlown—well, that was simply who he was.
He tried to rise from the armchair but ended up more like a beetle turned onto its back, thrashing pitifully. His rusty bones cracked, and his rasping breath echoed through the silent room. His sharp eyes traced the cracks in the splintered wood paneling. His body lay rigid. Lips trembling, cheeks drawn tight to highlight his prominent jaw, he at last managed a smile—oddly fitting, for Lewnlown had always been peculiar in every gesture.
With a sudden agility that surprised even himself, he was on his feet. The groaning floorboards cried out even louder under his weight. His first step set loose a piercing screech—as though the wooden planks, brittle with age, mourned for some innocent imprisoned beneath them.
The windows drank in the reddening light, reflecting some of it back, while the muted din of the street outside stroked his soul. From beside his chair he retrieved a battered doll. Clutching it to his chest, he stammered:
“I love you. You know that… don’t you?”
His face, streaked with cold detachment, turned away. Sleepless redness rimmed his eyes, and deep shadows hollowed his tired face, giving him a miserable appearance. Then, abruptly, he hurled the doll to the floor. Though harsh, this outburst was—by Lewnlown’s own twisted standards—almost normal.
Night had nearly consumed the day. Light seemed desperately to seek an escape. With a crow’s cry in his chest, he inhaled deeply. He raised his arms and cast a furtive glance at the ceiling—torn and draped in cobwebs. Was he rebelling or praying? With Lewnlown, meaning was never easy to discern.
Sixty or sixty-five years ago, as a small child on a snowy winter’s night, he claimed an insult whispered by a snowman had provoked him… Only afterward did he repent, worshiping it until the thaw of spring, performing bizarre rites at the same hour each day. Imagine a little boy, hands clasped before a one-armed, olive-eyed pile of snow, murmuring his own prayers. Lewnlown had never seemed sensible—though that hardly proved he was not.
This eccentric, even mad, persona devoted his life to blending into normal society—yet he had never quite succeeded. And still, this failure was no disappointment; it was a challenge worth pursuing.
He lowered his arms and his gaze grew vacant once more. He left the room, retrieved an overturned bottle from the kitchen counter, and righted it. He was breathless, and the liquid inside was far from water—rather a spoiled milk pretending to be whiskey. Gently he placed the heavy glass on the table.
Calm settled over him as he slid a stool under the counter and sat, pressing his back against the bubbling, peeling wallpaper. The moment his bulk claimed the seat, the loose patch of paper fell away in a dry crumble.
He stared at the stopped clock on the wall—but anyone who knew Lewnlown understood that for him, the hands were always chasing one another. He bowed his head and checked his wristwatch. Something was off. Perhaps the two times simply diverged. The wall clock was stuck at a quarter to five; his watch read a quarter past five. He sighed, then attempted to set his watch back to quarter to five—but somehow, he ended up at quarter to three instead. Satisfied, he folded his hands on his lap and resumed his vigil.
Darkness deepened outside, concealing reality with traitorous swiftness. Lewnlown’s silence filled the room with noise: the walls creaked, the whispering ants beneath the rug stirred, and he found himself pondering how much his neighbors loathed him. At times he heard things too absurd to accept—yet he remained silent, sometimes shouting at the walls in frustration.
Loneliness had stained his soul. His dull routine, wild mind, and inability to stay silent churned an immense rage within him. Yet he was the sort who could have amused himself—and others might have found him far from dull. Humble where necessary, often knowing what not to say (even if he nevertheless slipped), he deemed his own madness more tolerable than that of those around him. Once, his brusque refusal to help a young woman who asked for directions had cast him as harsh and unfeeling. But to reins in his thoughts and truly listen was a Herculean task for him. Every answer he gave had to match the gravity of the question, and that demanded time.
Now the night’s darkness throbbed with wind-driven gloom, transforming the room into a haunting hush. When he closed his eyes, he gleaned a new insight—perhaps, just maybe, the snapping of a branch in the next street. For Lewnlown, that was reason enough. Or perhaps he simply craved meaning: a stray creak weaving solace and hope into the lonely theater of his mind.
He did not hate, nor was he wholly despairing. But, in the end, that was simply who he was.
