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He clenched his fists.
His gaze dropped to the floor.
The book.
It lay on the concrete, as if deliberately reminding him of his failure. Its matte, dark blue cover was speckled with silver stars that seemed to shimmer when the light hit them just right. At the center— a pale, glowing full moon. Within the lunar disk— silhouettes of children, old-fashioned, holding lanterns. Almost charming. If not for the feeling... like those figures were watching.
Dan bent down and picked up the book, turning it over in his hands. His fingers, on their own, opened the cover. The pages were old, yellowed, smelling faintly of dampness. He flipped through a few until his eyes landed on the illustration.
The jester.
He stared back at him from the page, smirking crookedly, almost mockingly. The pointed cap with jingling bells, sharp eyes, a thin grin stretched just a little too wide to be a simple drawing. As if that twisted clown could see him.
Dan snorted.
— What a load of crap... — he muttered, snapping the page shut.
But for some reason, his heart was pounding faster than it should have been.
Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at the graffiti on the wall.
The same face. The same grin.
Dan froze, a sharp pang of guilt stabbing under his ribs, sour and sticky. Why had he even lied to Emma? He never drew that jester. Not once.
The first time he’d seen it here, on this exact wall, it had unsettled him, but he hadn’t thought much of it. Later, when he was talking with Jessica—who’d been fuming about Emma, venting about her “weird fantasies”—she’d accidentally let something slip. Something about the jester. Some drawing Emma was convinced had to do with her... changes. Jessica had said it mockingly, eager to highlight how ridiculous it all was, but those words stuck with Dan.
Until he saw it for himself.
Now— it felt different.
That gaze. Those eyes.
He looked down at the book again. The jester on the page was identical to the one on the wall.
Dan ran a finger over the image, the dry, rough paper sending chills up his arm.
Too similar.
What if…?
The thought pulsed in his head, a sticky, intrusive echo he couldn’t shake off.
Dan stared at the book, but his gaze was empty, glassy.
“What if she… didn’t make it all up?”
What if it wasn’t just some strange phase? Not the aftermath of bullying, not stress, not the delirium of an overworked mind?
What if beneath all that fragility, the tears, the trembling lips as she tried to explain… There really was... him?
Dan shuddered, as if doused with icy water.
The image flashed in his mind — Emma, but not Emma. A man. Rougher features, sharper lines. Stubble on his chin. A coarse voice, deep and raw, coming from her small body.
And he... He had just tried to... her... him... damn it!
To kiss.
Dan choked, a tight knot twisting in his stomach, coiling tighter, sickening—until suddenly, it snapped.
And he — laughed.
Loudly. Uncontrollably.
The sound was jagged, nearly hysterical, tearing from his chest as his body shook with it. His fingers gripped the book so tightly his knuckles went white.
— W-what the...? — He could barely catch his breath, gasping between fits of laughter. — WHAT THE HELL IS THIS NONSENSE?!