By: Esther Lin

He was a cheerful figure, always.

“Uncle, why do you live there?”

“Why not? Look how convenient it is!” He waved a hand behind him.

She adored him, the creative way he had about him, the way he transformed his strange room into a welcoming and comfortable home. His room flooded with light in the early morning, and to a young girl, it was like a secret hideaway, warm and secure.

“Uncle, where do you sleep?”

“What do you mean? Right here! Look how comfortable it is,” he exclaimed, arms gesturing expansively. In the golden light of the early afternoon, he would show her how to lay down paper and paste, to make the rough wooden floors into colorful, smooth panels. The manic edge to his cheer never frightened her; it wasn’t sharp and it would never cut her. He was always kind.

“But, Uncle, why do you stay here?”

He heard the whispers that followed him as he walked, but let them slide off like rain drops on the waxy leaves of the palm trees. It would not do to let her see. The gentle coddling only made him dizzy, blurry with mania and panic. Reality was a tenuous thing, and back home, curled up in his nest, he tried to untangle threads that were hopelessly knotted. As the sunlight slipped away, so did he.

“Uncle, I heard a noise last night.”

The dark was always a treacherous thing, an amorphous being that could not be trusted. As he thrashed in nightmares, he awoke, gasping, to face new horrors. He reached out for something, anything, to hold, to protect himself with. Phantom chains held him down, cut off his air, wound tightly until he sat up straight, clutching his throat and sucking lungfuls of precious air. But the dark was always treacherous, and momentary peace gave way to blinding panic. Where was he? Where were they? As he spiraled deeper into unconsciousness, he heard them-him-someone scream.

Worn to the bone, he lay in the dark, waiting for them to come for him.

“Uncle, where are you?”

She huddled in her closet, papered and cushioned the way he taught her. As she ran a finger over the tape line”Uncle, this means it’s mine! You can’t come in!”she let the noise of the house wash over her. Footsteps pounded on the stairs above her head, her grandmother cried, and she pretended that her colorful walls could block out the world.

“Uncle, where are you?”

He ran his hands over the papered walls, the curved edges and hard panels that he had made his. But nothing was his, not when even after the sun came and filled the room, bleached it with warmth, even then, the dark would return. They would return.

So he turned, readied himself. Laid down in his shallow nest, where it didn’t matter if he didn’t feel safe. Picked up what he held close to his chest in the dark, readied himself.

And stepped out into the morning light.

“Uncle, where did you go?”

Later, she learned.