Dawn painted the sky a pale gray as Michael halted at the end of the street. There it stood, anchored in memory and asphalt: his old house. A two-story home with a flower-filled garden, the paint on its pillars a reddish-brown. A dense, familiar sadness twisted in his chest, heavier than any punch he'd taken. A long, shuddering sigh escaped his lips, and he brought a hand to his heart as if to soothe the ache there.
*Regrets?* Xix's voice appeared in his mind, not mocking this time, but inquisitive, like a cold psychologist. You miss your family.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. "I won't say no," he murmured, his voice barely a thread of sound. "But more specifically… I miss my grandmother. She was… a very special person to me."
He was speaking almost to himself, the words flowing from an open wound. "She was always there. I know people might say that's just grandparents, but… to me, she was the kindest, most patient person I could have known. She was my refuge. When everything started going to hell… she was the only one who still saw me, not the problem, not the troubled kid."
Xix was silent for a moment, as if processing the nature of this earthly feeling, so alien to its cosmic existence. Then it responded, with a tone that tried for grandeur but sounded oddly sincere: "I see. Yes, there are always such people. Lighthouses in the fog of existence. Good. Walk now, Michael. Walk toward that place with your head held high. You are not going to steal. You are going to reclaim what is yours, before setting out for a place no other mortal from this corner of the universe has ever reached."
"Showing off?" Michael asked with a weak smile.
"Motivating," Xix corrected. "Now, how do we get in?"
Michael crept closer, pressing against the hedges. The house was silent, sunk in the deep sleep of the early morning. He peered into the window of the guest room on the ground floor. "They're asleep. Now, how do I get in?"
"Through the window?" Xix suggested, as if it were the most obvious idea in the world.
Michael looked at it incredulously, even if only in his mind. "The classic way, huh? It might work, maybe I should—" He cut himself off. "Wait! That would just make me look like an actual thief!"
Xix emitted a mental sigh of profound weariness. "And isn't that precisely what we're doing?" it asked, as if Michael had just declared water was wet.
"You said it was compensation!" Michael argued, defending the last bastion of his dignity.
"Obviously that was a white lie to give you the necessary courage," Xix replied without blinking. "The reality is you need resources and they owe them to you, period. The justification is irrelevant."
Michael rubbed his temple, feeling the onset of a headache. "Besides that… don't I look like a crazy person talking to myself?"
"Don't worry about that. Whenever you speak to me aloud, to any external observer you just appear to be muttering or humming a song strangely. I've adjusted the perception around you accordingly."
"And that doesn't make it more… creepy?" Michael asked, picturing himself whispering to nothing with a demented smile.
"Is that, or pretending you're talking on an invisible Bluetooth headset? Which is less suspicious on a vagrant?" Xix sounded genuinely annoyed at having to explain the obvious.
Michael sighed, defeated. "Well… I guess you're right."
With more clumsiness than stealth, he tried to force the window open. He lifted it a few centimeters with a screech that made him freeze, but then it stuck. He pushed, pulled, but it wouldn't budge.
"Problems?" Xix asked.
"Yeah," Michael grunted, slumping down against the wall. "I remembered. About a year ago, after I tried to sneak in one night, my dad said he'd put security grilles on all the low windows. I guess he did."
Xix paused, then offered its advice with the solemnity of an ancestral sage: "What if… we cut it?"
Michael stared. "That's stupid. We don't have a grinder, not even decent wire cutters. We have *nothing*."
The silence that followed was the acceptance of an unavoidable fact. Both, god and champion, sat defeated on the cold garden earth, backs against the house wall.
That's when a light switched on inside, in the ground-floor hallway. Michael shrank back, but it was too late. A figure peered through the window, squinting to see in the dawn gloom.
"Michael?" A woman's voice, young, full of sleep and surprise, carried into the cold air. "Is that you?"
Michael's heart gave a wild lurch. He tried to cover his face with his hands and forced a rough, fake voice, coughing exaggeratedly. "Uh, no… *cough, cough*… I'm a drifter. Name's… Billy Jumtop. I'm lost."
"Michael," the voice repeated, now clearer, tinged with concern. "It's me… Cami. Are you okay?"
The resistance in Michael broke. He let his hands drop slowly. There, behind the glass, was his little sister. Her hair was longer, her face a bit more defined, but the same large, kind eyes that had always looked at him with admiration, even when the rest of the world looked with disdain.
"Yeah," he whispered, ashamed. "It's me, Cami."
The back door opened without a sound, and Cami peeked out, wrapped in a bathrobe. She glanced both ways down the street before giving him a quick gesture. "Come on, Michael. Get inside, quietly. You know how Dad gets if he sees you."
Michael slipped inside, the familiar warmth of the house hitting him like a nostalgic slap. The smell of old coffee and pine-scented air freshener was exactly the same.
Your sister is quite kind, Xix commented, its tone one of clinical approval.
"Why have you come, Michael?" Cami asked in a low voice, carefully closing the door. "You know Dad is still furious. And Mom… Mom hasn't tried to speak up much for you. She's… scared to contradict him."
Michael swallowed. "I just… need to get to my room. I plan to travel. I saved a bit of money there, just in case…"
In his mind, Xix exploded. "What a clumsy lie! Even a five-year-old wouldn't believe that!"
Michael felt his neck go cold. Cami stared at him, her eyes scrutinizing his dirty face and evasive gaze.
"You're traveling? You're not planning to come home?" Her voice was a whisper heavy with sadness. "I know Dad said terrible things, that it was unfair, but… isn't it time you came back? We could try…"
"Cami, you know that…" Michael searched for the words, finding only the bitter truth. "There's no place for me here anymore."
A tear welled in Cami's eye, but her expression hardened suddenly, not with anger toward Michael, but with contained rage. "Johan is trash. Selfish trash. I can't stand him." Her voice trembled. "I want my brother. Not some fake who just wants attention and to please everyone."
"I'm sorry, Cami," Michael said, and the pain in his chest was real, physical. "I want that too. But the old man loves him, *believes* him. And… I can't compete with that. I never could."
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant tick-tock of the living room clock. Michael took a deep breath, needing to change the subject, needing someone, even if just his sister, to know a fraction of the truth.
"You know? Something strange happened to me today."
Cami wiped a tear with the back of her hand. "Strange?"
Are you going to tell her? Xix asked, intrigued.
Isn't it forbidden? Michael thought quickly.
.
Not explicitly. But it isn't the smartest move.
"Today was total chaos," Michael began, ignoring the warning. "I got into a fight with a drifter over a few lousy cents. Some brats threw a can at me. Then… I met something, *someone*… something like a god. And finally, a cop stopped me thinking I was a delinquent."
Cami looked at him. Not with wonder, but with deep, poignant concern. Her expression clearly said she was assessing his mental state.
"Michael…" she said softly. "Are you… high? Have you taken something?" Her tone was that of someone speaking to a sick person, trying not to scare them.
"No! I swear I haven't," Michael insisted, frustrated. "I'll prove it to you!"
"Prove… what? How, Michael?"
Hey, Xix! Can you help? Michael thought, desperate.
Xix emitted a mental sigh that spoke of a thousand years of exhausted patience. "You truly are a fool. But… your desperation has a certain charm. Very well. To the backyard. There, with a bit of space, I can do something *discreet*."
"Okay," Michael said aloud to Cami, regaining a thread of confidence. "I know how. Let's go to the backyard. I'll show you there."
Cami looked at him with more worry than curiosity. "Are you sure you can, Michael?"
Michael smiled, a nostalgic, genuine smile that transformed his haggard face for an instant. "Remember when we built that giant snowman with Grandma? That winter it snowed so much."
The tension on Cami's face relaxed a little, replaced by the sweet weight of memory. "Of course I remember. She showed us those black-and-white photos of when she was a teenager. And told us how she won Grandpa over with her apple pie and infinite patience." Cami smiled too, tapping the frozen garden soil with her toe as if she could touch that past snow.
"Then let's relive a bit of that," said Michael, and, recalling dramatic scenes from movies, he raised his hands toward the gray sky with solemnity.
A few seconds passed. A bird sang in the distance. A cold breeze stirred the dead leaves.
"What… what are you doing, Michael?" Cami asked, confused. "Are you sending ki to Goku or something? What are you trying to do?"
Michael lowered his arms, embarrassed. Uh, Xix? Why isn't it working?
Xix exploded in his mind. "For starters, you idiot, I never told you to raise your arms like a fairground magician! The connection is mental, not gestural! By the Abyssal Void…! Fine. Just for today. Understood? Don't expect miracles on demand."
And then, it began to snow.
It wasn't a storm. It was a few delicate, lazy flakes that drifted down from a sky that had been clear minutes before. They floated in the still morning air, glinting faintly with the first sunlight.
"See?" Michael said, his voice laden with triumphant wonder.
Cami raised her hand, and a flake landed on her palm, melting instantly. "It's… snowing," she whispered, incredulous. "But… it's mid-July."
"Haha, I told you it was true," Michael laughed, a sound of relief and strange happiness.
"Okay… I believe you," Cami admitted, though her smile was tense, nervous. "But there's a problem, Michael. A… big problem."
"A problem? Doesn't matter, tell me," said Michael, feeling invincible, thinking nothing could tarnish this small miracle.
Cami looked down, fiddling with the edge of her robe. Her voice was almost inaudible. "Dad… sold all your things."
The words took a moment to register. "My… things?" Michael asked, his smile freezing on his face. A terrible premonition shot through him. "My… Yu-Gi-Oh! cards? The full collection, the limited editions…"
Cami nodded, not looking at him. "Yes."
"My… video games? The console, the retro games, the ones we inherited from our cousin…"
"Yes."
"My… Bryce Dallas Howard posters?" Michael's voice was now a thread of desperation. "The autographed ones… the Jurassic World one…"
Cami closed her eyes, as if confirming it caused her physical pain. "Yes. Dad… sold them to the neighbor, Mr. Henderson, 'for a steal.' Said it was just junk taking up space."
Michael didn't fall to his knees. He *crumpled*. A silent moan, a guttural sound of pure pain, tore from his throat. He clutched his head in both hands, imagining the treasure of his childhood, his adolescence, the last tangible connection to his past identity, in the hands of the grumpy old man next door.
"My posters!" he managed to cry in a strangled whisper, clenching his fists against the frozen ground. "Dani and I waited in line for EIGHT HOURS to get those! EIGHT HOURS in the rain!"
In his mind, Xix seemed genuinely perplexed. "Seriously? You waited eight hours of your life for… images on paper? Mortality is truly fascinating in its priorities."
"I'm sorry," Cami murmured, her voice heavy with guilt. "Dad didn't listen when I protested. Johan… Johan said it was for the best, that it would make the room 'cleaner and more modern.'"
"Don't worry, Cami," Michael said, forcing himself to sit up with a titanic effort. He felt hollow inside. "He just… burned a piece of my heart. Nothing serious." The sarcasm was a weak armor.
"I'm sorry," Cami repeated, uselessly.
Michael took a deep breath, trying to cling to the reason he was there. "And… my room?" he asked, with a weak, foolish hope.
Cami averted her gaze, staring fixedly at the house wall.
"Cami. And my room," Michael insisted, his voice beginning to crack.
Cami didn't look at him.
"Please, tell me what happened to my room, Cami," Michael pleaded, on the verge of tears, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.
When Cami finally spoke, her words fell like slabs of concrete onto the last vestiges of Michael's home.
"Dad… turned it into Johan's study."
There was absolute silence. Michael didn't sit. He slid down, his back against the cold house wall, until he was sitting on the ground. The world lost all its color.
"I feel," he said, his voice flat, disconnected, "like a boxer—one fresh out of prison with all the world's hatred in his fists—just hit me with an uppercut so hard it sent me flying out of the ring, through the ropes, and into the parking lot."
"I'm sorry, brother," Cami whispered, crying silently. "But that fake… means too much to Dad. More than you or I ever will."
Michael nodded slowly, his gaze lost on the horizon. "I don't know how I'm going to travel now. The money… it was there."
Cami wiped her tears with determination. "Well… there's a way. One last way."
A spark of hope, weak and tired, ignited in Michael's eyes. "A way?"
"Yes. I overheard Mom talking on the phone with Aunt Mary a few weeks ago. She was crying. She said… if she could find you, even just to see you, she'd give you money. Money she's been secretly saving. Enough for a small apartment's rent, or for a trip."
Michael felt the tears he'd been holding back since he arrived finally spill over. Silent, hot, washing away a little of the grime from his cheeks. "At least… at least Mom remembered," he managed to say, his voice broken by emotion.
Yes… at least she did, Xix murmured in his mind, and for the first time, its tone was not mocking or cold, but held a somber recognition, as if it understood the weight of that small consolation amid the ruin.
"Do you want me to wake her?" Cami offered.
Michael thought about it. What do you think, Xix?
"Honestly, I don't like the idea. It adds complexity, emotional risk. But… we're here now. And I don't think you want, or can, take anything more tangible from them at this point. It seems the only viable option. Decide quickly."
"Okay," Michael said aloud, for Cami. "Let's do it."
"Although…" Cami looked him up and down, wrinkling her nose affectionately. "I think you should take a bath first. No, let me rephrase… you definitely should. Mom would be terrified if she saw you like this."
"Like what?" Michael asked, feigning innocence.
Cami, and in perfect unison within his head, Xix's voice, said together: "You look like a vagrant."
Michael looked at his filthy hands, his black nails, the grime embedded in his skin. He attempted a weak smile. "I don't think I look that bad, you know? In my opinion, I look like… the protagonist of an action anime, right after the mountain training arc."
Cami rolled her eyes with affection. "Yes. You look like the protagonist of an action anime who hasn't showered in at least two weeks, sleeps in dumpsters, and has lost all concept of personal hygiene." Without giving him time to retort, she turned around. "I'll go get Mom. Stay here. And… don't touch anything."
When Cami disappeared inside the house, Michael was left alone in the dawn garden. The weak flurries had ceased. He looked at his hands again—hands that now held an athlete's strength but the grime of defeat.
Don't overthink it, Xix said, its tone oddly direct, almost kind. She's right. And frankly, your odor is even reaching me through the metaphysical link. It's… impressive.
Michael didn't answer. He just sat on the cold soil of the garden that was once his, surrounded by the ashes of his past life, waiting for the mother who remembered him, preparing to take the money that was both a lifeline and a farewell. The cockroach had returned to its nest, only to find it had been fumigated and remodeled for another. And now, with the scent of soap and betrayal in the air, it prepared to crawl back into the darkness, a little cleaner, and infinitely more determined.