On crowded floors, 
the people weep, 
Behind closed doors, 
the people sleep. 

Every year after the last toll of the midnight bell, everybody falls asleep. Everyone, except for me. For an hour or so they are unable to awaken. I have tried many a time to cajole them into waking. Nothing works. I often wonder what dreams their deep slumber permits.

Every year for that hour I wander about the town alone. I stare at everyone asleep in various poses on the floor. When they awaken they continue on, not remembering they fell asleep. I know, because mother never remembers.

I like this time. Wandering through the world imagining I could control time. But after the clock strikes one, the world is not mine. Not anymore.

When the clock strikes one, our grey sky blackens, and the ground grows dark. An inky blackness leaks over from the darkness of the kingdom of Nocturn. It races across the border and seeps through our little town, covering everything in the darkness of night.

Every year before bell rings for one o’clock, before night creeps all the way in, I run back home.  I snuff out all the fires. I pull every curtain tightly across our windows. Then I hide behind the door. Through the crack below, I would stare as the King of the Night rode into town with his small entourage. I would hear the clopping of the horses first. They echo through and bounce around the walls of the town. They sound like thunder and feel like lightning across my skin.

I would watch as they gallop into town. I wait. Then I stare as they return with someone else on their saddle. Someone else fast asleep, unable to escape.

When they leave they take the night with them, and the town once again arises.

Every year I do my best to remember the face of the person taken. I carve them into my mind. I knew very few names, only the ones mother mentioned, but I could at least remember faces.

When I am certain the king has left, well after I past the point of being able to hear the hooves of his horses, I would crawl to my bedroom. There I would remove the notebook that I hid beneath the mattress. I would record everything I knew about the person in a single line. What their face looked like, their hair, their clothing. Everything that I saw. Then I would close my book and stuff it back underneath the mattress.

I do this for there would be nobody else to remember them, but me.

I used to ask my mother about the people I saw being taken away, people that I knew she spoke of before, but she would remember nothing. One year I dared to ask the mayor, and was also told he had no recollection of them either.

It scared me. It fascinated me. Wondering who could be next, hoping that the king would never find my mother and I. It was the reason we moved to this house on this abandoned street. On a street that I figured the Night King had already visited once before.

I did not know who used to live here, but I will be forever grateful for the shelter they left behind. 

I used to play with the other children, until I told my mother what I had seen one New Year day.

She never doubted my story. She was horrified. She darted out of the house we used to live in, without much warning except for forbidding me from leaving the house as well. At the end of the day she returned, weary but determined. She dragged what meagre belongings we had together and we moved to this street the very same day. I remembered our old house. It was close to the clock tower. I remember hearing it chime every hour. I remember the smell of baked bread wafting from the marketplace. Now we lived so far away I could barely hear any noise at all.

Then one day, mother started forgetting. She forgot why we moved. She forgot everything I told her. I never reminded her. She did not need to be reminded of such horrors. There was no need for both of us to bear the burden. I would protect her. Though her mind began to fracture, she knew enough to try to keep me protected, still forbidding me from leaving the house much or meeting other people.

I did not know what happened when the Night King brought those people into his castle, never to be seen or heard from again. Never to be remembered, except by me, one who doesn’t even know their name.

There was no knock on the door this time when it opened next. Mother walked in, with her cloth sack filled with food to last us through the week.

“Some lovely farmers from Undern came to the market today and dropped off some good produce,” she said setting the food down in our little kitchen. She looked at me and smiled. She rarely smiled anymore. I was happy when she did. “We are going to eat some wonderful fresh food tonight Roxy!”

“That’s great,” I replied, smiling back at her.

“Did you manage to get your clay alright? Nothing happened along the way?” She asked worriedly.

“Yes mother, I managed alright. Nothing happened, except my dress got a bit dirty” I said, looking to the figures drying by the fireplace.

“Haha, Oh Roxy, we will have to wash that dress. And perhaps I will make you a new one. There might be some material coming in to the market next year. At least that is what I have heard. If it does come I will get it and sew you a beautiful new dress. How does blue sound? You are getting older after all. I suppose we can afford to get you a new blue dress.”

“A blue dress would be lovely mother,” I said. I always did want another colour besides brown. Though admittedly, it was easier to hide clay stains on a brown dress.

“Did anything else happen while I was gone?” She asked while putting the food away.

“No mother,” I responded. “Nothing important.”