Since that time, Arthur had fled a couple more times. Each of them, more pleasant and exciting than the last. He felt that this had given him his life back. Now that the world was no longer just in books, everything seemed more colorful and beautiful to him, the house where he had grown up was no longer the only thing he knew. His teachers noticed a slight change in his mood, much more willing to learn than before; which they received cheerfully.

He took advantage of a break he had just before dinner.

That was one of those opportunities, he had soaked up the beauty of the sun, the wind and the song of the birds.

However, Arthur was having a hard time breathing.

He ran, trying to escape the last rays of sun, before the clock struck 6 in the afternoon, the time they had dinner at home. He ran knowing perfectly well that he could have come back in earlier, left the grass, the sun, the wind and the birds, so he wouldn't have to strain his legs so much. He simply hadn't been able to say goodbye to his little time outside, once more.

After crossing a small hill, he saw his house, a three-story building, with ochre walls, reddish tiles, enormous windows covered with elegant wooden pivots, balconies full of tropical plants and flowers.

He jumped over the wooden fence, crossed through the bushes on the property, crouched under the kitchen window and, using the balconies, climbed up to the window of his room that he had conveniently left open.

Once inside, he locked the window, and listened to his heart pounding, while his legs sank onto his soft bed.

He took a deep breath.

Oh. His chest hurt.

He sighed and let his head fall against the window. The smell of the room... Which was normally imperceptible due to years of habit, came back to attack him: a clinical atmosphere of ointments, inhalations, and his own "Arthuresque" aroma, between sugar, ink and ...He coughed a little, slightly releasing the pressure in his chest. Yes, that smell.

He tried to breathe. Each inhalation generated a stabbing pain in his sides. Luckily, during the exhalations he managed to rest. Stupid lungs, that's just what they were designed for.

Arthur swallowed.

He curled up slightly, resting his head on his legs, hugging them with his arms. He hadn't made that much effort. He had been careful. He couldn't risk being noticed. What else could he do but run? It usually didn't generate this reaction. In fact, he hadn't had an attack in years. He pressed his hand against his ruana (1), his fingers resting on a pink stone necklace, with filigree plant shapes. Everything was going to be alright, staying calm was a priority. He closed his eyes. He just needed to lie down for a moment.

"Young Arthur, are you there?"

Ah.

He took a slow breath.

"Y-Yes, I'm coming."

Arthur crawled over the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. He took off his ruana, being careful not to stretch too far and put it in a drawer. He tried to get ready, by passing a hand through his matted hair; then he got up, squeezed his belly a little to hold his breath slightly, and opened the door.

"Luuuuke," Arthur said, in a singsong tone, smiling, at the sight of the butler.

"Arthur," Luke sighed, with a droopy frown. "please tell me you didn't forget the history teacher's visit today."

"Me? Forget? Of course not," Arthur chuckled, keeping the door half closed to use it as support.

Luke looked at Arthur's shoes.

"You need to get changed."

Arthur followed his gaze, finding dirt at his tips. He looked back. And unfortunately on the wooden floor and the bed too.

"Ah."

"Don't worry," the butler sighed, "I'll take care of the room. It would not be the first time."

Arthur was stunned for a moment. Pressing the door latch hard. His legs felt light suddenly.

"... Have you... Been covering for me?"

"For a few weeks," Luke answered simply, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. "We'll have to talk about it later, now, just focus on getting ready for dinner."

"Okay..." the youngest hesitated, biting his lower lip.

As he was about to enter, a sharp pain stabbed the center of his chest, the cold ran down his spine, and his mouth got completely dry. He felt a lump in his throat, and air couldn't get in. He placed his hands over his mouth as he began to cough, over and over and over again, and as he rolled onto his back, he could see blood between his own fingers.

He heard someone scream. He felt hands under his head. Someone was carrying him. Something cold on his forehead. Voices.

He felt so tired, his body so heavy, that he just allowed himself to be moved, and fell asleep.

In the midst of the darkness, small bright blue orbs began to appear. He felt weightless, almost disembodied, and lights filled the space.

In front of himself, a man appeared, with messy dark hair, a Greek nose, and a short beard with a mustache, forming a lock, enveloped in blue light. He was wearing an overcoat, and on his shoulder pads, there was a symbol, a type of flower. For some reason, he couldn't make out his eyes, blurry and at the same time shapeless.

It seemed... Familiar. Something in his face... It felt like he was trying to reach a memory that was too old and diffuse to remember.

"Arthur," the voice pronounced, resounding with an echo, in a mix between the sensation of hearing it in front of him and inside him, in his head and his chest, "breathe. "Everything is going to be okay." he consoled him in a slow voice.

Arthur could almost feel his hands on his shoulders.

" W-Who...?"

"Shhh, save your strength," the man advised him, before fading into light.

Arthur felt his chest tighten. It wasn't the same kind of pain he had felt before... It was... Sad. His hands shook. He extended his abstract form trying to reach the man again.

Something sounded behind him.

A whisper.

No. Not just one.

The sound began to increase, starting to feel like a crowd talking to each other, similar to the feeling of walking down the street on a busy day, with thousands of conversations happening at the same time.

He strained his ears and managed to catch a few words.

"Is here. Is here. I'm here. We are... I am. Come on. Come," said female and male voices.

The lights began to move, and Arthur felt slightly dizzy.

"It's this way. Here. Come on. Come. Come on."

They passed with great speed up some stairs, a hallway and through a wooden door. There was a pause. They were in a small study, almost in the dark. Through the open window a light trail of dawn light entered, and the breeze moved the thin white curtains. Under it, against the wall, was a table; to his right, rose a bookcase covered with various volumes; on the other side, there was a chest of drawers, and a person who had his elbows resting on it, with his head buried in his hands. His thin silhouette was barely visible.

He turned around and took a deep breath. He took a small object out of his pocket. He came back, opened a drawer and put it inside.

He disappeared.

A trail of light began to emerge from the drawer, creating floating figures in the air, as if it were an aurora borealis.

"There it is!" the voices shouted in unison "Look for it! Search for it! Over there!"

Arthur felt himself enveloped by the trail of light, and was completely blinded.

When he opened his eyes again, he found a warm dim light and the ceiling of a room. He blinked a few times, feeling his senses return, along with the sensation of having a body, which oh, he wished he didn't feel, he was dizzy, his legs heavy, and he had a headache. He closed his eyes tightly. He felt the sheets on his chest, and a mattress, somewhat larger than his own. Very well, this was no longer a dream... He looked at his surroundings.

There was a half-burned candle on a lantern on a small nightstand, along with his glasses, a plate of water, and a thermometer.

He sighed a moan. A half-burned candle... It reminded him of himself.

"Arthur!" Luke called, appearing in an instant at his side, holding his hand tightly, he had thrown a book that he was reading in an armchair at the end of the bed "thank heavens...! How do you feel?"

"Umh... Kicked," Arthur replied, still too sleepy to think of anything cleverer.

"That's understandable." Luke laughed a little, still not letting go of his hand, his shoulders tense. "You gave us quite a scare, my friend."

"What happened?" Arthur questioned, touching the compress that was running down his forehead.

"An attack. Your fever was very high... You talked in your sleep, it seemed like you were delirious. We moved you to Gregory's room to avoid any inconvenience."

It's true, he had dreamed very strange things. He could almost recognize that study of his dreams, it looked a lot like the small one on the second floor. Wait! Yes it was...!

Arthur tried to sit up, agitated.

"Oh, no no no!" Luke exclaimed, gently pushing him by the shoulders back to the bed "You can't be thinking of getting up! You need to rest."

"B-But..."

"Without excuses! Arthur, this is serious! Please, just listen to me. You can't... You shouldn't go out anymore."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest — They couldn't keep him locked up all his life! He needed to live. They couldn't expect him to continue with that monotony. But... He said nothing. The way Luke's eyes looked on the verge of tears, with his new dark circles, and his frown, stopped him.

"Look... When you get better we'll talk about it," Luke proposed. "We can find a way for you to take some walks in the garden with a companion, maybe a little further away. Alright?"

Arthur felt like he was losing a part of himself. He no longer had who he believed was his ally to demand his exits. The disease gradually took away more and more things from him: his peace of mind, his youth, a life without pain and his freedom. How much more would he have to give up?

He barely nodded his head, resigned.

Luke sighed, somewhere between exhaustion and relief.

"That's it," the butler continued. "I'm going to let the others know that you're better. Try to sleep, it's still early morning."

Without further ado, Luke left the room, trying to throw a smile at Arthur as he left, as a way to comfort him.

Arthur stared at the ceiling. He pressed his lips into a thin line, and frowned. Pff! Incredible! Was he supposed to go back to sleep after hours of lying down? No way, no. He may not have been feeling well, but his mind was much more agile than his body, and at that moment, the only thing he could think about was the tickling in the back of his mind, wanting to know what could have been that dream and an unmatched desire to move.

He sat on the bed, threw the compress on the plate, grabbed the lantern and walked stealthily towards the door. The fireplace in the guest room was lit. He walked past it, observing what little he could glimpse in the darkness of the enormous hanging oil portrait of Gregory and himself that had been commissioned when he was just a boy. His older brother truly lived up to his position as patron of the Liberian house, even in his youth, he had an imposing air in his posture.

He shook his head to concentrate on the task at hand, and followed the same route from the dream, up the stairs, down the hallway, and through the wooden door.

There was the same studio. It even preserved the light of dawn, which filtered through the window. The only thing that differentiated it was the smell of dust and disuse that invaded it.

Arthur entered, placing the lantern on the chest of drawers.

He stared at the piece of wood for a moment, wondering who it was that was upset above it in his dream. He put his hand towards the drawer and opened it. He began to take out its contents: notebooks and papers. He read some of them curiously, hoping to find answers, but he was soon disappointed, as all he found were old accounts and contracts from the family's trading businesses.

What a fool he had been! What was he hoping to find? It had just been a dream, there was nothing to pay attention to other than how creative his feverish mind was. He slammed the chest of drawers in anger.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a voice behind him.

Arthur turned around, terrified. There was no one. The door was closed. His heart was pounding and his mouth went dry.