Bandaged Boy

Chapter One

They say the house never warms. Not on the hottest day of summer. In the winter, it stands regal; cold, lifeless and abandoned. No one's ever proved its continual cold temperature without a severe consequence, but it's a subconscious thing, they say, one they better avoid.

This is only a part of a rumour, a puzzle that, when completed, doesn't give a clear visual, but a blurry tale with holes and lies weaved in.

A majority of the puzzle relies on the sole occupant of the house, even if it may seem abandoned with the lights never on and no sign of being lived-in, though the grass is freshly cut like the rest. The truth blurs on the line of real and fantasies, transforming what may have been true into theories by other's rational and curiosity.

Nearly everyone in Namimori has their mind on the boy sets his gaze on the stars — the one rumoured to be the occupant of that cold house, for it's the only time they ever see him.

The bystanders are the one who paint the picture, but no matter the circumstance, their stories weave together to form an identical tapestry.

They're out far late into the night, where the stars appear scattered in the sky, twinkling softly thousands of miles away. They're tired, their eyes hardly opened at this time of day as their bodies protest for sleep. Slowly, they make it up on the sidewalk tiredly, or drive their cars.

It's a peaceful night — it's always a peaceful night when they spot him, whether it be across the street, up ahead, or right outside their window.

They see the back of a boy, no older than an elementary schooler by his height, they say, illuminated by the moonlight. The tilt of his head makes it clear that while they're watching him, he doesn't realize that he's being watched.

They look a little closer, with their hearts within their ears and their breath stuck within their chest when they see bandages on every limb, peeking out from his white t-shirt and black slacks. There's a patch on his face, white bandages wrapped around his neck.

For those driving their cars, that's when their story ends. That's all they ever get to see. But for the ones that walk, their silent steps approach the boy, and when they're close enough to find themselves lost in the view the boy stands before, the boy disappears.

Where did he go? A common, trite question strikes their minds as they circle the tree; nothing. The gentle hill he stands above has nowhere else for him to hide, nothing but a beautiful sight of the grass below when the wind sweeps their blades across the field. It's as if the boy knew they've been watching, and disappeared the moment they tore their eyes away from him.

But that's not possible, is it? After all, his gaze had only been set on the stars.

Namimori's become fascinated with this child, and it isn't long before he becomes a common topic that slowly introduces itself to every one of their conversations. They're incapable of leaving him alone, not for all the secrets he seems to hide.

Since no one is quick enough to bring out their phones for a photographic evidence, some take the opportunity to create false photos, desperate to prove their story, or for others, gain some profit. But while they may temporarily succeed, the storytellers claim they're fake, for they've missed the white bandages around his neck, his arms, his fingers.

Well, how would you know that? Some may snap. They're different people, with no idea of the boy's appearance the same with no photographic evidence.

The reason that they run out of business is the lack of interest; while a passerby could be curious, but there's nothing more alluring than the gossip and rumours that don't need a quick pay to hear.