The sun snuck in before I was ready. It always did. Soft at first, like a whisper through the blinds, then stronger—rude almost, like it forgot I’d been up most of the night navigating brotherhood and existential dread.
The house was… quiet. In that rare, delicate way where no one was yelling, the phone wasn’t ringing, and even the kitchen faucet had the decency to stop dripping. The air smelled like toast and instant coffee, and the old floor heater rattled to life with its usual complaint.
From the top bunk came the sound of soft breathing. Patrick hadn’t left.
That alone felt like winning the lottery on a scratch-off. I slipped out of bed, blanket still draped around me like a makeshift cape, and tiptoed into the hallway.
In the kitchen, Grandma was already at the stove, her hair tied up with a scarf, humming something soft and low. It sounded like a hymn—the kind I used to roll my eyes at… until I lived enough life to understand why people clung to them.
She glanced back at me and smiled. “Mornin’, sunshine. You sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing one eye. “Better than I thought I would.”
She paused, studying me with that look—half x-ray, half blessing.
“He’s stayin’ a little longer?”
I nodded.
“Good,” she said simply, and went back to flipping eggs.
We didn’t say much after that. We didn’t need to.
Peace like that doesn’t ask for attention—it just asks to be appreciated.
Patrick shuffled in about twenty minutes later, hoodie half-zipped, hair doing its best impersonation of a tornado. He grunted a “mornin’” and slouched into a chair, eyes barely open.
Grandma handed him a plate without a word.
He blinked at the eggs. “You… made breakfast?”
“You’re still breathing, ain’t ya?” she said, pouring him juice.
Patrick smirked and actually chuckled. I nearly dropped my spoon.
Later, when it was just the two of us—me on the carpet, him fiddling with the Walkman he swore had eaten his favorite tape—he spoke.
“Can I tell you something?”
I nodded.
“I wanted to be an artist once,” he muttered, like the words weighed too much. “Back before everything went to crap. I used to draw all the time. Comic book stuff. Spaceships. Dumb heroes.”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “That’s not dumb.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t matter. Mom said it wasn’t real work. Dad didn’t notice. So, I stopped.”
I didn’t know what to say right away. I wanted to tell him he should still try—that he was allowed to have dreams. But I also knew that in this house, dreams came with expiration dates.
Instead, I said, “What if you started again? You know… just for you.”
He looked at me like I’d said something ridiculous. But he didn’t dismiss it either. He just sat there for a long time, eyes drifting to the window.
“Maybe,” he said.
That was enough.
Patrick was still home that afternoon, standing at the kitchen counter, shoveling dry cereal into his mouth like it owed him rent. Hoodie up, socks mismatched, still smelling vaguely like a place that wasn’t here.
Grandma was across the room, humming while folding a towel so perfectly you’d think it was going on display. She didn’t say anything to him at first. Just watched.
“You’re not even using milk?” she asked finally, with a soft eyebrow raise. Patrick shrugged. “Milk’s for people who got time.”
She gave him one of her classic “boy, please” looks and handed him a glass anyway.
“You used to eat your Fruit Loops with a spoon the size of a snow shovel. I remember.”
He muttered something that sounded like a laugh and took the milk.
I was sitting at the table, trying to focus on a puzzle book, but mostly just watching him out of the corner of my eye. There was something brittle about Patrick lately. Like he was a houseplant that hadn’t gotten real sun in years but still refused to wilt.
Then Grandma said, out of nowhere, “You still drawing?”
Patrick froze mid-chew. “What?”
“You used to draw all the time and tell me about the characters. I still have that picture you did of the flying turtle wearing sunglasses. You remember that one?”
He looked away. “That was dumb.”
“No, baby. That was imagination. That was dreams and talent on paper. It’s a shame whenever someone forgets or loses their passion. You should do what you love.”
She walked over to the drawer, rummaged around, and pulled out a half-used sketchpad and a beat-up tin of colored pencils. She set them on the table like they were sacred.
“No need to make something perfect. I just ask you put the effort in. Effort is the Siamese twin of success. And you want to succeed in life, don’t you?”
She tapped his temple. “Get what’s in here…” Then the paper. “…out here.”
Patrick stared at the pad like it had teeth. He sat down slowly. Flipped it open. The pages were blank. Waiting. I held my breath.
For a minute, he didn’t move. Then he picked up a pencil and—almost like his hand remembered before he did—started sketching a quick outline. A dragon, I think. Wings crooked, tail coiled. It wasn’t detailed. Not yet. But it was there.
Grandma smiled, satisfied, and gave me a knowing glance before going back to her towels like nothing had happened.
When she left the room, Patrick kept going. I didn’t say a word. Just watched. After a while, he looked up at me and said, “You remember me drawing?”
I nodded. “You were good. Still are. I always thought you’d be a great comic book artist. Like… Steven Ditko.”
I froze. I shouldn’t know that name yet.
Patrick paused mid-line, brow furrowed.
“Who’s that?”
“He… he’s a comic book artist. A kid from school had a comic and I thought it looked cool, so I read it.”
He stared at me a second longer, then shook his head and went back to sketching.
“Well, I stopped ‘cause it felt like nobody cared.”
I swallowed. “I care.”
He gave me a look that wasn’t skeptical, for once. Just tired. But open.
Then, softly:
“Thanks, punk.”
I didn’t correct him, didn’t tease him, I didn’t ruin it.
Because I was still lost in how close I’d come to revealing too much.
And I had no idea how he’d handle the truth about who—or what—I really was now.
J Cooper 