"Please," Harry begged, breathlessly, feeling the trickle of blood run from his mouth, down his chin. The entire left side of his face was numb from where the punch had landed and his mouth felt full. Either his tongue had swelled to realize its weight, blood was pooling on top of it, or both. Harry tried to swallow, but his constricting throat would not cooperate. Instead, the mixture of blood and saliva flowed over Harry's lips, pathetically, cascading down onto his off-white shirt.

Harry tried to open his left eye, but found it increasingly difficult and painful to do so. His vision was spotted with red and black, like holes burning through the picture only to disappear whenever Harry's gaze shifted. His father laughed when Harry groaned. He said that Harry had always been weak. And Harry was inclined to agree. At eighteen years of age, in his so-called physical prime, Harry could not stand a brawl with a fifty-five year old man. Not like he ever could, anyway. His mother and father had made it perfectly clear since birth that he was not enough of a man to carry the Styles surname. He never laughed at the jokes his father and friends did. He never pursued instances of cruelty. He hated hunting and always hindered every possible trip he could. Harry enjoyed reading and gardening. He would rather spend an evening alone with his journal and quill than a night out gallivanting with the lads.

He got excellent grades, always at the top of his classes, never causing mischief. But it wasn't enough. Nothing Harry did was never enough.

He couldn't even die to his parents' standards. Harry watched from the doorway as his father stood over his bleeding body, belittling his motionless corpse even still. "Couldn't even take a punch," his father claimed. "Just had to go dying, didn't you?"

Harry spent the rest of the night out in the garden, admiring his newfound luminescence in the moonlight.

************************************************************************

1029 South Wiltshire Avenue sat atop a hill, surrounded by a vast expanse of forest at its base. The three floors of dust and broken furniture inside mirrored the overcast skies and patchy lawn outside, but to Louis, it was perfect. Louis had always wanted to live in an old house like 1029 South Wiltshire. There was so much possibility; so much to work with. It was the challenge of renovating and renewing a home that could, at any moment, completely collapse upon its foundation. Louis planned to first clean out the home. Removing century-old furniture would be no easy task, but he was prepared.

Louis' car pulled through the old iron gate and up the hill to the home to where it stood, silent and motionless. Most would find such a place ominous, but Louis was intrigued; in fact, in awe of its beauty. Windows were broken and shutters were left hanging by their final hinges, yes, but the craftsmanship in the mantle and polished wood of the staircase banister were just enough of a reminder to Louis that the home was worth salvaging.

As he approached the home, he stopped to admire an old, old wooden box filled with soil, topped and filled to the brim with rich white daisies. "Harry's Garden" was etched into the side of the box, weathered so much by the elements that Louis could hardly make it out. He assumed the indentation had once held ink and the wood had once been smooth and the color of chocolate. But now the wood was bleached tan and shavings of wood were damp and peeling away. In contrast to the condition of the wood, the flowers were new and alive, growing in a uniform bunch. Louis wondered who had been so kind enough as to keep it up all of these years. Likewise, he made a mental note to water the flowers on his way out, as he made his way up to the door.

They key to the home was almost comically large, and just as heavy- clearly no one had lived in the home recently enough to put modern locks on it -and Louis had to use both hands to turn it. The turning of the key unleashed a series of clicks. One moved into the next, the noise flowing and snaking up the door until the right side of the double doors had come ajar, a small cloud of dust billowing around Louis' feet.

Louis stepped inside, his weight causing a floorboard in the foyer to groan, and Louis got his first real good look at the house- the first time Louis had been there, the shutters had been closed. Thankfully, someone had opened them, presumably a contractor or something. Grey light poured in generously through the immense living room windows directly in front of Louis, illuminating a sitting area that was centered to a fireplace. The mantle of said fireplace was carved with intricate designs, dust hiding what exactly was etched into the once polished wood. Atop it sat a family portrait. Four people were pictured in a rigid pose, dressed in clothing that Louis placed to be dated back to the turn of the 20th century. There was an obvious father figure, shoulders broad, standing proud and tall. Next to him, sitting on a stool and sporting an apron, was a mother. On her knee, a baby girl sat begrudgingly in a dress that flowed down to the floor. And finally, a young man stood next to his father, nearing his height but nowhere close to achieving his posture. It seemed as though that was something an artist would correct. His shoulders drooped and his hands were folded awkwardly in front of him.

More importantly, though, no one in the painting seemed to bear a face. Upon closer inspection, Louis found that they had been scratched out. There were still shavings of dried oil paint clinging to the canvas where someone had obviously raked their nails through it.

Louis was jarred from his thoughts by a sharp creak behind him. He reared back, startled, before reassuring himself that the house was just old; it probably wobbled every time there was a gust of wind.

Deciding to move on to other parts of the house, Louis placed the dusty painting against the wall, faceless bodies against brick.

************************************************************************

The rest of the home was just as dusty and fascinating as the living room. Louis had spotted the little girl's room the moment he'd reached the second floor landing. The door was swung wide open, revealing a grey-tinted room that Louis was sure had once been white. Small doses of pink were everywhere; in the accents of the curtains, in the embroidery on the hems of pillows, in little bows sewn onto the paws of stuffed animals. Louis was amazed by how untouched this room had looked compared to the rest of the house. Dust was coating everything it could reach, but everything else otherwise seemed pristine.

Before he could dwell on it longer, Louis was interrupted by a chill shooting down his spine. It was autumn in England and the home was clearly not the best insulated, he figured, and added that to his mental list of things to work on as he exited the room.

The rest of what Louis had seen of the second landing was not quite noteworthy. But everywhere he went, the chill eventually caught up with him, ushering him out of the room before he could dwell very long. He'd found a master bedroom- his future bedroom -that had been completely torn apart. The grand canopy bed had fallen in on itself, scrap pieces of wood strewn around wildly. The bureau drawers were either ajar or pulled out completely, dust-covered items of clothing spilling out from them. The closet door had been yanked clear off and was laying half-covered by a pile of suits and glittering, expensive dresses. The grand windows were smashed out and pages were ripped from books and littering the floor. That room seemed to be the coldest of all.

Other than the master bedroom and little girl's room, there were two guest bedrooms on the second landing. They were dust-covered and otherwise peaceful. Louis thought back to the portrait as he made his way to the attic. Neither of the two other rooms had looked lived-in enough to belong to the final member of the portrait. He didn't look old enough to have left to be with his own family. But, yet again, Louis hadn't seen the lad's face. Still, though, the entire situation was peculiar to Louis. His thoughts on the matter had ceased when he felt the chill run down his neck again.

Louis had wanted to explore the attic, but the door that housed the ladder was jammed shut. Louis was nearly dangling from the handle, and yet the door would not budge under his weight. The chill kept him from pursuing the action much longer, seeing as it was clear that Louis was not going to make any progress without a sledgehammer or a much, much stronger man to help him. And he was cold.

Louis started down the stairs carefully, avoiding the areas that he'd found were creaky on his way up. He could have gone to explore the dining and game rooms, but Louis figured that he'd done enough for one day. A layer of dust had settled in his lungs and he would continue the next day, this time with a coat.

On his way out, he made a trip to the well behind the house to water the flowers. As he made the trip down the driveway to his car, he took one last look at the house behind him before he would drive away. He could have sworn he saw a form, peering out of the attic window, but upon second glance, the window was bare.

************************************************************************

Louis had returned to the home the next day in a jumper. Unfortunately, no sledgehammer or beefy construction workers were in tow, so Louis' curiosities regarding the attic would have to stay just that- curiosities. The skies were clearer today, stunning slips of blue peeking out between soft, white cotton candy clouds, but the wind had maintained its gusty blow.

After the orchestra of clicks that arose from the six locks of the front door (he'd counted them), he stepped inside to immediately find a single white daisy just inside the doorway. Louis bent to pick it up, all the while wondering how the hell it managed to find itself indoors. Louis had presumably been the only person at the house the previous day; however, there could have been a rogue contractor addressing Louis' insulation concerns. Regardless, Louis tucked the flower behind his ear with a smile and went about taking a seat on a dust-covered, red velvet couch in the living room, pulling his copy of The Great Gatsby from the bag he carried.

************************************************************************

Harry watched him from the adjacent couch as he read. His face reacted to every word, it seemed, and it felt like Harry was reading the book himself. He could feel the tension of an intense scene just by watching how the man's eyebrows furrowed and his eyes flittered faster across the page. Harry liked to watch him. He'd followed him around the house the previous day, watching as he studied each room, each painful sliver of Harry's past. He cursed his magnetic draw to this man when he'd set foot inside the master bedroom, his eyes widening at the condition of the room. That had been Harry's fault. It had all been Harry's fault.

Harry had forced the attic door closed below him. He didn't want this man to see his room. He didn't want the man in the colorful trousers seeing how his new attic was just grey grey grey and smelled like blood and shame and how his aquired books were stained with them. How the bed wasn't even a bed; it was a blanket, riddled with moth holes, draped over two rectangular bales of hey. If he saw the condition of the room that housed the family's forgotten son and slave, then he would surely leave. And Harry did not want this man to leave.

Harry found his own lips curling up into a smile when the man on the opposite couch's had. His cerulean blue irises had filled to the brim with tears and Harry wanted to whisk them away. Someone so bright and alive should never cry, even if the tears are of a happy circumstance. But even if Harry tried to touch him, his fingers would just pass right through the man. He realized this when he tried to hold his baby sister the night that he died. She couldn't see him. His fingers were nothing more than a small rush of air against her porcelin skin. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't come; he wanted to say goodbye, but how would she ever understand?

At least he found that it doesn't matter if one talks to flowers or not. Either way, they will surely understand.

************************************************************************

Louis had spent the entire day reading and writing on that couch. He hadn't thought to leave until the golden light of the sunset had begun to fade behind the immense living room windows and he was slowly losing his reading light. He was just thinking of leaving, though his nose was still buried in a book, when he heard a thunk and a clink next to him. He turned his head to inspect the side-table, finding an oil lantern and a box of matches placed there. Louis mentally kicked himself for not noticing them before.

He lit up the lantern to continue reading and eventually he drifted off to sleep on the old velvet couch. He awoke the next morning with the lantern light flickering, having nearly run out of oil, and a white blanket with pink trimming placed over him. A second daisy was peeking out from inside the book that Louis had fallen asleep reading, marking where Louis had discontinued.

Harry watched, cross-legged, from the garden this time, as Louis watered his flowers, before climbing into his car and driving away.