He walks out of the woods into a clearing, it’s dull, grey and misty and the air is heavy and wet. A white mansion rises out of the mist and he walks towards it, never stumbling as his feet pass over the frozen grass.

Finally he reaches the door, it glints silver and seems to move. A lifetime of memories spread across the surface.

He pushes open the door and walks through.

He trails his fingers over the walls as he passes, the rooms are filled with white and silver, glinting off of the lights and the fires that roar in the fireplaces. Across the mantles and tables are pictures, they show memories, some move, some don’t. A young man stars in all of them. Him.

The walls glow, reflecting as he passes. A silvery blue suit covers his body, his feet are bare. His brown hair is perfectly coiffed and his eyes shine, a beautiful angel within the mansion’s walls.

He walks from room to room; he reads, sings, watches the pictures and looks at the clothes in the wardrobe, but never changes. Some days he just curls up and waits.

The mansion is silent; his footsteps make no sound across the cold marble floor.

The sun never filters through the curtains, if he looked outside it would still be cold and grey but there is nothing to see.

The silence ends after a while; he has no comprehension of time. There are voices, whispers, some are deep and resonate around the rooms, some are high and echo from the walls. They all plead but he cannot understand them, they are gone before he can make out their words.

The cracks appear some time later. He is walking down a hallway when he sees them, deep cracks breaking apart the silver, glowing walls, darkness seeps out of the gaps.

He tries to escape but can’t, the doors are locked, he looks around, breathing speeding up as he panics, his sanctuary is a prison.

The darkness comes next. Outside the windows pure, deep black swirls and sings to him. The voices carry on, whispering, pleading, begging. He falls asleep, curled up, tears slipping down his handsome, young face and into the silvery carpet.

When he wakes the cracks are deep, gaping holes, bringing with them a steady beeping. It slips into his mind, almost a melodic sound. A voice whispers stronger than the rest and he clings to it, he cannot understand it but feels warmth every time it comes and cold every time it vanishes.

He sleeps again.

All is quiet when he wakes; there are no voices, only the beeping, stronger than before. He rails against the loss of whispers, shouting loudly into the cracks, hitting and kicking out against the walls, breaking through in places. The walls break and fall away, his eyes slip closed.

His eyes open. He can make out blurry shapes and the voices are back, clear and strong. He can hear the words now.

“Oh my God! Mom he’s back!”

“Welcome back buddy.”

“Oh honey, welcome back sweetheart.”

He hears a gasp and warm hands cup his face, a shape looms over him and he blinks quickly. Lips are pressed against his, kissing him soundly, as the shape leans away his eyes clear and focus. The voice he’d clung to speaks to him, slipping out of full lips, tears tracking down a handsome face.

“Oh baby, I thought I’d lost you. I love you so much.”

His mouth moves, his voice cracks from underuse. “B-Blaine?”