Chapter 4 - The Altar of Ghosts
The flickering candlelight illuminated the photograph inside the brass frame.
It was not a picture of a little girl.
It was a portrait of a young woman in her late twenties. She had dark, weary eyes, pale skin, and long, dark hair pulled back into a simple knot. Her smile in the photo was thin, strained, as if she had been exhausted even while posing for the lens. Across the bottom corner of the glass, written in faded black ink, were the words: Sarah Miller, 2018.
Leo dropped to his knees on the freezing floor. He pulled his legs tightly into his chest, resting his chin on his knees, his eyes reflecting the tiny, dancing flame of the candle.
The tear tracks on his face dried into tight, salt-crusted lines. The bruise on his cheek looked dark red and angry under the firelight.
"Happy birthday, Mom," Leo whispered into the empty, freezing room.
His voice was a small, broken thread of sound. Tears welled up in his eyes once more, overflowing and dropping onto his torn canvas sneakers.
"I tried to get a big one," Leo choked out, his small shoulders shaking with quiet, solitary sobs. "I saved the quarter you gave me... the one from under the floorboard. But it wasn't enough. A nice man bought it for me. He thought... he thought I had a sister."
Leo leaned forward, bringing his face inches from the portrait.
"I didn't lie to him, Mom," he whispered, as if defending himself to the silent picture. "I didn't say I had a sister. He just said it. I just wanted you to have a candle. You said everyone gets a candle on their birthday, or the angels can't find them in the dark."
The flame flickered violently as a draft blew through the cracks in the wooden door. The shadows on the walls lengthened and distorted, shifting like living creatures lurking in the corners of the basement.
Leo reached out a finger, touching the cold glass over his mother's face in the photo.
"It's been two years," he murmured, his voice dipping into an eerie, flat monotone—a tone far too old for an eight-year-old boy. "The man who took you away... he still lives in the big house with the iron gate. I see him sometimes. He drives the black car. He doesn't see me. Nobody sees me."
May you like
Leo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, rusted steel nail he had sharpened against the concrete alleyway over weeks of solitary labor. He laid it gently beside the cupcake.
"Happy birthday," he repeated softly to the photo. "I'm going to make him pay today. I promised you."
