Chapter 48 – The Weight of Silence
Chapter 48 – The Weight of Silence
Tyler stood alone at the edge of the cliffside, the mansion behind him like a ghost of better days. The sea stretched endlessly into the horizon, its rhythmic waves a cruel mockery of peace. But there was no peace within him.
He turned, heavy-footed, and opened the door to the house he and Milo had built together.
The silence inside hit like a thunderclap.
Gone was Milo’s clumsy singing, his off-beat humming as he painted or cooked. Gone were the footsteps padding around the wooden floors, the sound of laughter echoing down the halls. The house was no longer a home—it was a tomb.
His eyes fell on the painting easel in the corner. It stood proud and untouched, the colours beside it still open, brushes still arranged in their jars. The set Milo had begged for. Tyler walked over, picked up a brush, and dipped it into the paint.
“Why did that brat even like doing this?” he muttered, trying to steady his trembling hand.
He jabbed at the canvas, smearing colours without form, striking wildly as if he could somehow erase the pain with every stroke. The paints turned into a muddled storm of reds and blacks. No image, no intent. Just grief and rage made manifest.
Then, in one sweeping motion, he hurled the canvas across the room. It crashed into the wall and slid down in ruin.
The easel followed, flung with a scream of anguish. It splintered against the stone fireplace.
Breathing heavily, Tyler turned to the bed Milo used to sleep in.
Patchy blue blanket. Crooked pillow.
He dragged it out into the open courtyard.
One word: “[Fireball].”
Flames erupted, consuming the bedding, the mattress, the frame. Tyler watched the fire dance, its crackling the only sound in the stillness of dusk. He stood expressionless as the last physical remnant of Milo’s presence turned to ash.
Inside again, he faced the walls. Lined with paintings—snapshots of their adventures. Dreadnest Spider’s lair. Ivory Glen. Milo mid-flight after a throw. The Anthill. Campfires. Dumb grins.
He ripped them down one by one, flinging them to the ground, stomping on them, anything to quiet the ache.
But one remained.
Their family portrait.
Tyler stared at it.
Himself, Milo, and their parents, all smiling. Milo had drawn little hearts above each of their heads. The lines were crude, but the feeling behind it… pure.
He fell to his knees.
“I failed him,” he whispered. “I failed all of you.”
His voice cracked. “I was supposed to protect him. That was my only job… and I killed him. I killed him…”
Tears streamed freely now, falling onto the wood floor.
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“I used that skill knowing it was dangerous… I thought it’d be fine. I thought—”
He gripped the painting, pressed it against his chest. “Please… punish me. Yell at me. Do something… anything. Don’t just look at me like that…”
But the painted smiles didn’t change.
He dragged himself to the centre of the room, where the broken easel lay. His eyes landed on Milo’s sketchbook—half-buried beneath a kicked-over stool. He picked it up.
A half-finished drawing of the sea. Some practice sketches of Tyler’s sword. A crude comic strip of their encounter with the Dreadnest Spider.
Tyler tried to draw something—anything. His hands trembled as he tried to sketch Milo’s face. But the lines wouldn’t come. They shook, spiralled, broke into incoherent scrawls. He roared, tore the page, and hurled the sketchbook across the room.
The room echoed with his ragged breathing.
He collapsed against the wall, and in that quiet, a memory rose unbidden.
That first day.
They had entered the newly built mansion, Milo skipping in first, arms wide. “Look at this! Tyler! Look at the space! We can build anything here!”
Tyler had only smiled and said, “It’s just a bunch of walls.”
And Milo, ever the dreamer, had replied, “Then we’ll fill it with life.”
The ghost of that memory crushed him now.
A knock at the door.
Then another.
It creaked open.
“Um… if you’re throwing all this stuff out… think I can take some of it?” came a soft, familiar voice.
Cupcake Crab stepped in, his purple shell glinting faintly under the torchlight.
Tyler didn’t look up. “Do whatever you want.”
The crab scuttled over to the pile of canvases. “This one’s pretty cool. He painted the lava just right.”
Silence.
He glanced at Tyler, still kneeling in the centre of the room, face shadowed. He tried to lighten the mood.
“Y’know, I once painted something too. It was terrible. Looked like a pineapple exploded.”
Nothing.
Cupcake Crab hesitated. Then, trying another approach: “Hey, uh… you know that cemetery in Muckwood? Some say you can talk to spirits there. If they want to be found.”
Tyler finally turned his head, eyes dull. “Can I see Milo?”
The crab’s smile faltered. “Maybe. But… probably not a great idea to go right now—”
But Tyler was already gone.
---
The Muckwood cemetery stood silent under the clouded sky, its old stones leaning as if tired from centuries of sorrow. The Spirit Tree loomed at its heart, gnarled branches like fingers clawing at the heavens.
Tyler walked slowly up to it, knees shaking. He knelt.
“Milo… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I just wanted to protect the farm, the quest… You trusted me.”
He closed his eyes.
“I need to see you. Please… let me talk to you. Just once.”
Nothing.
No wind. No whisper. Not even a flicker from the tree’s ancient bark.
Then, a voice behind him: “Some spirits do not answer.”
Tyler turned.
Murmur emerged from the shadows, solemn and still. “Spirits slain by the summoner cannot be called. And those who die with resentment cannot return.”
Tyler’s breath caught.
“No…” he whispered. “He… he didn’t hate me. He couldn’t have…”
His voice cracked. “He promised me he’d always be there. He said we’d finish the game together.”
He clutched the ground. “But he’s not here. So it’s true, isn’t it? He resents me. Even in death, he couldn’t forgive me…”
Behind him, Cupcake Crab had arrived silently.
“I tried to see my mother here,” he said gently. “She didn’t come either. Maybe I was a disappointment… maybe she didn’t want to see me.”
Tyler didn’t reply.
“But that doesn’t mean we stop trying,” the crab said. “You still have things to do. Promises to keep. Maybe your [Companion] can’t hear you… but that doesn’t mean you can’t honour him.”
He paused.
“What were his last words?”
Tyler whispered, “That he would still be watching over me. That if he wasn’t there to stop me from doing something outrageous… that I should do what I believe is right.”
Cupcake Crab nodded. “Then do that. For him.”
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Back at the mansion, Tyler placed the gravestone carefully in the garden. The sky was an overcast grey, the wind cold and biting.
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Here lies Milo. Brother. Friend. Companion. He brought light to a broken world. And laughter to a lonely heart. You will never be forgotten.
Tyler stood over it.
“I’m sorry, Milo,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my promise.”
He turned away.
The mansion door creaked as he entered, closing behind him with finality. Then came the sound of the lock clicking into place.
He didn’t come out the next day.
Or the day after.
Or the week after.
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Far away, atop the Windy Mountains, the world grew colder.
A blizzard howled through the peaks, relentless and vengeful.
And in its eye, something ancient stirred.
Something watching.
Waiting.