Follows the events of Faerietale, from the point of view of a young boy. WARNING: This story contains very explicit material.
His last sunset was one of sad beauty: Brilliant, yet taken for granted. Purple streaks of dusk shot across the sky, just visible through the park’s small clearing in the forest canopy. All around him, a chorus of crickets gently sang the sun to sleep. From the top of the tallest parapet of playground equipment, the boy looked out across the surrounding woodland in the way a king surveys his kingdom. The boy felt home.
A blanket of fog descended onto the park, providing the street lamps with a sort of hazy illumination. The mist seemed to shroud the clearing in a mysterious manner – 40 feet in every direction, one could see nothing but a vague outline of what lay beyond. But the boy didn’t mind. He was used to these things, because they were, after all, a part of his home.
The girl and her younger brother yelled up at him, informing the boy that they had to go home. The boy nodded, promising to see them again tomorrow, and their mother took them gently by the hand and strolled down the long, winding sidewalk into the fog. Light continued to fade, and the boy realized to himself that it was getting late, and decided that he should probably get going also. With the ease that befits a young child, he swung down a pole and landed gracefully on the mulch. He meandered over to the wooden park a flashlight. Looking at the mist, he took a deep breath. Then he clicked the flashlight on and started down the sidewalk.