"That's all for today, my dear."

Mr.Cohen dismissed you from the day's training with a smile and a short wave. After training he would sit on a stump and admire the gold locket dangling from his neck. As was the daily ritual.

You retrieved any of your salvageable arrows and slipped them back into the quiver. Sluggishly, you dragged your heavy body over the lawn and towards the back porch.

"Goodbye, Mr.Cohen!"

The Cohen remained gazing at the golden disc. Your words had flown right past him.

"Coco?" You chimed. You absolutely relished in the fact that you had resurrected his most despised nick-name.

Sure, you had an arsenal packed with more, but no other name was quite as efficient at getting under the old man's skin.

Cohen glanced up at you and feigned a weak smile.

"Run along, (Y/n). You don't have to worry about this bag of bones. I can take care of my self."

"That is an understatement." You chuckled, turning towards the back door.

As you stepped underneath the roofing and into the shade, your smile sagged. You brows furrowed with concern. 

The warm interior of Mr.Cohen's house did little to assuage your feelings of dread. On a normal occasion, the cream colored walls would lift your spirits. Or you would become invested in trying to follow the tiny system of  detailed vines printed upon them.

The coffee-colored floor boards locked together to form a grid of zig-zags.

Even the most minuscule items in Cohen's home could lend themselves as a temporary sanctuary from your problems.

You slumped down on the burgundy sofa with a groan. The aches were already building in your muscles.

Shutting your eyes, you rubbed your palms against your face, attempting to clear away the exhaustion. Your mind was still a bleary haze.

Memories flooded in to fill the gaps in thought.

You reminisced of the day Cohen had taken you home. A distant memory tangled with the unavoidable sadness that accompanies nostalgia.

You strained to recall the events accurately...Rain. Yes, you could remember the rain.

Cohen had bundled you against his chest, snuggled his overcoat. Cradling you with one arm, he walked home, letting his other hand dangle loosely by his side.

You two eventually stopped at a small cottage. Despite the deluge pounding on the wooden roof, the cottage seemed as though it was from a fairytale. 

He unlocked the door before gently plopping you on the ground.

"You're house is so pretty!" You squealed.

"It's your home now. I only have one rule."

You cocked your head to the side. Cohen continued.

"Never open that door." He pointed sternly to a door on the far right.

The door was wedged between a wall and a book case. It was slender, the size of a pantry door. The room the door was guarding had been tucked underneath the stair case.

Instantly, a childish curiosity towards the contents of the room manifested.

You broke from your memories with a shudder. The door had been locked for ten years now. The paint was chipped and the handle was dull, weathered.

There was one lesson Cohen always taught more adamantly than others.

There is always a backstage to the play.

Cohen, being a consistent attendee of The Imp's Fiddle Theatre, was entranced by the art of acting.

He would haggle you into walking down to the theatre and expose you to some production. A world of colorful and lively characters, dingy, rugged ones, turbulent anti-villains, and the ever present "wayward souls" as he called them.

"Acting is a magic of its own. Taking one personality, one person, and morphing it into another. Astounding, isn't it?"

Analysis. That was Mr.Cohen's way.

You relaxed a bit, sinking into the sofa's fabric.

A scream split through the warm summer air.

"Someone help us! Please!"

It was feminine, high-pitched,  strangled by fear and tension.

Within a second the porch door slammed, a blur shot across the room and flew out the door.

Cohen to the rescue.