Attempting to flip through the pages of the Occisio was meaningless. The pages were glued shut, the book immovable. Reading the tome in hopes of trying to find one familiar word that looked remotely close to the English language, Sean scanned the Caudex ten times over. And then again. And again. He ignored the low shuddering pulses of the book. He ignored Medraut’s glassy eyed stare behind him. He even ignored Elise, crumpled in a heap only five feet away from the book. He pushed away all things and put all his concentration on the Occisio Caudex. Could there possibly be an excerpt of raising the dead on the same page that just so happened taught how to summon portals? Sean had considered the possibility. He even thought, if he hoped hard enough, and if he searched hard enough, he would find it on the two remote pages that the Occisio was opened to.
He was still sitting and reading the book when the side of the wall to his right blew apart.
     Clumps of drywall and plaster hailed down throughout the entire room, a giant cloud of smoke instantly being pushed out from the center of the room. From the blast, the sound waves took shape, appearing in seismic donuts that originated from the giant tome on the floor and grew exponentially outward. Three seconds after the explosion, two figures emerged from the mist. One figure long and thin, and the other short and rounded, both of them wearing full face mask respirators. Tryss’s tall figure moved slowly through the new hole they had made in the wall. She fanned away the dust around her, poking her head out, then her entire body. She scanned the parts of the room that were visible, stepping lightly and moving her long rifle back and forth, sweeping it through the cloud of dust that was already beginning to settle. Tryss’s weapon was attached to a hose that fed behind her into a large container that was strapped to her back.
    Smyth followed shortly, carrying Percy’s satchel under one arm while he held a pistol, aiming it into the settling dust cloud that preoccupied the room. He lowered his gun as he spotted Sean amid the rubble. Smyth moved quickly to the custodian’s side, kneeling down and checking the young man’s pulse.
    “Sean’s over here!” Smyth called out, his voice muffled by his respirator. Tryss sidled over to the curator, her long rifle still ready to fire as she swept the room with its crosshairs.
    She glanced down with a nod of her head and then resumed keeping watch over the room.
    “Mary, Martha and Joseph,” whispered Tryss, the end of her rifle lowering slightly as she spotted the tome. She advanced steadily over to it, moving through the rippling clouds of haze that seemed to erupt from the giant book.
    “Smyth,” she called out, stopping next to the tome. “It’s the Occisio Caudex.” But Smyth didn’t hear her. He was too busy trying to revive Sean.
     “Sean!” Smyth slapped the custodian’s cheek firmly. The young man woke instantly, breathing in and out. Coughing. Then retching, all over Smyth. The old curator didn’t flinch, instead he pulled out a red and azure medallion from his waistcoat pocket and held it to Sean’s head. Sean just stared up at the ceiling. At Smyth. Over at Tryss. He tried opening his mouth, but found it hard to even move his lips. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was watch Smyth. Sean moved his head side to side in a slow, shaking motion that Smyth stopped him from continued, the old man holding Sean’s head still with one hand.
    “You’re going to be okay, it’s fine, everything’s fine.” Smyth looked up and shouted to Tryss, who was kneeling over the Caudex. “What is the book turned to?”
    “What?” Tryss shout back, her head coming up.
    “What page is showing?”
    Tryss turned her gaze from Smyth and down to the tome. She looked back up and told him. The aged curator shook his head, his chest heaving from breathing hard inside of the mask. He looked down at Sean and said calmly and slowly, “Sean, where is Elise? You know where she is?”
    Sean blinked several times, his entire head shivering with emotion. But he couldn’t speak. It was as if his lips were superglued shut. Smyth murmured something underneath his breath and turned the medallion over, pressing the red side into Sean’s forehead.
    Suddenly, he could speak. Sean licked his lips and swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he stared hard at Smyth.
    “She’s dead. She’s dead, what have I done-she’s dead-”
    “What? Slow down-she’s dead?” Smyth stared at Sean doubtfully. “Elise is dead? How? Where is she?”
    Sean signalled with his eyes; his arm was too tired to point. Smyth followed Sean’s gaze and searched the fog that was mulling over the ground. The dust that wasn’t being carried out from the center of the room was building up near the floor, canvassing the entire room in a billowy milky white cloud.
    Sean cried. “She’s out there; you have to save her. For God’s sake, let me go and find her!”
    Smyth shook his head, saying nothing. Although he couldn’t see through the fogging face mask, Sean knew Smyth’s eyes were as wide as his, and just as furtive in their wandering.
    “Tryss!” Smyth raised his head, his chin up. “Nullify the spell as quickly as you can. No need to be delicate; I don’t care what it takes. Burn it if you have to. And then find Elise. I’ll take care of Sean.”
    “Yes sir!”
    Sean lifted his head, attempting to sit up. But he only managed in raising his head an inch off from the crook of Smyth’s elbow. The old man gently pushed Sean down, the younger man taking hold of Smyth’s wrist.
    “No, don’t-” Sean stammered. “Don’t let her burn the book. There’s a spell in there that can bring her back. She’s dead and she needs the spell, it’s the only thing that can-”
    “Sean, stop!” Smyth persuaded as he held down Sean from getting up. Even while groggy, it took all of the old man’s strength to prevent Sean from sitting up.
    Slapping at Smyth’s arms weakly, Sean rocked up and down. He was shouting now. “You don’t-no, you don’t understand, she’s dying! No, she’s dead! She needs to be resurrected, there’s a spell-”
    “Stop this!” Smyth shouted. The force of Smyth’s voice travelled through the medallion he was pressing against Sean’s head and it smothered his mind. Sean’s eyelids flapped open and close. It took all his willpower to stay awake.
    “You have to save her,” Sean murmured, landing back on the floor. He still gripped hard at Smyth’s arm, but his strength was weakening. “You have to. . .”
    “If she is dead,” Smyth said. “Then I fear it is too late.”
    “No. . .”
    “Sean,” Smyth frowned down at the young man. “Who told you of this resurrection spell?”
    Pausing before he spoke, Sean whispered hoarsely, “Medraut. He said-”
    “Medraut would say anything to live. And if you had tried saying the spell, you would have no doubt made the entire situation worse.” Smyth suddenly jerked his head back and forth, his face mask scanning all around him. He looked down at Sean and asked, “Where is he? Did he escape?”
    “Who?”
    “Medraut! Where has he gone?”
    Sean didn’t say anything. Smyth shook the young man once gently, repeating the question. Sean nodded with his head to Smyth’s left.
    “He’s dead.”
    “Dead? How?”
    Sean didn’t say anything.
    “Are you sure he’s dead?” Smyth asked, looking into the dense smoke that covered the floor. The bottom half of the captain poked out through the swirling dust.
    Sean said nothing.
    “Sean!”
    “He is. At least, I think. . .”
    Sean felt Smyth press the medallion harder into his skin.
    “You need to sleep now,” the old man suggested, and Sean felt himself slip away from his body. As if his body were a car that had suddenly collided head-on with a tree and he was the driver being thrown from his seat in slow motion.
    “But Elise-” Sean felt his tongue grow fatter inside of his mouth. All around him Sean heard the rhythmic pulse grow weaker and fainter, and then it disappeared altogether. He heard Tryss shouting something, and the jolting scent of burning paper filled his nostrils. Sean knew somewhere in the back of his brain he should be worried and alert and that he should do something. But he had forgotten. Now, what only remained was the thought of rest. Rest that had so easily avoided him and was now standing in front of him, offering its hand in surrender.
     Sean took its hand, grabbing it tight.
    “You’ve been through enough.” Smyth sighed, the final syllable in his sentence casting Sean into a world of darkness.
   
The darkness was rest.
     Rest, like a warm blanket on a cold night.
     Even though the coldness nipped at his neck and bit his ankles, Sean just wrapped Rest tighter around himself until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Until he couldn’t feel. Or remember. Who was he, anyway? He didn’t care! Rest never felt so good, or so distancing. He felt like he could stay like this forever. He could just languish here and never be woken up again. What was it to be awake, when one could just enjoy eternity here in this immensely vast yet incredibly small space. Rest was all he had. All he ever needed or wanted. And he knew it was all he was going to get. But then the darkness shirked at pinpricks of light that invaded Rest. His Rest. Why, after everything must he lose Rest, too? The darkness was fading again. He cursed, loud and long, pulling the blanket of his closest friend tighter around his bosom. But it was jerked away from him. He clawed at it, but Rest began to slip away from him. No! He wouldn’t lose Rest, not this time. He and Rest had been separated for such a long time that. . .

    Sean’s flickered open at the smell of pages of a book burning. The Occisio Caudex. Sean’s eyes were still droopy, and his vision was blurred, but he could hear perfectly. He heard Smyth’s and Tryss’s voices in the distance, as if they were conversing in a valley and Sean were eavesdropping on them.
    Tryss’s voice melted into existence. It was faint, and her voice sounded stressed and dull.
    “It was rigged. I had to burn it.”
    Sean wriggled ever so slightly in Smyth’s arms, but the old man didn’t notice.
    Smyth’s voice floated over in Sean’s mind, sounding just as muffled as Tryss’s.
    “That book needed to burned half a millenia ago. I didn’t even know it could be burnt.”
    “Well, I guess we found today, didn’t we?”
    “Yes. Yes we did.”
    Sean was about to slip off into his dreamless sleep again when Tryss said, “Who do you think killed Medraut?”
    A pause.
    Then Smyth spoke, “Elise. . . wasn’t it?”
    Tryss said. “It was her stiletto in him.”
    “But he died when the dagger was pulled out. Look at the amount of blood.”
    “Are you saying. . . no, couldn’t be.” Tryss sounded surprised.
    “And why not?”
    “Well, because,” Tryss stammered. “I just never thought.”
    “Don’t be so surprised,” Smyth’s voice began fading away, echoing deeply and resonating across the canyon of Sean’s mind. “We’re all capable of it. For Sean, it only took him a whole week for him to submerged into a world of magic. No one is exempt from it.”
    It became increasingly difficult to concentrate on listening to the voices.
    Tryss echoed. “Do you think it’s the curse? Is it umbriaticas?”
    A very, very long pause. So long, Sean almost thought he had begun to sleep again. But he was still awake, the voices still conversing in oblivion.
    Smyth whispered. “If that is indeed the case, there is so much more more that we do not know.”
    Holding still, Sean felt himself sink into the withering comfort of rest, as it fully enveloped him.

~~~

     Sean woke up feeling fitfully rested, which was a strange feeling. It came to him almost as a surprise. There was no prodding hand, no sudden jerking awake. Not even a slap to the face. Sean rose from his bed, his body feeling refreshed. No aches, no pains, not even a semblance of fatigue in his body. He almost felt like he could go take a five mile run. But then it came, like an anvil landing on his skull. The night before. All of it rushed into his mind and suddenly his brain felt cramped from harboring so much information. So much. Sean clamped his palms against his ears, feeling them burning. His eyes were on fire, he could taste the smoke, the dust. Sean could feel the blood, on his hands. The grungy, metallic scent pervading his sense of smell. His fingers tingled, his hands becoming jittery. Uncontrollable, Sean sat up straight and tucked his hands under his armpits. His throat closed and opened. Closed and open, as if the air he was getting wasn’t enough but yet there was too much around him.
    Sean inhaled deeply, feeling his heart rate double exponentially. He gripped the bed he sat on and tried to slow his breathing. The ominous thudding coming from within his ears was overpowering. He closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. He breathed through his nose and opened his eyes, focusing on a pale white, wrinkled face. Smyth. Sean opened his eyes wider and realized him and the old man were in his room. Sean’s room.
    Smyth unfolded his legs and stared at Sean.
     He said. “Congratulations. Welcome back from the edge, Sean.”
    Sean blinked and propped himself up on an elbow. He grunted in the effort. Smyth smiled, folding his arms across his chest and releasing a pent up nervous chuckle. 
    “You survived. Thank God you’re alive.” Smyth leaned in, handing Sean a cup of water that he plucked up from the nearby nightstand. “No ordinary man could’ve sustained the amount of magic contained in that room you were in. It will take us at least a week to get rid of any harmful residual effects the Occisio Caudex might have done to the museum.”
    Sean looked down at the cup in Smyth’s hand, his sight focusing in and out from the water to the floor. Once everything stopped phasing in between blurbs of color and solid shapes, Sean looked Smyth in the eye.
    “I. . . survived.” Sean murmured, taking the cup from Smyth’s grasp. “Does that-did you. . . I mean-”
    Sean closed his eyes, a discomforting pain searing its way from behind his brain to the back of his eyeballs. He took a sip from the cup, the water feeling almost refreshing. Some of the water sloshed out from the cup when he brought it to his lips and it slopped out all over the front part of his shirt.
    Sean focused his gaze at Smyth and asked, “Elise?”
    Smyth’s grin faltered, then crumbled. The wrinkles in his face looked like wrinkles in a falling tapestry, the shadows growing and lengthening and stretching. Smyth glanced all around the room and then his gaze eventually fell on Sean.
    “When we got there,” Smyth began slowly, his voice straining. “Elise was already dead. Far beyond magical healing-or resurrection, if that were possible." Smyth strained through his sentence, the words visually tearing him apart. Then he sighed, his eyes filling with pain as he stared at the young man before him.
    "I’m sorry, son.”
    Sean blinked. He shook his head, his lips moving but no words coming out. His mind raced. Sean knew he could’ve saved Elise. If he had taken his time in searching the magic book, or if he had kept Medraut alive, Elise could still be alive. But she wasn't. Sean’s vision became blurry. A stinging pain coated his sight.
    “I am very, truly sorry, Sean.” Smyth put a hand on the young man’s shuddering shoulder. “There was nothing we could do for her.”
    Sean raised his head, his eyeballs on fire and his nose getting hot. “But I could have!” Sean said, his raising his voice.
“What?”
    “I could’ve saved her!” Sean coughed, shivering. He pointed at himself with a shuddering finger as he spoke. “I had the chance to bring her back-I had the book! It was right in my hands.”
    Smyth shook his head, his face crestfallen. “Sean, look at me.”
    Sean raised his head, wiping at his face with the edge of his sleeve. Smyth could see the burning pain behind Sean's brooding expression, but in his eyes, he could also see regret and sorrow.
    Sean continued, his voice cracking all the while. He didn't care. “Medraut said there was a spell to bring back the dead, and if only I hadn’t killed him. . .”
    Grabbing at tufts of his disheveled hair, Sean hung his head. He let out a discomforted, frustrated groan as he ground his teeth. Smyth said nothing, instead looking down. After Sean was finished moaning, he looked up and stared out across his bed and at the blank wall ahead of him.
    “What spell was it?” Smyth squinted and tilted his head expectantly. When Sean just shook his head miserably, Smyth spoke. “I doubt Medraut would have been so truthful inches away from death. His kind would do anything to survive.”
    Sean shrugged slowly, feeling an ache in the middle of his spine.
    “I did think about that,” Sean said, looking down at the ground as he wrung his hands. “But I just couldn’t take the risk?”
    Sean looked up, his eyes widening slightly. “A spell to raise the dead-Medraut said it was somewhere in the Caudex. Somewhere. . .”
    Smyth sighed and sat up straight, eyeing Sean doubtfully. The old man shook his head.
    “Sean. In all my long years-and I’ve been around for a long time. . .” Smyth stared at the distraught young man. “I don’t even think such a spell exists.”
    “Doesn’t exist?” Sean scoffed, chuckling. “To me, five days ago magic didn’t exist!” Sean rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve seen magic perform next to insane, miraculous things! And you say magic can’t raise people from the dead?”
    Smyth stared at Sean, his jaw positioned off to one side.
    “Sean?”
    Sean stared at Smyth.
    Leaning forward on his knees, Smyth tipped his head at Sean. Smyth said. “You have to understand that, even with magic, there are limits to what it can bring. To what it can do.” Smyth angled his gaze at Sean, a melancholy look in his eyes. “In the end, it all comes down to the person who wields that magic.”
    Smyth looked at Sean meaningfully, his voice becoming soft as he asked, “Do you have experience in using magic, Sean? Have you been taught how to? Have you ever so much as cast a shift command?”
    Sean looked at his feet, Smyth’s words soaking into him. Sean’s voice sounded labored when he spoke. “No. Of course not.”
    “Then you clearly could not have saved Elise then,” Smyth stated, putting a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Even if you had somehow found a spell of miraculous healing, you would not have been able to speak it or comprehend it. You said you looked at the tome. Then you must have seen how impossible it was to read it. Don’t believe that you had any cause in Elise’s death.”
    Sean rubbed his temple, massaging it until it became sore.
    “But I was. I couldn’t do anything-”
    “Your inaction doesn’t make you responsible for her death. You couldn’t have done anything.”
    “She died because of me.”
    “You don’t mean that, son.”
    “It was my fault.” Sean ran a hand through his hair, his blank gaze staring through his bedsheets. “I remember now. I did it. She felt there was something wrong-she felt the trap. And I told her to do it. Don’t you see, I practically killed her!”
    “She would have done it anyway, with or without your persuasion!”
    “You don’t understand!” Sean whirled to face the Smyth, his face red. “You didn’t see the doubt in her face. She knew deep down it was a trap but I convinced her to touch that book.” Sean raised his shaking hands up to his head and moaned, “It’s my fault-”
    “No it’s not!” Smyth’s face reddened as he raised his voice. Sean stared at the old man. Smyth’s usual grinning, welcoming face was creased into a disappointed frowns.
     “I'm sure if you had the gift of seeing the future, you would've stopped Elise from redacting the spell, but what then? Would you have the spell finish, and let the world be infested to evil spirits and shades? Would you have our world overrun by demons of darkness than rather have Elise dead?”
“There could have been another way.” Sean’s eyes flitted around the room.
“Like what?”
Sean said nothing, closing his eyes.
“Like what, Sean?”
“I don’t know!” snapped Sean, his eyes opening wide and his gaze wild. He wrapped his arms around his knees and felt a shudder run across his body.
Crying, he whispered, “What’s wrong with me?”
    For a long moment, neither of the two said anything. Then Smyth wiped his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose, avoiding Sean’s wide eyed gaze. Then the old man clasped his hands together, staring at Sean. His voice was no louder than a whisper.
    “Sean, I have realized some important things in life.” Smyth sighed as he looked outside of Sean’s window, staring at the rain falling. The raindrops splattered against the surface of the panes mercilessly, having no intention of stopping. Smyth continued, his breathing became heavy.
    “And one of them is you can never blame yourself for the death of others when you yourself were helpless. Were you the one that killed Elise? No, of course not. Then how can you blame yourself for her death? Don’t you understand? It was a sad, horrible-terrible thing that happened to Elise. And she’ll be sorely missed by everyone, not just you, but by everyone. Stop acting as if her death was your fault, because it wasn’t.”
    Smyth looked back at Sean, a forlorn grin breaking out on his lips. “I can see the guilt that burdens you. And if you continue to carry it, it will destroy you. The longer your mind dwells on it, the faster it gnaws at you and eventually. . . it will consume you.”
    Sean stopped rubbing his forehead and stared at the old man. It was hard to see the aged curator, Sean’s vision was blurred by hot, angry tears. Sean blinked them away, and felt rivulets run down his cheeks. The old man’s sad grin faded to a thin a line of consternation.
    Smyth continued, sticking out a closed fist and planting it on the side of the bed. “And I’ve seen too many of my friends pass away still blaming themselves for the deaths of others that they couldn’t have possibly saved. With or without the use of magic.”
    Sean licked his dry lips, placing his cup of water on his nightstand and looking at the rain pelting his window.
    “Look, Sean. My point is,” Smyth continued, his voice taking on a firm edge. “Do not blame yourself for Elise's death. You may mourn, you may remember her, but do not think for a minute her death was your fault.”
    Sean wiped his eyes with both hands, sniffing. He then gulped, glanced at the ceiling, and then at Smyth who stared at him earnestly.
    "I don't want to see you be consumed, Sean." Smyth added, his voice breaking as a tear fell from his eye and passed down the numerous wrinkles on his face. “I believe that Elise knew what she was doing was the right thing, even if she did have to sacrifice herself in the end. I believe she knew that it would be worth her life to spare many. And I do know for a fact that Elise would not want her death on your conscience, Sean. Never.”
    The rain fell harder against solitary window of Sean’s room. A clap of thunder could be heard far off in the distance, but no lightning was seen. Drops of rain slicked down in a zebra pattern on the window. The dim blue glow of light that shone through the window created broken lines of shadows that spread across the room, on the bed, and over Sean and Smyth. Sean opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. He wiped the tears that covered the sides of his face with the back of his hand. He gazed at the window, at the descending streaks that were created by the rain. When Sean spoke, his voice was low and fragile, as if a simple cough could break his vocal chords.
    “I get it. I get what you’re trying to say.” Sean patted his legs with both index fingers rapidly, blowing air through his puckered lips. “Is my family here?”
    “They’re asleep in their own bedrooms.” Smyth’s eyes softened.
    “Oh. Okay.” Sean said, trying to keep his voice steady as he stood from his bed. “Does my family know? Do they know everything that’s happened to them?”
    “It’s good that you mention them,” Smyth pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “That’s one of the things I have to discuss with you.”
    “What’s to discuss?”
    Smyth paused, his mouth half open. He closed it quickly and said, “Your family. Once they wake up, they will remember everything they’ve been through.”
    “Yeah?” Sean raised an eyebrow. “And?”
    “Well, we thought the best outcome would be, of course with your consent, is that you and your family would like to perhaps consider a clean slate?”
    “What are you saying?” Sean frowned. “You want to wipe our memories? Is that it?”
    Smyth held out both palms up in a surrendering gesture. “Yes. I assume the thought has crossed your mind?”
    It hadn’t. Sean had been thinking the complete opposite. From the moment he realized his mom and sister were involved, he wondered how they would function knowing magic existed. An entire world filled with impossibility and spells and things unheard of. The idea of having him and his family’s memory wiped had been the farthest from Sean’s mind. But now that Smyth had mentioned it. . . it did sound like an interesting thought.
    Sean licked his lips, realizing even after the cup of water they were still dry. He asked. “How do you do it?”
    Smyth leaned back. “Oh, it’s a simple and harmless procedure. A few lines of an incantation and a sprinkling of an ancient and rare species of rodent ashes will do.”
    Then the old man’s face faded, shadows rippling across his face becoming darker.
    “But there is a danger. Even if the process is successful in retrieving and erasing certain memories, there can be side effects.”
    “Like what?”
    “Memories are a funny thing,” Smyth rubbed the side of his head with a wizzen finger. “And memories are tied together, like knots on a string, and there being many strings. Now imagine we can cut off one of those strings, the knots being scenes from your life, if you will. But we can only cut the string as far as we dare go up, because once the strings is cut, all the knots that follow after are discarded along with the selected knots that we have chosen for discarding.”
    Holding up a hand, Sean managed a weak smile. “I get what you’re trying to say, Smyth. Don’t need to confuse me more.”
    “So you get it?”
    “Yeah, I’m not as stupid as I look.”
    “Medraut would disagree.”
    Sean stared. “Medraut’s dead.”
     “Exactly.” Smyth winked.
    Nodding slowly, Sean looked down at the disposable cup and then back up at aged curator.
    “Okay. So you can wipe our memories over the past. . . what, week?”
    “Five days.”
    Sean grunted. “Okay, five days, but there we can also lose memories that wouldn’t rather lose?”
    “Have you learned anything important or crucial about your family in the past five days?”
    Sean shrugged. “Not really. Not about my family. But I’ve sure learned a lot about you guys. About what you guys are, about the Vanguard and what they do.” Sean sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I really can’t speak for my mom or my sister, but for me. . . if you wipe my memories. . . will I lose all my memories?”
    Smyth frowned. “I’m not. . . I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
    Sean looked up at the ceiling and let out a short breath of air from his nostrils. “If you wipe my memory, everything concerning magic and the Vanguard and the Angel of Death, will I just have five days missing from my life? Are there gonna be five days in where I can’t remember even what happened or what I did?”
    Smyth nodded. “You will draw a blank upon trying to revisit those specific five days in your mind, if you get your mind ‘wiped’.”
    Sean breathed a sigh. Not of relief, but a long pent up sigh that he had been meaning to release. Perhaps it had been waiting for itself to be released five days ago, when this all began. Maybe he had been holding it in ever since that night at the 7-Eleven. But now that it was coming out, it felt good. And it felt bitter too, like tasting ashes on his tongue. The scent of burning hair tingled on the underside of his mouth. He didn’t know where it was coming from, and he sniffed hard, swallowing. He coughed a little, and then turned his gaze on Smyth.
He said. “No. I won’t have the memory wipe. Thanks but no thanks.”
    Smyth's smile dropped from his face, a knot forming in between his brows.
    “Oh yeah, I quit.”
    “Quit?” Smyth spluttered.
    “Yes. I quit.” Sean repeated again, turning away and walking towards his door. “I think I’ve had enough magic in the past few days than I could care for my entire life.”
    Smyth’s smile fell. He tilted his head. “But Sean. . .”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Smyth.” Sean said over his shoulder, putting a hand on the doorknob. “I mean it. This is goodbye. No need to go through all that paperwork. I'm sure you understand.”
    Smyth blinked several times, a perplexed expression fading from his face. Sean nodded to himself once, a small, curt nod as if he were affirming a silent question. Both Smyth and Sean stared at each other for a lengthy pause until the old curator broke the awkward silence.
    “Your father would have wanted you to continue his trade.”
     Sean chuckled darkly. “Maybe. But I think it’s time I broke tradition. Better for me and my mom and sister.” Then he added, “It would save them a whole lot of pain.”
     Smyth stared at Sean, his burnished green eyes scrutinizing the young man’s face. Smyth nodded slowly, his gaze taking on a knowing glare. “Are you quite sure that’s for the best? Are you sparing your mother and sister? Or . . . yourself?”
     Sean stared at Smyth, eyes unwavering. “I’ve already made up my mind, Mr. Smyth. And I’m sure. Undoubtedly sure. My mom and and my sister don’t deserve a life always looking over their shoulder wondering if there’s a wraith behind them or constantly fear being outside alone by themselves. I don’t want that for them.”
     “I’m very sorry to hear that, Sean,” said Smyth, gazing at Sean, who had turned away from the old man and stared ahead. “I hope someday you will reconsider. . .”
    “No chance.” Sean said. He threw the covers off, and paused, looking at Smyth. Then he got up, the bed creaking. Taking an unsteady step forward, Sean breathed hard and evenly as he made his way to the door of his room. He stood in front of the door, facing it, his hand placed on the knob. He turned to face the aged curator, who sat and stared at Sean.
     Sean said. “Please, don’t contact me or my family, Mr. Smyth.” Sean looked down as he spoke, not brave enough to look the old man in the face. He continued shakily. “I never want to see you or anyone from the Vanguard again. And I hope you will respect my request.I’m sure you know the way out without my help.” Head down, Sean turned away from Jon Smyth.
     Sean murmured. “I have some things to explain to my family.”
    Smyth drew in a deep breath through his nose and then let it out as he stood from his chair. “I understand, Sean."
    "Good. I'm glad you do."
    "I'm sorry it had to be this way."
     “Yeah, sure.” Sean said lamely as he twisted the knob and pulled the door open. Just before he walked through onto the otherside, Sean could hear Smyth say,
    “You know, Sean. . . if you ever need us. . .”
    Sean stopped halfway through the door, moving his jaw tediously. Sean stepped back into his room and looked at the old man. Smyth, in his regular wood-bark brown corduroy jacket and matching slacks, holding Sean’s empty cup. His pale green eyes stared back at Sean, searching him, looking into him. Smyth’s expression was almost that of . . .hope? Forgiveness? Or was he just sad?
    It was hard to tell in the insipid blue light that filtered through Sean’s uncurtained window. But Sean knew the old man was disappointed. Disappointed in him. The worst part was, deep down, Sean was disappointed in himself.
    “Sean,” Smyth’s arms hung dejectedly at his sides, his face a portrait of grief. “I’m truly sorry about what happened with Elise. But running away from your problems won’t bring her back. If you need healing, now isn’t the best time to push away those that can best understand what you’ve been through.”
    Sean closed his eyes, swallowing down the difficult rise of pain coming from the base of his throat. Feeling the hot, wet tears spilling out of his eyes and creeping down his cheeks. Sean stared at Jon Smyth, defying the urge to walk back into the room and argue with the old man. Argue about magic. Argue about how none of it made sense, even if you tried to explain it. Sean felt like punching something, but he also felt like he needed to sit down and sleep, even though he knew he was well rested. But instead, he breathed hard once. Twice. Sighed and stared ahead at the door in front of him.
    “Saying sorry won’t bring her back." Sean gave the old man a dry grin. A grin filled with meloncholy.
    "Goodbye, Mr. Smyth.”
    And then, Sean closed the door, leaving the curator in the room alone.