I sat in the park, which felt like mine and Errol's spot here in Edinburgh. In my lap, I had a notebook, and I had filled it with memory after memory using a fountain pen. Both the notebook and the pen I had got from Errol the last of my birthdays we had celebrated together.

I hadn't known what I had wanted to write as I had sat down, but as soon as the pen was positioned over the paper, the words had poured.

The first thing I had written had been the memory of when I had told Errol about my first kiss. I had been sixteen, and I had gone to him feeling so proud and smug. He had listened in the way I had wanted him to. Somewhat teasing, but ultimately happy for me.

Writing the memory down, I noticed new layers in it. Noticed how Errol had acted as if he had been happy for me, while sadness had really been simmering in his eyes.

Of course, that could be an after-construction made by me. I had no way of knowing what Errol had felt. But that was how I remembered it now.

I wrote some silly things down. Like how I had got annoyed with Airlia the day she had announced she would become the best baker in the village. It had been after one of the many times Errol had cooked us dinner and we had talked about how we didn't have any dessert.

"I'll become the best baker!" Airlia had said. "That way you can cook the food and I'll bake the dessert."

I had got annoyed over how the suggestion brought her and Errol closer together while I was left to the side. And I had been immensely annoyed with myself for not having come up with the idea before her.

I wrote about the small ways in which Errol had always been there for me. Patching me up when I had fallen while learning to bike. Always dropping what he had been doing when I came with news I just needed to tell him right at that moment. Saying and doing all the right things to cheer me up, no matter the circumstances.

And then I wrote about the bigger things. About the First Incident, about how Dad had left us and made our home go from happy to broken. I wrote about how Errol had been there. He had himself just been a child as well, but he had acted like the secure grown-up me and Airlia had needed while Mom had fallen apart and Grandpa had been busy caring for her and earning money to support us all. While the rest of the village had been sympathetic on the surface, but had gossiped when they had thought we didn't hear.

Then I wrote about the later care he had shown, about times when he had shouldered his own and my pain. Like the time Airlia had gone missing for several days looking for that stupid magical library she was certain was real. I had been worried sick, and Errol had to have been as well. But he had been steady while I had been breaking.

Like he always had been until he had reached his limit. Like he had done during the Second Incident. When he had kissed me and then had walked out of my life.

When my thoughts carried me there, my pen stopped. I had got a few words out, but nothing more. The memory was swirling in my mind, begging to be released onto the pages. But I couldn't do it because it was too painful. Because it had happened again, because he had drawn the line and had told me we couldn't be friends again.

I closed the notebook, put it to the side, and laid down in the grass. It was really too cold to spend an extended time outside, let alone lay in the grass. But the autumn coldness didn't reach me. Everything was too raw inside of me for that.

As I closed my eyes, a slideshow of images played in my mind. All the times I had seen Errol display his pain. Considering how much he had hurt over the years, it was surprisingly few. But those few played on repeat. They made tears slip out of my shut eyes.

If I knew how to, I would have run to him and removed all pain from him. But I didn't. Or maybe I knew, but wasn't brave enough to think it and turn it into actions. I had never been brave, after all. And in this moment, when Errol needed me to be, I failed him utterly and completely.

Even if I was gay, he deserved better than me.

Through most of our lives, he had been Jim, saving and helping me, Huckleberry Finn, over and over. Kept me safe, not only physically, but emotionally as well, kept me grounded. But I hadn't been able to go to hell for him.

I didn't know how much time went by, but eventually I sat back up. Hunger forced me to pause the negative spirals. But as I opened my eyes, they landed on a sight which made me blinked several times.

A man stood before me. Maybe around thirty years old. He wore, well, green everything. Pants, jacket, top hat. Held a wooden walking stick in one hand. If I had believed in magical things like Airlia did, then I would have called the man a leprechaun.

In the hand he didn't use to hold the walking stick, he held my notebook.

"The hell ye doin' with that?" I yelled at him and got to my feet to snatch it away from him. He moved back, kept my own book from me.

"It was quite an interesting read," he said with a slight Irish dialect. "So much sadness."

"Ye had no right readin' that! It's my personal property. Give it back!" I moved to grab it from him again, but he once again moved out of the way.

"Oh, I will, but first I'm curious about the last memory. The one ya only started writing a bit on. What is that memory?"

"Why the hell would I tell ye that?" I scoffed.

He tilted his head a bit and gave me a soft smile. It reminded me of how Errol often smiled at me, except this man's smile didn't make me feel nearly as warm.

"Because it seems to be weighing heavily on ya," he said.

I wanted to yell and curse at the frustrating man. But his comment left me exhausted and defenceless. And maybe that was why I told him. Or maybe it was because he looked at me with sympathy. Or it was simply because the words still pressed on me, still wanted their release, so I finally allowed them through my mouth instead of my pen.

I told the strange man about the Second Incident. About the day I had lost my best friend. The day Errol had first admitted his feelings to me, followed by leaving me behind. Then went on to tell him about how miserable it had made me feel, how it had made me chase after Errol to here. I explained about everything which had happened recently. How me and Errol had reconnected until everything had fallen apart again.

"That is quite the devastating story," the man said while he handed me the notebook back. "There is a lot for ya to figure out. And maybe some luck will help ya along."

I scoffed. Who was this man to suggest something so utterly ridiculous? "Luck can't fix this. Luck can't fix anythin'."

The man nodded. "That is quite right. Luck never fixes a thing. Ya yarself must be willing to try, willing to take the risk needed to fix it. But once ya have done that, luck can help guide ya. So ya need to ask yarself, are ya willing to risk it all to fix everything, Alasdair Bailey?"

I frowned. Both because of the advice he was giving me but also because, "I never told ye my name."

"Oh, it was written on the inside of the cover," the man waved away my comment. "And that isn't what is important, right? Just something to distract yarself from what is. If ya keep doing that, then luck will never be on yar side."

He then took out a golden nugget from his pocket. I leaned closer to look at it, but as I did, he said some strange words before he blew on the nugget. It turned to golden dust, which flew right back at me. I took a few staggering steps back to avoid it as I sneezed.

"The hell was that?" I snapped. This all really was absurd. I bet the man would soon ask me for money for his services like the scammer he likely was.

"Now that ought to be enough to give yar luck a boost for about two weeks," the strange man said. "But remember, it is up to ya if ya will get lucky or not."

Then he waved and began walking away.

"Ye're insane, aren't ye?" I yelled after him.

He laughed and looked back at me over his shoulder. "Aren't we all in some ways?"

Then he left. Leaving me standing there, notebook in hand, not really knowing what to think. Or one thing I felt sure about; that man must have been crazy.