There isn’t a lot done.

There is barely movement.

The walls are still and the windows are open, the wind blows in, along with it dust and carbon. They whisk past his straw colored hair, ruffling it, once to this side, and then to the other. It doesn’t matter, because his hair isn’t combed. It isn’t even washed. There’s a pink colored ring of fruity loops hanging by his ear, stuck on his hair with stiffened milk from the morning. He fell asleep on his cereal.

To his left, on the dinner table, his cereal is still there, icky and untouched. Something smells. It smells like rotten carrots and socks. It’s not strong, but it’s there. He can sense it to his right. To his right is the fridge. It’s open, and a streak of yellow light runs on the carpet of the floor beyond his turned chair.

His chair is turned from the dinner table, out to face the open window. The curtains are heavy and ash, and they don’t rustle when the wind blows in. The dust and the sand fight the smell to his right, but they fail. Something still smells.

It’s night.

The sky has fallen.
The sun was gone.
The starts were back, but so were the clouds. Sometimes he could see the shiny dots, but sometimes, he couldn’t. The wind was doing it.

He pulled the blanket over his shoulders a little, because he was cold.

Drops of water fall on his face, and they make him blink. A soft spray of water follows, and then, the wind stops. The clouds stop, and the stars leave. More water comes, pouring by a gallon. He watched them fall beyond his floor, further, and further, to the road. Then they jump.
Then they skip.

Drip, plop. Drip, plop. Drip, plop-plop.

There is a noise. It’s faint because the water is louder. Shhhhhh, the water goes, skipping and jumping. But he tries to listen closer.
There is a noise.

A cry, a soft cry. A sniffle, and then cries.
Someone is crying.
A little girl.
Somewhere beyond the streets he can see.

Her voice is distant, yet clear. The more he listens, the clearer it becomes. But the rain is still louder.

He sits up, craning his neck outside the window, just a little. Then he looks, to his left, and to his right. But there is no girl. The streets are empty and the lights are on. If there was girl, she cannot hide.
But Junhong knows what’s happening.
 

The grip on his windowpane tightens, and he pulls back his head.

“There is no one.” He said, loud and clear, spaces between words oddly stretched.

He was told, that if he hears voices of people he cannot see, that they are not real. At those times, if his brother his not by his side, he was asked to do so. He was asked to speak aloud, louder than the voices, and to tell himself, and the voice, that there is no one.

Sometimes it works.

And this time it did. He couldn’t hear the girl cry anymore.

“What are you doing?”

Junhong is startled every time. His brother comes at times unexpected. He always comes when it is time to sleep, but yet, Junhong never knows when. Darker and taller, his brother was older than himself. He didn’t know how many in years. It didn’t matter. He didn’t even have a name. Junhong have him a new name every time.

“It’s fine.” Junhong smiles.

“Aren’t you early?” Junhong asked.

His brother shook his head and smiled. “It rained.” Junhong nodded.

“Are you going to wash that?” He asked, combing out the pink fruity loop on Junhongs’ hair. Junhong nodded, and walked to their bathroom. His brother followed, and watched him. He wasn’t in the mirror but he was standing behind. Junhong doesn’t mind.

His brother doesn’t know why, so asking wouldn’t help.

But he knows why.
It’s because he’s not real.<