[Cue harsh static. Distant church bells toll. The FM crackles into clarity.]
Samuel Broadwell (stern, forceful):
"Good morrow to ye, citizens of New-Yorke. This be Yorke Sound, and I speak now with a heavy heart and a firm voice. The night last past, we bore witness to treachery most vile. A cabal of African slaves—nay, beasts in man's clothing—did rise against their Christian masters."
Angry murmurs swell, then fade, swallowed by the sound of wind across green pastures.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers as the man moved quietly through the tall grass. His eyes were sharp, alert. His hands—weathered from years of labor—moved with precision as he lifted the lid of a glass jar. From within, the faint flutter of wings could be heard—moths drawn to the dimming light of late afternoon.
He crouched low, careful not to disturb the fragile world around him. A butterfly drifted past, pale and elegant, and with a swift flick of his wrist, he guided it gently into the jar. It landed, its wings twitching against the glass, adjusting to its new, transparent prison.
He stood slowly, dusting his palms against his trousers. There was a quiet satisfaction in the moment—a kind of peace. This was not for hunger, nor science. It was curiosity. A habit. A ritual.
The jar, now filled with moths, beetles, dragonflies, was placed carefully into a worn wooden box, its interior lined with cloth to protect its fragile passengers. As he closed the lid, there was no thrill, no emotion—just the vague sensation that he was preserving something far more elusive than insects.
Time.
A way to hold onto something fleeting. To feel in control. The creatures, caught in their moment of freedom, were now echoes in glass.
He glanced toward the horizon. The sun had begun to dip behind the trees. A single crow cawed. The wind whispered through the tall grasses.
This wasn't just collecting. This was chasing ghosts—trying to possess what was never meant to be held.
Circa 1823.
---
Justin rolled down the windows as his bike roared through the early evening streets of New York. The sun had set, but the buildings glowed like neon stars, stretching endlessly into the night. He wasn't in a rush. His mind wandered—half-thoughts, half-feelings—but he knew where he was headed: a birthday party for a friend's daughter.
The neighborhood buzzed with life—laughter, clinking glasses, music blending with the chaos of children. When Justin arrived, the sheer joy of the moment took him off guard. Kids ran wild in party hats, faces smeared with cake, like tiny tornadoes of sugar and sound.
"Uncle!" a girl's voice called out, high and sweet. The birthday girl, Ana, ran toward him, ponytail bouncing.
"Careful, Ana!" her parents called, but Justin opened his arms to catch her.
She halted suddenly, pinching her nose. Another child copied her, then another.
"Uncle… hmm… you smell," she declared.
"Me?" Justin blinked.
She nodded, shaking her head like her mother did when scolding a mess. It might've been funny, but shame crept in.
He patted his pockets, searching for perfume just as Ana's parents approached.
"Yo, bro—what is that smell?!" her dad asked, scooping Ana into his arms. His wife followed with a wary nod before taking the kids away.
Ana pouted. "But I wanna stay with Uncle…"
Her mom cut her off, brushing it aside. "Your dad's got your uncle now."
Justin clenched his jaw.
"Would you quiet down?" he muttered.
But Tom—built like an office worker now, all muscle and smugness—grinned. "Bro... you stink. You sure it's not body odor?"
Eyes turned toward them.
"I don't have—"
"Yeah, sure. Drugs now?" Tom's grin faded.
"It was just whomp, okay? And some new alcohol—not drugs."
But Tom wasn't having it. He never believed Justin. Not when he said he wasn't interested in Tina. Not when he said he wasn't trying to take his own life. Not when he said he'd never hurt Ana.
Justin hated being questioned. Tom relished every second of it.
"Let me through, you bastard."
But he couldn't push Tom. His own body, weakened and wasted, was no match. He screamed as Tom dragged him back.
"Ouch, you rat!" Tom snapped, slapping him—only for Justin to bite into his arm with a feral grip.
"Ow!"
They fought like dogs. Guests watched with half-laughs and mild concern. Some muttered stories, familiar with the scene.
"The man's my dad," someone whispered, amused.
They scuffled until Tom broke away, storming off. Just like old times—running, fighting, yelling.
Happy birthday to you…
The crowd clapped as Ana turned to her mother, pointing at the neighbor's kids who hadn't received cake.
"Do I give them mine?"
"Yes," her mother smiled, pinching her cheek. "Even the adults."
Ana blinked. A realization sparked in her eyes.
And then—she ran.
"Ana?" Tina's shout turned heads. Tom and Justin both looked up, spotting the little girl clutching her cake, bolting into the night.
Tina sprinted after her.
"Did you see Ana?"
They shook their heads.
"That kid's gonna get it," she muttered, and ran off.
Justin's eyes lingered on her ass, his teeth nibbling the lower lips . His gaze dropped to her figure, and Tom slapped him hard.
"If eyes could kill," Tom muttered.
"That's my woman. Eyes up."
Justin scoffed. Tom sighed.
"I wonder where that kid got the crate from?" Justin said, eyes narrowing.
"What?"
"Nothing."
They looked up at the night sky. Not starry—just cloudy. The moon full and soft like a sleeping face.
Justin clapped a hand over his lips. His head dropped forward, while Tom leaned back in his chair.
"You look happy," Justin said.
"Yeah… and I'm a happy uncle."
"Ana, you dimwit… you ate the cake?!"
They paused—then burst into laughter.
"You know… I never regretted keeping the pregnancy," Tom admitted. "Back then, I was so scared. I thought forcing an abortion was the best way. No responsibility. No disappointment. Just… nothing."
Justin patted his shoulder, unable to voice how relieved he was they hadn't gone through with it.
It could have ruined everything.
"Daddy, save me!"
Ana came running, Tina close behind.
And that was a battle Tom can't win.
And just like that, the moment ended.
But the party was good. Justin laughed—really laughed—for the first time in a long time.
---
Until she woke him.
"Uncle… where's my birthday gift?"
Justin froze.
Ana stood before him, holding a small nook peddle wrapped in a ribbon. But slipped the paper fluttering—until a tiny memory card hit the floor with conversation left untouched.
---