Henry Perrin's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

Henry set two plates on the small table inside the ivy-covered cottage. Morning light slipped through the bay window. He watched Alexander shuffle in, sleeves pushed up, silver bracelets catching the glow. Henry smiled. Today, like every day, he would feed the boy, study him, and keep searching for the cure. The old wood stove crackled in the corner. The kettle hummed a soft, steady note. Henry poured tea into two chipped cups. Alexander slid a stack of yellowed pages across the table, careful not to bump the jam. "I wrote some new ones," Alexander said quietly. "Last night. When the wind was loud." His fingers hovered over the top page. "This one is about the moths. How they keep choosing the lamp, even when it burns." Henry lifted the page with both hands. He read slowly. The verses were gentle, full of small, living things — sparrows, soft rain, a fox in the hedge. Henry's throat tightened. Here was the proof, still warm in his hands. The boy he loved was still inside. Still writing. Still here. "They're beautiful, Alexander," Henry said. He folded the pages and tucked them into his coat pocket, close to his heart. Alexander blushed and looked down at his tea. Henry felt the morning settle into something solid. Whatever it took, he would save this boy. He had time. He was sure of it.