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me. “Ask him, Vincent. I know he’d join us. He’d love to!”
I couldn’t tell if the angel was real or dream or the product
of my desire to quit the game—my impotent desire to quit
the game. I wiped the image of the angel from my mind, and
Deleriael vanished. Jack was now staring fully into me, eyes
like burning, laughing children.
“Something on your mind, Family Man?” He said,
assuming something wonderful. I was caught completely off
guard—my next words would decide my soul. He wanted
me to ask him to leave the Game. There was no doubt. He
would go with me, I had only to ask. Two children, running
through endless woods, playing games in the eternal twilight,
grinning angels in tow.
I almost wept when I said, “It’s a photographer of sorts,
the one you were to hunt down. Though I’ve found him
already, for the most part. His work is remarkable. You
might have even enjoyed the reprieve for such spectacle.”
I could feel my spirits sink beneath my words, the question
abandoned.
Jack seemed similarly shrunken, his eyes just wet lights
behind a dull orange mask. “I see,” was all the Carver of
Souls said. With a downturned face, Jack walked away from
me, disappearing into the dim lights of the September Woods.
Just before I awoke, I thought I heard him say, “Pity.”
I stood up within the further-ruined ruins of the forest-
forgotten house, my father still clutched in my burned hands.
The Darkroom was obliterated, but the trapdoor hidden
within its floor was revealed. I threw my mind behind the
pursuit of the magnificent photographer, putting missed
opportunities behind me. With my father returned to sleep,
I pried the door open and sank into a now-familiar lightless
cold.
The space was ampler than expected, partaking of a vast
cavern just below the house. The ground was littered with
more photography paraphernalia, albeit of the discarded
and broken variety. The uneven, earthen walls were nearly
366 | Mark Anzalone