Hellen is asleep in his bed. He misses many things.
Misses his old place—misses his old home.
Misses when his bed was by the window. The sun would let honey-golden light pour over the windowsill. It would shine onto his face, gentle, just as he barely awoke. It was warm.
He'd get up, sitting silently on the sheets for a few moments more of rest—quiet, so he could hear the birds chirping. His blanket was still draped half-way on his relaxed shoulders. Then he stretched, and stood, and looked around.
It was not a large room, but a comfortable one. It was his. Many memories did the walls carry—held tight, keeping them safe, as though part of the paint and plaster. It was something very valuable. He glanced around once more, fondly, and then his footsteps sounded softly as he made his way to the room's door.
Soon, stood in the hallway—on the softwood flooring, lively with scratches and little dents collected over years—a scent in the air grasped for his attention.
Someone was certainly cooking a meal.
Cedany, he thought, then walked to the kitchen to confirm his assumption.
While he was on the way there—not a very long way, but it felt longer walking at a slow, leisurely pace—he took notice of how well lit the living room was. More sun-tinted light, bright like citrus on his senses, came in through the windows. They were larger here than in his room.
The floor felt warm where the sun hit it, and he tried to soak in the feeling, but for some reason—his steps give the sensation of no real weight. For some reason, the soles of his feet remain cold—but he kept walking.
Then, he got to the kitchen. It was a small area, humble and narrow, only enough for one or two people before becoming crowded. That was hard to see as a bad thing, though—humble was all it needed to be. Surely enough, as he'd guessed, here his older sister was. She dutifully attended a boiling pot of what was soon to be soup, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon.
"Hi, Cedany," he greeted.
"Hey, Hellen," she replied, glancing at him briefly. Then, with a few sharp knocks against the top of the pot, the spoon was rid of excess broth, and she threw a lid on the nearly-soup.
Lots of vegetable scraps were scattered around, paper-thin peels and inedible woody stems, all but burying half of their too-small cutting board. The knife, for now no longer needed, was resting near the edge of the counter. Cedany pushed it closer to the center, a precaution to ensure it didn't fall, before stooping to search through a drawer below.
"Amby's asleep still?" Hellen asked.
"Yeah. Soup will be done by the time she's up, I think."
For some reason, a lump forms in Hellen's throat. He ignores it.
"...Well, it smells great," he said. "Love the smell of soup."
Cedany let out a short laugh. "It's not even seasoned yet."
Just after saying that, as though on cue, she found what she was looking for.
"Ah, here we go." With a few spices of choice cradled in both hands, she used her elbow to nudge the drawer shut and returned to the counter. Each small glass bottle sounded out with a clack as she placed them down.
Hellen approached, standing next to her and looking at the spice bottles. On many, the labeling had been worn away by time and frequent use. He wondered how his sister managed to recognize them without the names.
Cedany uncovered the pot and took a bottle of seasoning from the counter, stirring a modest amount into the broth to start with. Hellen took a bottle as well, the glass cool and smooth on his hands, then twisted off the cap. He brought it near his face to take a small whiff, attempting to identify what it was.
In a way that's difficult to place, it smells familiar. Dusty.
Before he could say anything or ask what it was, Cedany took the bottle from him and sprinkled some into the soup.
"Does this have a recipe?" asked Hellen. He rubs his eye.
"Not really a recipe, per se. You just get a sense for it after a while." Cedany paused and took another small sip from the spoon. "I've made soup many times."
"Soup," said Hellen.
"Soup," Cedany repeated.
As she continued adjusting the broth, Hellen glanced around the kitchen. His eye was drawn by a small pile of deep red berries, sat upon a piece of cloth on the counter opposite to Cedany.
He approached them, prodding the pile lightly with a finger. "What's going on with these?"
"I'm trying to figure out what to do with them now. They're not completely rotten, but not great for eating anymore, either," his sister answered. "Not even good for jam. Maybe I could make a dye."
"Could use them as fertilizer."
"Hellen, you say that about everything."
He merely hummed a small chuckle in reply. Cedany huffed, smiling, before stopping to taste the soup again.
"I think this is done now." She gave it one last stir before putting down the spoon. "Could you go check on Amby?"
"Yeah," he hears himself say, nodding.
He went on his way—walking out of the kitchen and passing through the living room again. Halfway through, though, his brisk footsteps came to a stop. Standing still, feet planted, he decided to turn his head and take another cursory look out of the wide windows.
He could tell the floorboards were still warmed from the sun. He could hear birds chirping outside, like a song. The pleasant smell of soup was wafting from the kitchen.
Still though, he squints.
Through the glass of the window, it's dark.
It's dark out.
An uneasy feeling starts to rise in his chest. Then, something changes.
In the span of just a blink, he becomes shocked—becomes aware, as though he's been awakened by cold water. He's standing in his living room, in his empty house.
Everything becomes sharper, and clearer, and he feels a slight heaviness in his limbs. They're clumsy, yet again, in a way that comes from not being fully awake. Though he tries to grasp onto his fleeting thoughts, he can't get himself to remember anything from just a few moments ago.
All he knows is that somehow, something about the atmosphere has dissipated. He is left with the ghost of a warm feeling tracing his senses, even though he can't recall from what. It seems like an odd feeling to have, considering it's the middle of a cold night.
A cold night, another cold night. Here he is, having awoken in the dead of night, again—standing, again.
Absentmindedly, like a reflex, he tries to pull his scarf over his face before realizing that he's not wearing it. He settles for adjusting his cloak instead, though it alone doesn't provide enough cover from the chilly air for his taste.
He sighs, heavily. His breath is warm. This place smells of dust, as it did yesterday, and the day before that. He swears he was somewhere else just a few minutes ago.
It's something he's been realizing in a slow trickle for a while, but now it hits him full force that this isn't supposed to happen. Generally, he should be able to remember when he got out of bed, or when he walked over to stand in the middle of his house, or why he feels overcome with the weight of this strange melancholy.
He did not sleepwalk as a child. He should not be sleepwalking now.
For a moment he considers just laying back in his bed and going to sleep, but he probably couldn't even if he tried. He's tired, yes, but it's not the type of tiredness that would let him fall back asleep so easily. Hopefully, it's the type of tiredness that will go away if he just gets started with his day.
So, he does that.
Even though it's still nighttime.
He starts by wandering to his cupboard and taking out the usual jug of rainwater. Then, wandering back to his plant, he uncaps the jug and starts pouring water into the soil. It's probably been a long enough time since the last watering.
(Probably.)
In an attempt to distract himself, he fixes his eyes on what's in front of him.
The plant—his pitcher plant, which he just calls his pitcher plant because he never was able to come up with an actual name for it. He's unsure if people usually name their houseplants, but he was never the most creative person when it came to things like that. Though none of them really stuck, he had considered a few names back when he first acquired the plant, as well as having received a few suggestions.
Received a few suggestions—Hellen discontinues that line of thought and tries to think of something else.
After capping the jug and putting it back in the cupboard, he sits on the ground and shifts his mind to his usual daily routine. Now would be about the time when he tries to find some food. However, he isn't in the mood to hunt right now, nor is he in the mood to forage. What other options are there? Not fishing, either.
Maybe he could just go out, walk, and end up wherever he ends up—try to find food there. He could bring his plant, too. If anything, he could certainly find some flies for it to eat. That would be good, he decides.
Of course, though, it's much more dangerous to leave at night, so he also decides to stay put for a few hours until the sun is up. In the meantime, he gathers all the standard supplies for a small trip out.
His scarf, his backpack, and his knife are all placed together by the plant for when it's time to go.