I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi nods wordlessly, stepping out of frame long enough to retrieve two music boxes from one of the crew cases. One is classic—worn tin with a little crank on the side and faded illustrations that might have once been clowns or cherubs, depending on your trauma. The other is sleeker, plastic and off-white, designed to play a few tinkling notes when someone passes by.
By the time he returns, Ronin’s already halfway through the intro. Remi only half-listens, used by now to the way the host can spin freshly googled lore like bedtime stories. The sudden curse makes him glance over, eyebrows raised. A wripple of surprise flickers across his features, though it’s gone by the time Isla cuts and they’re all laughing about it.
When Ronin gestures for him to take over, Remi clears his throat quietly and steps through the threshold into the children’s room.
The space is empty. Stark. The floorboards creak softly beneath his shoes. Pale moonlight spills in from the naked window, pooling on the floor like it’s trying to remember how to be warm. Remi stops at the centre of it, curls catching the faint glow, and lets his expression slip into that faraway look they always ask for; thoughtful, soft, just enough uncertainty to suggest something moving behind his eyes.
Speaking to the camera, though he doesn’t face it, Remi begins with, "the spirits of the young are often the ones who linger longest. They don’t always know what’s happened to them. Not really." His gaze stays fixed on a point near the corner of the room, somewhere just past the edge of moonlight. Then, glancing back over his shoulder into Isla’s lens, he adds quietly, "And if we had the choice between the unknown, or staying where we felt safe, where we played, where we were loved..." He shrugs. "How many of us would stay, too?"
He crouches, gently setting the motion-activated music box in the centre of the room. It’s small and white and delicate as a soap bubble. "This one plays if something moves nearby," he murmurs to the camera. The other box—older, heavier, he holds for a moment, then begins to crank the little handle, slowly. A lullaby spins into the room in a few soft, silvery notes. It’s sweet in the way that makes your teeth hurt. Hollow in the way that feels just a bit too close to memory. He stops winding it.
"I’d love it," he says, voice quiet, speaking to the empty air, "if someone wanted to play a few more notes for me." Then he sets the box gently on the windowsill, hands falling away, and lets the silence stretch.
By the time he returns, Ronin’s already halfway through the intro. Remi only half-listens, used by now to the way the host can spin freshly googled lore like bedtime stories. The sudden curse makes him glance over, eyebrows raised. A wripple of surprise flickers across his features, though it’s gone by the time Isla cuts and they’re all laughing about it.
When Ronin gestures for him to take over, Remi clears his throat quietly and steps through the threshold into the children’s room.
The space is empty. Stark. The floorboards creak softly beneath his shoes. Pale moonlight spills in from the naked window, pooling on the floor like it’s trying to remember how to be warm. Remi stops at the centre of it, curls catching the faint glow, and lets his expression slip into that faraway look they always ask for; thoughtful, soft, just enough uncertainty to suggest something moving behind his eyes.
Speaking to the camera, though he doesn’t face it, Remi begins with, "the spirits of the young are often the ones who linger longest. They don’t always know what’s happened to them. Not really." His gaze stays fixed on a point near the corner of the room, somewhere just past the edge of moonlight. Then, glancing back over his shoulder into Isla’s lens, he adds quietly, "And if we had the choice between the unknown, or staying where we felt safe, where we played, where we were loved..." He shrugs. "How many of us would stay, too?"
He crouches, gently setting the motion-activated music box in the centre of the room. It’s small and white and delicate as a soap bubble. "This one plays if something moves nearby," he murmurs to the camera. The other box—older, heavier, he holds for a moment, then begins to crank the little handle, slowly. A lullaby spins into the room in a few soft, silvery notes. It’s sweet in the way that makes your teeth hurt. Hollow in the way that feels just a bit too close to memory. He stops winding it.
"I’d love it," he says, voice quiet, speaking to the empty air, "if someone wanted to play a few more notes for me." Then he sets the box gently on the windowsill, hands falling away, and lets the silence stretch.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
