"It's so scary." The boy mumbled.

"Really? You don't look so scared to me."

"That's because you're by my side. I trust you can easily defeat this wraith." The boy asserted his trust.

From the moment they entered, Brahms felt terribly strange.

When Althur asked directly and a female voice moaned, he could not confirm that any souls were alive. Without the smell of a dream, the outer room was filled with suffocation and death.

Althur's conversations with this thing were also very strange. He did not dare to think too much and disturb the gentleman who was doing his job. He was a little scared but having Althur beside him made him feel safe. He also has his powers.

He had dreamed of a pure white deer, and he had dreamed of crossing a path of deadly moths. He dreamed of the White Doe at that time. He began to wonder if it was a ghost and why the blacksmith didn't know what was going on outside.

When Althur mentioned the dream, Brahms began to search for clues with his senses. However, he couldn't sense the smell of the dream from the figure in the attic. It's vague.

Althur once said that souls can dream. However, the thing above doesn't seem to be a complete soul. He thought so, but with his limited experience, it was difficult to draw a definite conclusion. He was certain that the thing was not human.

"Very brick, isn't it?" The young gentleman asked the little boy, who barely reached his waist as he pondered.

The boy shook his head valiantly. But then he wondered and said, "What if, just what if, this thing can't dream? How do I deal with it?" The boy asked uncertainly.

"Then we should either run fast or be fully prepared." Althur replied thoughtfully.

The boy was disappointed. He looked down at his short legs. He would have to work hard to keep up with Althur, who was a very agile man.

Althur turned and explained partially, "That is why you must use your imagination, not just your dreams."

"You have to create something that will affect it. Something that can make it feel pain, fear, or anger. Something that can weaken it and expose it."

"If the wraith is no longer in a stable state, there are ways to expel it that are easier than just throwing holy water at it. Everything will resolve itself."

"How do I know something can affect it?"

"Details. We have to notice the details." He pointed out, "But that also depends on experience."

"But I don't know such things. Do I have to learn it?"

"You forgot one thing."

"What is that?"

"You."

Althur didn't seem to want to explain. Brahms didn't want to think about those words right now either. "So, all I can do now is run." The boy concluded from what he heard, "Why don't we destroy it now?"

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"Maybe it's not the right time," Althur said.

"Are you planning something?" The boy doubted.

"She is no longer conscious. Father Colby used to visit her, but now she is completely unrecognizable. Something seems wrong, though." Althur whispered.

"We must learn more about it first. Let's go to the cemetery and find some people." He announced, changing the subject.

"It's a vengeful wraith, right? It doesn't seem to want to," the boy pointed out. "We're meeting someone who can actually talk, right?"

"That's right."

"Let's go to the cemetery then. Maybe the ghosts will be friendlier there."

"We're going to make friends, aren't we?" The boy chirped.

"That's right."

"But isn't it too soon to visit?" Brahms asked, rubbing his gloomy eyes.

The two looked up at the sky, where the sun shone brightly through the clouds, casting a warm glow on the ground where they stood.

The slum's gloom and despair began to ebb away, replaced with a sense of optimism and joy. The high altitude and the cold wind blowing from the mountainside made the weather pleasant and refreshed their tired souls. The pleasant atmosphere made them hesitant about their next destination, the cemetery.

"Yes, that room was like hell. I felt like I was burning alive outside and dying inside. This place makes me lose track of time." Althur sighed, glancing at the boy beside him.

He pulled out an old piece of paper from his pocket, which was a faded map of the city. Althur scanned the surroundings and determined the direction.

According to the map, the Innocents cemetery was located south of their position. Althur followed a fairly large road that was marked with red ink on the map, indicating their route.

"Let's go somewhere else." The young gentleman offered while holding the map in his hand. Brahms looked a little bored as he asked, "Where?"

"Another hell."

"Really."

"Quite right."

"Does hell really exist, Althur?" The porcelain doll asked curiously, its short legs struggling to walk on the craggy path.

"That depends on who you ask," Althur replied without turning around.

He gestured to the towering chimneys of the elaborate buildings to the south. He pointed to the columns of smoke and sound coming from the north. He pointed to the ground on which they stood.

"Ask anyone here, and you will get the answer."

"They will tell you their version of hell. The children will speak of crawling through the suffocating tunnels of the chimneys. The women will lament their fate in serving their masters, their husbands, or their customers. The men will describe the coal mines, where death lurks in the dark dust and poisonous gases.

"Everyone thought they were in hell.

"He spoke the words in a dull voice, as if unaware he was addressing a seven-year-old. "But people could still dream. People could still pretend to be happy."

A seven and a half-year-old child. Children of that age were already adept at working in factories or climbing the chimneys of the better-off streets. Few could afford a suit without a patch. Most children had seen more deaths than meals in their lives.

"Dream, Brahms, great dreams."

"Many people dare not dream. They dare not sleep for fear of starving; they dare not sleep for fear of dying. So dream, Brahms. And make them dream, too." Althur spoke loudly, and the deserted street became clear before them as they entered the slum once more.

"What about you, Althur?" Brahms asked.

"Do you believe in hell?"

"Yes, I believe." He said it in a quiet voice.

"What is that?"

"'Nonexistence, Brahms."

"Non-existence. It confused me, Althur!" The boy responded.

"Hell is the state of being forgotten, of losing our identity, of finding no meaning in anything."

"Hell is where we leave no trace, when we can't recognize ourselves and nothing matters."

"Hell is the feeling of being powerless, of being unable to change anything, of being trapped in meaninglessness."

"That's how we become meaningless in this world." He affirmed.

Brahms did not understand Althur's words clearly, but he felt a strong emotion that drew him closer to the man, making him reach out and touch him. The child acted without thinking, grabbing the man's jacket. The cheap cloth felt rough against his skin. The little boy looked up and said, "I feel it. You exist, Althur."

The young man was also wearing a cheap straw hat. His gray eyes fluttered in the shade, making them look like stars. "You too," the young man repeated.

Althur ignored the blazing sun that glinted off his footsteps. He gazed at the dark plumes rising from the horizon, a harbinger of a raging inferno. The clouds in the sky seemed to stop moving until the boy's soft voice spoke.

"What is a vengeful wraith, Althur?"

"A wraith born of hatred." He said simply.

"But the blacksmith looked normal."

"No. He is not. He was corrupted."

"It's a horror story." The boy exclaimed.