An adolescent Jearicko stood in front of a blank canvas. Upon his arm, a dirty palette covered in neutral colors. He took his brush and wet its bristles, then dipped it into the paint, slowly lifting his hand towards the canvas. The colorful liquid dripped down onto the floor, unable to reach the beige cloth.

He inhaled and exhaled, focusing. His brush inched closer to the canvas, almost touching it. Suddenly, a bang hit his window shutter, and he flinched, dropping his brush. Another rock hit the window and Jearicko grunted, setting his palette down and opening the window shutters. “What appears to be the issue?!”

A child with a rock in his hand froze, dropping the rock. He looked to be a peasant boy, with dirty overalls and a flat cap that covered much of his head. “Sorry mister, I didn’t know anyone lived here now!”

“Well we do! Off with you, now! You’re distracting an artist from his profession!” Clyme shouted, though he didn’t sound too upset at the kid. His ear flicked.

“Wow, I’ve never met an artist before! Do all artists wear those silly ears on their head?”

Clyme simply glared at him, then shut the window, pinching his nose with a heavy sigh. He went downstairs and prepared some tea, then went into a different bedroom. An old woman lay in bed there, staring out the window. She had cat ears, same as him, but carried wrinkly facial features. He softly spoke to her in a foreign language that was native to his people.

“Gramma, I’ve brought you some tea.”

“...”

“A boy was outside today. I apologize if he bothered you.”

“..Boy?”

He poured her a cup of tea and carefully handed it to her. She took it, smiling at him, “Why, thank you. You remind me so much of my grandson. Oh, what was his name..?”

“I am your grandson, gramma. It’s me, Jearicko.”

“Jearicko?”

“..Jea.”

“Jea! Oh, Jea! When did you come home?!”

He stopped before pouring another cup, staring at the clay kettle in his hand. He thought back to how they’d made and decorated the kettle together so many years ago, back when she could remember him. He set it back down, smiling through the pain, “..Just right now, Gramma.”

Jearicko returned to his room after she fell asleep, closing the door behind him. He slid down the wall, his teeth clenched in pain. Disappointment was the only word that came to his mind. The past seemed so much easier, before they were relocated. He missed his homeland more than anything.

Another rock hit his window shutters. He got up and stormed over to the window, swinging it open, “Inconsiderate young man, there are people trying to sleep at this hour!”

Masked men stood where the boy was earlier, dressed in their signature gang fatigues. They spoke to him in a different language, but he understood it, “Bite your tongue, feline. Remember what day of the month it is?”

He replied in the common language, “I don’t have your money right now. I’ll have it ready by tomorrow.”

The masked man unsheathed a single-edged sword and pointed it at him, “Tomorrow is not soon enough, cat! Must I remind you who protects your home from the Raiders?! You have three hours. Otherwise, we burn this place to the ground!”

They left. Clyme looked down at the ground far below him, and debated if he should jump or not. He decided not to, instead rushing to the Guild Hall within the city. There, he asked around, hoping that someone would help him. Any mention of the Masks was met with silence, and he was eventually kicked out for even bringing them up.

He sat in the mud outside, defeated. Nearly an hour gone to waste and nothing to show for it. The sound of a violin could be heard in the short distance, and he turned, seeing the peasant boy from earlier. The boy played elegantly, despite his appearance. His hat was on the ground in front of him, and there had been a small pile of coins built up in it.

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Jearicko approached him, enthralled by his music. He noticed that the kid had pointy elf ears previously hidden by his large cap, and decorative engravings upon his violin. The boy stopped when he saw him, “Oh, hello mister artist. D’you like my playing?”

“That was beautiful,” Clyme felt inspired.

The peasant child hopped down from the crate he was standing on, and picked up his hat. “I saw those Masks at your house earlier. You owe them money, don’t you? Here, you can have mine,” he held his hat out to Clyme. The amount wasn’t nearly enough, but his kindness reminded him of why he became an artist in the first place: to paint the world as it was, and bring its beauty to the forefront. He took the hat and poured the coins into his hand, then handed them back to the boy.

“You earned these, not me. Tell me, what’s your name?”

“Travis,” he took the coins and stuck them into the pocket at the front of his overalls. Clyme placed the cap back onto the boy’s head and patted it down.

“Thank you, Travis,” he thanked him in his native language, then spoke in common, “I’ll name my next piece after you.”

“Okay!” Travis sounded excited. “Sorry for throwing rocks at your house earlier. Me and my friends have been playing cricket and they told me to get better at pitching. I used to practice on that house back when nobody lived there.”

“It’s quite alright. I don’t imagine I’ll be staying there for much longer, anyhow. Good evening, Travis.”

“G’night, mister artist!”

Clyme headed back to the house. He figured maybe he could give them any jewelry he could find, and other material items to hold them off in the meantime. The scent of charcoal invaded his nostrils as he got closer to home, and he saw smoke in the short distance. He started running. Certainly, it had not been three hours yet. He still had time. A criminal would never lie. A criminal that had nothing to lose had nothing to gain from burning down his home, from killing his old, helpless grandmother.

He fell to his knees at the sight of the fire.

Flames burned brightly before him, turning all he had to ash. His eyes became lifeless, and he slowly keeled over, pounding the ground. Failure. His life was a constant stream of failures he could never escape.

“A shame,” a masked man emerged from the shadows, accompanied by his posse of hoodlums. “She kept crying for someone, while she burned alive. Jea, I believe. You wouldn’t happen to know of someone with that name, would you?”

Clyme curled his fingers into the mud, gripping the dirt. He sat up and threw it at him, staining his armor. The mask looked down at himself, then back at the Nekomata, pulling out the same sword from earlier. “You’re going to regret that..”

He raised his sword, and Clyme braced for death. The strings of a violin were heard suddenly, followed by a streak of cyan energy that flew around the masked man. He became mad, then turned and slashed at one of his men. The thug managed to move out of the way before he was hit, confused, “Are you crazy?!” That same thug then lost control of his hand, and punched himself over and over until he fell to the ground.

“What’s going on?!” They shouted, starting to fight each other indiscriminately. Travis ran to Clyme while they were distracted, helping him up.

“We’ve gotta go!”

“But..”

“Come on, mister, before they see us!”

Jearicko nodded, and the two made a run for it.

“Hey, they’re getting away! After them!”

The thugs chased them until Travis stopped and played his violin again, the engravings beginning to glow. Scaffolding nearby fell down between them and the Masks, allowing them more time to escape. Clyme was amazed, but he had to keep running. They only stopped once they knew for sure that they were hidden.

“Where are we..?”

“The hideout. Me and my friends come here whenever we get in trouble,” Travis put his violin down. “You can sleep in Tommy’s hammock. He’s big so you should fit.”

“Oh. Thank you..”

Clyme slowly went over to the hammock and sat in it, still in shock over all that happened. The boy sat next to him, patting his back, “It’s okay..They burned down my home too..It just happens around here..”

He sounded sad. “Mama, papa..My sister..It was my fault..I think that if I hadn’t asked for a violin, maybe they would’ve had enough money..”

Jearicko felt even more sympathy for the child than himself, hugging the boy.

“I’m sorry, mister,” Travis seemed about to cry, lifting his chin onto Jearicko’s shoulder. “Maybe..Maybe I could teach you how to play it, and..And then you could be happy..Playing always makes me happy..”

Clyme began sobbing, and so too did the child. They cried together, unsure and afraid, but nonetheless accepted. Through injustice, they found loss, but through loss, they gained something entirely new: hope.