Since that horrific night, Julius had barely found the will to rise from his bed. Each morning he lay there, watching as the sunlight crept into his room, a reminder that time moved on without him, indifferent to the tragedy that had unfolded. His body felt as though it had been weighed down by an anchor, his limbs heavy and unyielding, and his mind even more so. Days slipped by without structure, blurring into a constant stretch of numbness and fatigue. His bed had become a refuge, not of comfort, but of avoidance—a place where he could shut out the world and pretend, just for a moment, that none of it had ever happened.

The few times he did get up, he was a phantom as he moved through the house, his footsteps soft, his gaze vacant. His parents watched him from a distance, worry etched into their faces, but every attempt they made to console him was met with silence. He could not bring himself to talk, to explain, or to relive what he’d seen. His world had become shrunken and narrow, bound by the walls of his room and the memories that haunted him. Even mundane tasks felt monumental, as if each one required a strength he simply did not possess.

To Julius, the outside world felt alien now, a place where life continued unabated, indifferent to the events that had shattered his own. The thought of facing people, even family friends and well-meaning neighbors, filled him with dread. He had no desire to explain himself or face their questions. And so he remained in his bed, cocooned in sheets, listening to his sad jazz playlist composed of Sinatra, Baker, Laufey, and Evens, dreading how things will no longer be what they once were…

The first whispers began almost immediately after the police issued their report. Throughout, not just the town, state, but country, people wondered how one boy had survived the Sleepy Hollow Massacre, as it was now called. How could he have walked away from it unscathed? Soon, suspicion seeped into every corner of the populace, as theories sprouted from idle gossip, conspiracy theorists, and adolescents on social media. Julius had once been the quiet boy with a small circle of friends, known for his reserved demeanor, but now he was something else—someone marked by tragedy, and to some, perhaps even something sinister.

The official report named Joseph Toulouse as the sole perpetrator. A farmhand from a nearby ranch who had gone missing months earlier, Toulouse’s image circulated in news stories, often showing him beside a horse—a detail that, combined with the alleged decapitation of one victim, earned him the nickname “The Headless Horseman.” But for many, the explanation did not add up. How could a single person commit such a gruesome, frenzied act? And the fact that Toulouse had been missing for months, only to reappear as a murder suspect, struck people as odd. According to the authorities, he was killed during a confrontation with law enforcement, yet there were no body cam recordings, no scene photos, no autopsy reports—just a claim that his body was identified and cremated without any public evidence.

All of this only fueled suspicion. The more gaps in the official story, the easier it became to see Julius—the lone survivor—as part of the mystery. In grocery aisles and street corners, people whispered theories that were wild but somehow satisfying. Perhaps he was a cold-blooded psychopath who killed his friends for the thrill, covered up by his mother’s military connections. Or maybe he struck a deal with the killer, trading their lives for his own. It did not matter that he was traumatized and barely escaped with his life; to them, the fact that he walked away meant he must know something, or worse—he must have been involved.

And as the rumors grew, they festered in Julius’ mind, winding their way into every corner of his thoughts. The weight of people’s distrust hung over him like a stain he could not scrub off. Whenever he tried to escape into social media, he was greeted with photos of his friends memorialized, bizarre video essays, and conspiratorial podcasts dissecting every inch of the case.

The whispers did not just isolate him from others; they eroded his sense of self, warping his reflection until even he started to wonder where he fit into all this. The friends who had once anchored his world were gone, leaving him adrift with no future, no clear sense of his own identity. His survivor’s guilt gnawed at him, an unyielding reminder that he was here and they were not. Now, the rumors added another layer to his grief—a corrosive disbelief that threatened to make him doubt his own memories, his own truth. As days bled into nights, the isolation deepened, and the guilt festered, until he began to wonder if he would ever shake this feeling, if he would ever reclaim his life from the shadow of that night.

With all of this going on, who could blame Julius for skipping the graduation ceremony that afternoon. The thought of attending had haunted him for days. It was supposed to be a celebration, a milestone he had looked forward to, but now it felt hollow. The ceremony would be dedicated to his friends, their names read aloud to a silent crowd, and he knew he could not bear to hear them. To him, the ceremony felt like a show, a display for people to grieve publicly, and his presence would have only acted as an unwelcome blight.

He imagined standing there, surrounded by classmates and teachers, all of them glancing at him with looks of pity and fear. He could already feel the weight of their eyes on him, judging, wondering.

So he stayed home, wrapped in his grief, choosing solitude over the hollow comfort of a crowd. As the ceremony took place without him, Julius laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying that night in painful clarity. Each thought, each memory was a reminder of the friends he had lost and the life he would never have again. He knew people would talk, that his absence would only fuel more rumors, but he could not bring himself to care.

After the sun had set, he heard the door creak open. It had become routine for his parents to check in on him—small, gentle intrusions that only served to remind him of how deeply he was sinking. Today, though, their visits were scarce. His mother had come by only once, a brief, uneasy moment that felt almost hollow, like she could not find the words anymore. It left him uneasy, wondering why they were quieter, more distant, especially after he overheard them arguing that morning. Their voices had risen into heated shouts, filling the house with a tension he could feel even from his room.

But as the argument dragged on, Julius buried his face in his pillow, letting his own tears drown out their words. He was too exhausted to care, too empty to even feel curious. As the yelling finally died down, an uncomfortable silence settled over the house. The weight of it hung heavy in the air, amplifying his sense of isolation. He felt like a child again, helpless and small, seeking comfort but too drained to reach for it.

The footsteps were slow, deliberate, carrying a weight that told Julius immediately who it was. His father rarely came in as often as his mother did—usually, it was a brief appearance, no more than a reminder of his presence. He’d drop a small, familiar comfort on the nightstand: a pack of Linden’s Butter Crunch cookies, a father-son favorite. His dad would stand by the bed, his voice soft and strained as he said, “I’m here for you, Julius-kun. I love you,” before retreating, giving Julius his space.

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But tonight was different. His father’s figure lingered in the doorway, unmoving, and the usual crinkle of the golden cookie wrapper was absent. Julius felt the tension thicken, sensing this was no ordinary visit. Instead, there was only the sound of his father’s steady breaths, as if he was gathering himself.

“Get up,” Tokugawa’s voice cut through the silence, firm and unyielding.

He dragged a chair from the corner of the room, pulling it close to Julius’s bed before sitting down. “I said, get up,” he repeated in Japanese, his tone sharper.

Julius, startled, forced himself to sit up, blinking in confusion at his father. The look on Tokugawa’s face was not the gentle, measured expression he was used to; it was harsh, unrelenting. He had never seen his father this way.

“Look at yourself, how pathetic you look,” Tokugawa continued, still in Japanese.

Julius’s shock turned to anger. His father, usually quiet and supportive, had transformed into someone he barely recognized, someone stern and unforgiving. “What do you expect me to look like?” Julius replied in English.

“Don’t talk back to me, boy,” Tokugawa said, his voice hard as iron. “And you best speak in the tongue your father uses. You’re going to have to get used to it.”

Julius clenched his jaw, the resentment simmering, but he responded in Japanese, his voice laced with bitterness. “Yes, father.”

“You’ve spent the past two weeks doing nothing but wallowing. How will that do any good for you? This is not how I raised you. You haven’t put your emotions to any use. You haven’t bettered yourself. You haven’t written poetry or prose. Nothing.”

Julius’s fists tightened. “I’m not a robot!” he spat.

“And I am?” Tokugawa shot back, his gaze piercing. “You’re a man. And man was gifted with the ability to overcome his nature, to rise above his base instincts. That’s how we built empires, cultures, civilizations. Yet here you are, succumbing to the very antithesis of life: decay. You’re letting that djin win.”

“What are you talking about?” Julius said, frustration spilling into his voice.

Tokugawa leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Son, over the past two weeks, have you paid any heed to what Ooshiba told you?”

“Heed to what?” Julius shot back, voice edged with fury. “Him saying the same garbage you’re spewing right now?”

Before he knew it, his father’s hand struck his cheek, the sound sharp, echoing through the quiet room. Julius sat there, stunned. His father had never struck him. The most discipline he’d ever received as a toddler was an occasional swat from his mother if he was misbehaving or about to do something dangerous. But his father? He’d never so much as suggested corporal punishment—in fact, he was the one who convinced his mother to use time-outs instead of a smack on the bottom.

“My boy, you’re a fool,” Tokugawa’s voice was calm but charged. “You live in a world so extraordinary, where your mother can fight armies single-handedly, where people in ridiculous costumes are celebrity crime fighters with their lives splashed across movie screens, where occult tales turn out to be far closer to reality than fiction. You have seen this, you’ve witnessed something beyond human understanding. And in the moment, you had no problem fighting back. But after two weeks of lying here, all that resolve has vanished, leaving nothing but self-pity. You’re putting in no effort. No anger towards the world, no fury at the forces that took your friends from you. And when someone—yes, Ooshiba—gave you the vaguest chance to understand, to do something about it, you’ve let that go. Is your love for them truly as deep as you claim? Where is the rage, Julius? All I see is pity, and that will do nothing for you.”

Tokugawa’s gaze softened, but his tone held firm. “Have you not wondered what Ooshiba’s words meant, what kind of world is truly out there? You were blessed with the ability to push forward. Ooshiba saw that. I see that. And now, here you are, ready to squander it all. Your mother tells me you’re even talking about not going to NYU anymore—are you truly willing to throw away everything? Just because your friends died, you’re going to stop living? Rot away in this room like a ghost, a leech? Have you no pride, honor, no fight in you?”

Julius gritted his teeth, his body taut with restrained rage as his father continued.

“Are you not angry? Where’s your rage?”

“I am angry!” Julius yelled, his voice rough and choked. “I’m so angry at everything!” His hands clenched into fists, knuckles pale. He jumped out of bed and began pacing around the room “I’m angry that my friends are dead! I’m pissed off that I wasn’t there—that I was out for some stupid walk while they were being slaughtered! I could’ve helped, maybe slowed that thing down enough for Ooshiba to get there sooner. And yeah, I figured it out: Ooshiba was there to deal with that thing. He was supposed to be prepared, right? To prevent something like that from ever happening. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. He let it get to my friends first. And it is killing me!”

Julius’s voice cracked, but he kept going, as if the words were bursting out of him like floodwaters. “I don’t know what to do, alright? I’ve been lying here, just—just paralyzed. Wondering where I even go from here, wondering if anything I try will ever get me remotely close to what I thought my life would be. And I’m sick of how you and your friend just act like it’s nothing. Like somehow I can fix this, somehow make it right, go back in time and prevent it all from happening. I nearly died, Dad! I barely made that thing flinch, and you two act like I’m supposed to ‘change course’ and somehow…what, rewrite what happened?”

The room fell silent, Julius’s breathing ragged, his fists trembling. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tokugawa’s gaze softened, and his stern expression eased slightly, though his resolve remained as solid as ever.

Julius’s voice dropped, his anger giving way. “So what am I supposed to do, Dad?” He searched his father’s face, hoping for some clarity. “Do I live my life for me, or for them? Am I just supposed to go to school, get an inconsequential film degree, as if my name and face aren’t plastered on every corner of the internet? Make half-baked screenplays in memory of Joan—my muse?”

He paused, swallowing hard, feeling the tug of grief all over again. “And what about this ‘true potential’ you and your friend keep talking about? Am I supposed to just…throw everything away and chase down monsters? I’d be giving up everything I thought my life would be—college, friends, writing—to live in the shadows that I didn’t even know existed two weeks ago.” His voice cracked, and he looked down. “I don’t know how to live for myself if it means abandoning them. But if I live for them…where does that leave me?”

Tokugawa let the silence stretch for a few more moments. Then, in a steady voice, he said, “You might not know what to do now, Julius-kun. And that’s okay. But doing nothing? That’s the one thing you cannot afford. Sitting idle…letting yourself be consumed by this grief… It’s the worst path you could take. You need to move forward, even if you don’t yet know where forward leads.”

Julius looked away.

“I’m not going to let you waste away any longer,” Tokugawa continued, his voice softer. “It’s my responsibility as your father to pull you out of this, to force the end of this mourning. You couldn’t even get up to go to the funerals, couldn’t face your friends and their families. You couldn’t get up for your own graduation, the day you and your friends worked so hard for. And now, you’re not even getting up to take care of yourself.”

Tokugawa paused for a moment. “We’re going to Japan,” he said with finality. “We’ll go see your grandparents; I’m going to make you meet some old colleagues of your mother and I; we’re going to visit the Kyoto University, and by the time we come back, I believe you’ll have your answer. Whether you find it in Kyoto or somewhere else, it’s time for you to face the world again.”