The house was an echo of his spring.  Its broken hide and sagging hood the realm of knights and vanquished monsters.  Cascades of dusty sunlight the smell of his unbound journey.  Uncontainable hope contained a mere walk and a tree from his bed. A hiding place where a boy finds himself.

It was in the creaks and broken glass that he could see himself the man, the hero.  It was a vision any prophet would covet: Protector of the abandoned, seeker of the truth.  The very man he had never seen, but he knew as all boys do.

Humble in his nobility and honest in the face of sabered threats.  A lion to the hunter and the loyal dog to hurting.  He had braved pirates for the freedom of the coasts of fancy.  He had pierced the heart of the nameless beast to save the lost queen.  He had planted the seed of life in the realm of attic.  He had taught the forgotten tongue to the seekers fey.

But now... he sees the hovel.  The dandelion weeds are the plague upon the ground.  The fairy dust has all seeped away and the dry gray has taken reign.  It was such a silly joke.  And jokes don't last the winter.

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