The house is dark once more. It's raining outside again. The wind is battering at the windows and it is so cold. If a cry would be made, there's be no one around to hear it. What is there to eat? What is there to drink? What is there to be comforted by or warmed by?

What is there to be loved by?

Layla Mortimer sat in a darkened hallway pondering those very same questions, her body at once the scared child she used to be, and the cold adult she is now. But breaking out of her initial senses in this strange house, she leaves the fear behind and stands up.

She can't just sit down and cry hoping someone will come save her. She has to do it herself. She's long since learned that lesson.

A TV was on in the other room, it's faint white light and muffled voices signalling its existence. In reality, she'd expect to find her mother, lazily draped over the couch watching some inane television. But, in here, it was only herself and the cool light of the TV.

She sat down in the middle of the couch, and hugged her knees to her chest.

"It's always the same." She thought, her words echoing as if spoken. "No matter what happens, no matter what people say will be different, we get to the same end point."

The commercials on the TV keep changing, sometimes she can ever see her mother in them. They keep asking the same questions.

"Looking for a change in your life?"

"Are you ready to bring in change?"

"Things are changing!"

"Don't you want to be something better?"

"Get ready for a brand new you!"

"You can revitalize your life!"

They begin to switch faster, a dial on the TV clicking of its own accord.

"You - can - change! Change - now - before it's too late!"

But Layla merely scoffed. "There's nothing to change." She speaks in defiance to the commercials, her mother now the main star in all of them. "Lip service only goes so far, you need action to carry it through, and no one has ever been willing to put that action in." She stood up and walked to the TV.

As she came closer, the screen grew in size to be like a full length mirror, showing her reflection over a carousel of advertised clothing, accessories, and fun sociable environments. But she isn't interested in any of them.

"I'm going to be alone in the end anyways, so I might as well be alone on my own terms in my own way. Why bother changing myself?"

She flicked the dial to turn the TV off, and it began to fall to pieces. First, the dial turned to ash under her touch, then the retro frame's wood cracked and groaned while the plastic either bubbled or became brittle, crashing to pieces, as the glass yellowed and browned. She had already taken her hand away, but the rot continued as the electronics rusted and sputtered to death, sparking defiant last gasps of life.

Soon, the floor and the walls of the house around her began to fall in the same way, creaking and crashing down around her, leaving her in an open grassy plain under a moonless night sky.

In short order, it all became dust and debris, and she began to cough and tear up from the putrid gases released in the process. But when her vision returned, she saw something: a strange violet light coming from beneath the pile where the TV once stood.

Despite her caution towards this odd state, she couldn't help but feel drawn towards that light. She reached down towards the violet light, only to find a decaying arm bursting from the ground beneath her. Before she could recoil, another hand burst up and grabbed onto her, but it wasn't trying to drag her down, rather it was using her as leverage to be pulled up.

As she pulled up the withered skeleton from the pile of ash, she looked in its empty eye sockets and knew she was looking at her own body, twisted and decrepit. The inevitable ending of her life, no matter what she does.

So why bother changing?

Dawn cracked over the horizon, greeting the morning with a light blue hue while the sky danced in orange and pink. Mackenzie Otieno woke up amidst a field of white roses and thorny brambles, but none of them cut or pricked them as they stood.

It was raining, slight enough to not soak them, and warm enough to not be a sharp sensation on the skin, but enough to make beads of water form and bubble on the petals and stems of the flowers. All in all, it was a peaceful moment for them.

But away from them, they saw a strange sight. A glass figurine of a woman, filled with a gleaming emerald liquid, being bound by four statues circling it, holding vines. At first, they thought this was just some strange structure, that it was intended to be like this, but then they heard the sound of the thorny vines scraping against the glass, and the small sound of a chip. The vines were crushing the glass.

Rushing through the bramble, they sprinted to remove the vines. They didn't know why they felt so scared, why they felt so urgently, but Mackenzie knew they needed to stop it. They moved to one of the smaller statues and violently tore the vine from its marble hands, knocking it so hard with their body in the process that it fell over and cracked, a clear ichor like tears falling from the cracks.

That action made them feel even sadder than the state of the glass statue, for a reason they could not comprehend. But that sadness was erased when they noticed the vine they had torn from its hands was still being tugged. It was then they realized it was neither of the three smaller statues that were pulling against the glass, they were merely anchors for the larger statue to bind the vines that crushed the glass, scapegoats in this entrapment.

In rage, in fury, they rushed that statue, teeth gritted and body braced against the impact as they slammed their entire form against a large statue of solid stone. Despite their smaller frame and usually passive, if still sarcastic, nature they were able to crack the statue as gravity did the rest, knocking it from the stone pedestal it stood on.

As it fell, it did not loose it's grip on those vines, which only tightened further. Before Mackenzie could realize what was happening, they could only turn around in horror as the glass statue shattered into pieces.

But the glass was naught but a shell. While the shards fell, as lightly and calmly as the rain, the emerald liquid not only remained in it's shape but began to move, stretching free of her bounds and walking towards Mackenzie, who was staring in awe.

"Her" form changed as "she" moved, becoming small enough to match "his" height rather than the monument in glass "she" once was. "She" was close now, personal, close enough to touch "him". "He" could only stay still, and watch as "she" moved. And then, "she" moved in to embrace "him".

"He" could not feel if it was romantic, passionate, platonic, or if it was merely a simple act of embrace from "her". But it felt warm, it felt right, it felt uniquely connecting.

As they were embraced, their mouth opened, and the emerald water rushed inside. In an instant that warm feeling changed in a macabre way, filling their lungs and stomach, bubbling in their skull and rippling through their limbs. But, strangely, it still felt warm and comforting as it flooded their entire form.

It even felt warm as they began to stumble forward, seeing and feeling their entire body change and morph. The rain that was falling began to solidify in place, forming a reflective wall in front of them as their body was changing. They could see every change, in body, hair, eyes, style, gender, all of it.

And as they changed with every step, stumbling forward as their legs changed length, they could still recognize each changing form as themself, and the warmth inside of them stayed despite every change.

Eventually, they were able to stumble their way to the reflective wall of water, and gaze at their own form, changed, but still themself.

And they were embraced.

Wind chimes. Incense. Floral aromas and simmering dishes. These are the sensations that Myeong-Suk opened her eyes to. She awoke to a world at eternal noon, standing in an orchard of pear trees. It isn't often that she lets herself slow down and focus on the minute moments, but there was something so homey about these sensations.

The wind whistled around her, singing melodic tunes as it picked up. As if carried along its path, she began to dance and twirl forward. At first just her toes touched the ground as she stepped and leaped, but soon she was stepping on the air itself, spinning like a falling leaf.

As she was whisked by that wind, she came across a clearing where three other women were dancing. A girl that was still young, but older than her. A matron with a sharp smile of pride. An elder with creases of life well spent.

The wind slowed, allowing her to land in the clearing of the orchard, where the chimes were hung and the scent of sweet pears and incense were at their strongest. But, as she saw the three woman dancing in proper hanboks, she was nervous to join along in her simple shirt and pants. Myeong-Suk was always willing to dance, always willing to involve herself and be a part of something new. But this wasn't new, this was old, this was tradition. Did she have a place in it?

As she hesitated, the three women stopped and looked at her. After a beat of judgement that felt like it went on for an eternity, they lined up. The young girl in the middle, the matron on her right, and the elder on her left. They linked hands and spread their arms wide, facing her, inviting her in with them.

Elated, Myeong-Suk ran towards them, but her body in this dream did not move. Instead, in two equal lines, every version of herself that has been, and every version she could/will be ran in her place, creating a line of running ephemeral visions marching two-by-two.

But the women were not done. The matron and elder rescinded their outstretched hands, and instead produced two large fans. The matron swung first, as the wind turned from gentle and inviting to intense and sharp.

The line of the past was assailed by that wind first, as Myeong-Suk and her younger images braced themselves against a howling torrent of judgements, chastisements, and punishments. They were wordless, formless, but biting and brutal all the same.

The elder swung her fan next, striking the future images with that same wind, the biting cold of expectations, constraints, and ostracization over came them. The faint and open images on both sides were whisked away by the wind into the uncaring blue sky, the weakest among them were torn to shreds.

Some of the images hardened themselves, becoming cold, withdrawn, and obedient. But they could no longer move forward, even if they could make it to the stage, they would not be able to dance with the three that stood there.

The young woman merely looked mournfully at Myeong-Suk at first, sympathetic, but unable to move or help. Myeong-Suk then realized her hands were not held in solidarity or unity, but as shackles against her own movement. Acceptance at the cost of freedom.

Myeong-Suk tried to curl inward, to harden herself, but locking eyes with the woman as she began to silently cry tears down her still-smiling face loosened her resolve. They were all smiling, even as the images screamed and cried and begged for mercy, begged for a chance. At least the young woman cried. The other two did not care.

Myeong-Suk, as she hardened against this torrent, realized she could no longer smell the pears or the incense, or even hear the wind of the chimes. She could not feel the wind or the warmth of the noon sun. Was it worth it to weather the storm if she could not feel those things? If she could not feel anything truthfully?

A moment of hesitation gave her the truest answer, as she released the cold hardening that would push her inward of herself, and was tossed into the wide open sky, the same as the others.

But she did not fall.

As she reached the end of the torrents flow, she found herself high above the orchard. The chimes did not play, and the scents were gone, but the air was filled with something new. A low bass reverberation. The smell of perfume and candles and sweet liquors. The warmth of moving bodies and dancing spotlights.

She did not fall. She landed her toes down on the air beneath her, and found it standing still for her. And so, she danced.

She swung wildly and vividly. She didn't care if she was seen, she didn't care if she wasn't. She let every emotion and tear and laugh and ache flow from her in wide swathes. Soon, all the images that were tossed into that same air came to join her, as they all danced with their shoulders in a line, and swung in circles.

As they(she) danced, they(she) grew every closer to each other(herself). All became one, mental and spiritual matter collapsing into an infinitesimally small state.

And with a breath, they(she) flowed outward. No longer solid forms, merely the flow of thought, time, experience, and emotion, becoming one with the air and the scents they(she) loved.

Fitri Wibowo was a boy made of wood born into a family of flames.

They are happy to have him, and smother him with love, but they don't seem to see that he is made of wood. As he grows they try to teach him how to burn, how to flare up and destroy, but he can never bring himself to do it, even if he was able.

The one thing he can do, which the grandfather flame is more than happy to teach him, is how to warm. How to simmer, and radiate light, and cook the food the others need. While the boy of wood cannot do this on his own, he is happy to use his wood to take the others flame and make it something great.

But he is not made of flame, and the others despise that.

It starts with concern, questions about how he'll be able to live if he doesn't burn like other flames. Then frustration, accusing him of not trying hard enough or not caring to burn properly. They try to push him, tearing away the dry sticks he would use to warm the hearth and throwing out the stock he would heat on his campfire, trying to force him to burn enough to destroy a house, or ignite a forest.

His mother cries singeing tears, wondering where she went so wrong that her only son cannot burn. His father uses his own heat against him, charring his bark in anger at his failures. He does not understand what he's doing wrong, but the boy of wood smiles and tries his best to comfort them.

And then the grandfather flame was reduced to cinders and, far too quickly, ash. The boy of wood no longer had anyone to teach him the warmth fire can bring. But still he did his best to appease everyone, and to bring warmth where he can.

And then he met another boy made of wood, and for a moment felt that he could be seen and understood. But, apparently, that was the worst thing he could of done, the least like the fire he was supposed to be. His mother wails, causing him to crack and splinter under the pressure, and when he dared to cry and voice his true wooden heart, that was the last straw.

He was beaten until his lip split and his eye was swollen. He was tossed to the wind like a broken toy that could no longer be fixed. His parents swore up and down that they had no son. But their wooden child could not understand, he was their son, just not made of fire like them. That was his gravest, incurable sin.

He left that place, the expectations of fire, and wandered the land. People saw his charred bark and assumed he was made of fire, treating him like something that would burn and lash out, but he did not let that stop him from doing his best to bring warmth wherever he landed.

People who saw him as wooden would ask him for his help, for him to provide so they could keep themselves warm, and he happily gave. When he ran out of foraged materials, he would provide from himself, stripping his bark to protect them and serve them.

Day after day, night after night, the wooden boy had to wander and journey because of the iron cages and spike-laden traps the world had set against him and all who wandered like him, but still he warmed the hearths of others, all while stripping himself bare. When he had no more bark to give, he would splinter his inner wood and hand it off. When a portion would grow bare, he would take off the twigs and pass them out in a bundle. When he had no twigs or branches he would cut off his roots to let another person be grounded.

This was the only way he knew how to keep the warmth going, how to keep others safe, all while smiling the most wooden, gentle smile he could manage.

But at the end of this long journey, he had nothing but the inner most layer of himself, and could not give to anyone else. When he tried to give the final piece of himself to someone else, it burned their hand, as he came to a horrifying realization. Deep inside, past the wood, he was charred and burning in the middle.

He was a child of wood, born into a family of flames, and that flame was inside of him still. The flames that burned and destroyed rather than nurtured and gave. And that terrified him.

"But," he spoke to himself, witnessing all that had come before. "The fire that burns can be contained. I can choose to make myself into a campfire." He drew a circle around his form, and lined rocks around it.

"I'm gonna be the fire, the light and warmth. And I'm also gonna be the wood, the foundation and the fuel. Ain't no way I'm gonna be like who made me. I just...I could never bring myself to do it."

From the circle a towering inferno burst for a moment, as Fitri in his human form stepped out of the flames, unharmed and feeling the warmth of comfort. He looked back as the light dimmed to normal, exposing a wide open night sky painted in the violets and oranges of dusk, and saw a duplicate of himself made of that fire, staring back at him.

"Man, I should probably go to therapy or something, huh?" He awkwardly chuckled, and the fire gave a slow nod with eyes squinted in sympathetic pain.

"Ahh, that's gonna be a whole thing. Eh, deal with it in the mornin'. For now, put 'er there!" The two clasped hands, and the fire did not burn Fitri, but instead filled him with the warmth of pure, unrelenting, energy.

In short order, all four of them woke before dawn broke, gasping for air as their minds returned to them.

"You're all okay! Thank goodness, you really had me worried there!" Teddy spoke up, shaking off his own weariness.

"Yeah, okay, I guess? Whew, feeling a bit warm though!" Fitri spoke up first. "Are you guy's doin good?" He directed towards the others.

"Not hurting or anything, certainly not like before...just feel a little, lost?" Mackenzie answered.

"Painfully sober, but honestly that was a pretty good nap!" Myeong-Suk added.

But Layla did not answer. The others, concerned turned to face her, seeing her shaking with a steel gaze and gritted teeth.

"Are you all joking right now?"

There was a pause of questioning in the air.

"HOW CAN ANY OF US BE FUCKING OKAY!? WE'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED, EXPERIMENTED ON, AND LOCKED UP BY FUCKING VAMPIRES!" She lunged and punched towards the lock on her cage.

"WE HAVE NO IDEA WHERE WE ARE, NO IDEA WHAT THEY PUT IN US, NO IDEA WHY WE WERE KIDNAPPED AT ALL, AND IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH I'M GOING TO DIE HERE AND NO ONE WILL FUCKING CARE!" She kept punching again and again until her knuckles started to bruise and cut.

"MY FRIENDS FUCKING DITCHED ME, MY MOM IS WHORING HER WAY THROUGH SILICON FUCKING VALLEY, AND THE ONLY OTHER PEOPLE WHO KNOW I EXIST ARE FUCKING LOCKED UP HERE WITH ME!" As she punched, the others were trying to get her to stop, but Teddy noticed something curious.

"SO NO, I'M NOT OKAY, NONE OF THIS IS FUCKING OKAY!" With a final wound up punch, everyone heard a pop and the clattering of metal on the ground.

Looking down at her work, everyone was shocked to see the square of metal that once had the lock fallen onto the ground, with the metal around it rusted and brittle.

"H-How the hell did I do that? T-This metal was spotless before!"

"The truth is in the words," Teddy began with a smile. "You did that. Try holding onto other parts of the cage."

She quickly gripped on a bar of the cage, and in seconds it grew rusty, same as the lock. Teddy observed with strangely glowing eyes, his smile growing more defined.

"Does this have something to do with that dream?" Layla thought as she looked down at her hands.

"What dream?" Myeong-Suk asked.

"W-What?"

"You just mentioned a dream? I had one too!"

"Well, yeah but, I didn't say it!"

"Oh my god can she read minds?" Mackenzie thought.

"I really hope I'm not thinkin' of something embarrassing right now!" Fitri panicked internally.

"HOLY SHIT I CAN READ MINDS!" Myeong-Suk shouted, both excited and confused.

"Alright you four," Teddy began with a toothy smile. "It's time to craft an escape plan."