tiny-space-platypus

[tiny-space-platypus]

Remember

Before you leave, remember who I was.

The child too meek to play or run.

The child who squealed at every game they won

The child who rough-housed and played with your sons

The child that shared cakes and treats with your little ones

The child who made deserts for every event for fun

The child held together by family and love

Before you leave and let your memories fade away,

Remember you once loved them, in every little way.

Before you look at them with hate and distant

Before you refuse to even say their name

Before they become a mumbled little prayer

Remember they love you and remember you still can.

Know that they'll wait knowing you likely won't come back.

Know that they remember all of their past.

With you, with the family, with the love they never thought they'd lose.

Remember they love you and you once loved them too.

[tiny-space-platypus]

A King and a Prince

Danny screamed.

He screamed and screamed, using his ghostly wail until his voice shattered and his throat was raw with the echoes of his own agony. He wailed even after the battle was won. After the last of the GIW had fallen, even after Vlad’s final, gasping breath had faded into silence. He wailed as Amity Park crumbled around him, as the last flickering lights of his home were swallowed by ruin.

It didn’t matter.

No one was left to hear him.

No one left to be farmed by his despair.

He had outlasted them all—the Guys in White, Vlad, even Pariah Dark himself. He had survived, clawing his way through blood and betrayal, only to realize, too late, that survival was the cruelest fate of all.

He had lost everything.

His home—reduced to rubble. His friends—gone and buried beneath the wreckage of the school. Their last standing ground from the GIW's control or maybe blissfully scattered to the winds. His family—torn apart, mom and dad dead by his hands. Not purposely but they had picked their side. Jazz dead by theirs attempting to protect him. Their laughter, the happy family they were, now just a ghost in his hollow chest. His city, his obsession, his afterlife—all ashes, all dust. And what had he gained? A crown of thorns, a throne he never wanted. The title of King Phantom, ruler of the dead, sovereign of a graveyard empire.

He built a council. He forged a government. He crafted a system that could run without him—because he could not rule, not when every decree tasted of blood, not when every whisper of his subjects sounded like the voices of the lost. Not when he was so lost.

So he vanished.

Not in triumph, not in secrecy—but in surrender. He would sleep. Finally really sleep. He would sleep for centuries, for millennia even, until the worlds forgot his name. Until the stars themselves burned cold. Until even the memory of his suffering was nothing more than a sigh in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, if he slept long enough… he would forget, too.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Danny awoke to crying.

Not the wailing of the long-dead, nor the hollow sobs of forgotten spirits—but the raw, shuddering pleas of someone new. A voice too young, too broken, gasping between tears:

"Please—"

"Dad, I’m sorry—"

"B, you promised—"

Danny blinked slowly, his limbs heavy from his long sleep. His mind swam in fog, his body sluggish, as if moving through deep water. But the sound, a sound too familiar to ignore, pulled him forward, guiding him through the mist of his own exhaustion until he found the source—a boy.

A small, bloodied thing in a torn costume of green and red and gold, hunched over his own grave.

Danny’s chest ached.

Oh.

A newly dead. A child. One so much like him, once. Danny watched him for awhile. Days maybe? It had been such a long time since he had needed to keep track of time... He stepped closer, his voice soft as settling dust. "Hey."

The boy jerked upright, his masked face streaked with inky tears. "You—you can see me?"

Danny huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, so he does talk."

The boy stared, trembling, his breath hitching. Danny knelt—not too close, not too far—and tilted his head. "My name’s Danny. What about you?"

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "My name? My name is… My name is…?" His voice cracked, panic rising like a tide. "My name—my name—?" He didn't remember. Not many ghostlings did.

"Hey, hey," Danny murmured, reaching out—not to touch, but to offer. With a thought, he summoned a little blob ghost, its form wobbly and bright, and placed it gently in the boy’s lap. The creature nuzzled against him, purring like a gooy contented cat. The boy’s hands stilled. Then, hesitantly, he began to pet it.

Danny smiled. "A name doesn’t have to be a name," he said softly. "It can be anything you’d like."

The boy swallowed. "...Robin," he whispered. "I’m Robin."

"Robin," Danny repeated, like it was something precious. "It’s good to meet you, kid."

A beat of silence. Then, small and scared:

"Am I dead?"

Danny’s core clenched. He let himself float just a little, settling cross-legged in the air, making himself smaller, lesser. "You are," he admitted gently. "I’m sorry, Robin."

The boy—Robin—choked on a sob. "Is that why Dad wouldn’t—why he didn’t—?" Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Robin crumpled.

Without thinking, Danny reached out and gathered him close, tucking the boy against his chest the way Jazz had once held him so very long ago—after bad nights, after bad fights, after the world had been too much. "I know," he murmured, rocking him slightly. "I know. It sucks. It’s not fair. But you’re not alone, okay? Never alone." Robin shuddered, his tiny fists clutching Danny’s cloak of stars. Danny felt the threats forming, a soul bond. He had had one will Elle, with clockwork, with few others. A bond of trust.

Danny didn’t hesitate. He let his ecto unwind, warm and golden green and royal, and carefully, so carefully, began to mend the fractures in Robin’s soul. The pain, the fear, the jagged edges of a death too soon and too violent. The death of someone trying to be a hero—he took them into himself, replacing the hurt with quiet, with safety. Slowly, Robin’s breathing evened. His weight grew heavy against Danny’s shoulder.

Asleep.

Not that ghosts needed sleep. But children did. Danny exhaled, looking around the graveyard—at the other small, lost shades watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

…He could help them.

Just for today. Just for now. He could make Gotham a little lighter. And maybe, just maybe, it would help Robin, too—to have something familiar.

Robin followed Phantom like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a small, determined firefly, darting after the king’s trailing cloak as he moved through Gotham’s gloom. Honestly the child was a little beacon of light. Bright like a little firefly.

At first, he simply watched.

Phantom moved like a whisper between worlds—guiding lost shades toward peace, nudging lingering spirits toward unfinished business, even coaxing the living, stubborn bleeding-hearted vigilantes, into just the right places at just the right times. They never knew they were being helped, of course. But Robin saw.

And slowly, he began to copy.

A nudge here—a whisper there. A flicker of movement to draw a grieving widow’s eye to a hidden letter. A gentle tug on a cape to steer a batarang just wide enough to avoid a fatal blow. Gotham, ever so slightly, began to brighten.

And so did Robin. So much brighter than the dead boy Danny had met. He had even taught the boy to change his form from his one in death to a Robin in life. He was so much brighter not covered in blood and debris..

Phantom watched, warmth curling in his core, as the boy—his little prince—blossomed. Robin laughed as he flew, spinning through the air like a fallen leaf caught in the wind. He chattered to the other ghosts, coaxing even the shyest shades out of their hiding spots. He guided lost souls with a patience that belied his age, his voice soft but steady—"It’s okay, you’re safe now"—and when they finally faded into peace, he turned to Phantom with stars in his eyes.

"Did you see! I did it on my own!"

Phantom ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kid. I saw."

And oh, the way Robin glowed.

He was happy here. Happy to help, happy to fly, happy to tuck himself under Phantom’s arm after a long night and murmur about all the things he’d seen, all the people he’d saved. Gotham was still dark. But now, there were pinpricks of light—like stars or tiny, stubborn sparks—where before there had been none. And at the center of them all, brighter than any ghost light, was Robin.

[tiny-space-platypus]

A King and a Prince

Danny screamed.

He screamed and screamed, using his ghostly wail until his voice shattered and his throat was raw with the echoes of his own agony. He wailed even after the battle was won. After the last of the GIW had fallen, even after Vlad’s final, gasping breath had faded into silence. He wailed as Amity Park crumbled around him, as the last flickering lights of his home were swallowed by ruin.

It didn’t matter.

No one was left to hear him.

No one left to be farmed by his despair.

He had outlasted them all—the Guys in White, Vlad, even Pariah Dark himself. He had survived, clawing his way through blood and betrayal, only to realize, too late, that survival was the cruelest fate of all.

He had lost everything.

His home—reduced to rubble. His friends—gone and buried beneath the wreckage of the school. Their last standing ground from the GIW's control or maybe blissfully scattered to the winds. His family—torn apart, mom and dad dead by his hands. Not purposely but they had picked their side. Jazz dead by theirs attempting to protect him. Their laughter, the happy family they were, now just a ghost in his hollow chest. His city, his obsession, his afterlife—all ashes, all dust. And what had he gained? A crown of thorns, a throne he never wanted. The title of King Phantom, ruler of the dead, sovereign of a graveyard empire.

He built a council. He forged a government. He crafted a system that could run without him—because he could not rule, not when every decree tasted of blood, not when every whisper of his subjects sounded like the voices of the lost. Not when he was so lost.

So he vanished.

Not in triumph, not in secrecy—but in surrender. He would sleep. Finally really sleep. He would sleep for centuries, for millennia even, until the worlds forgot his name. Until the stars themselves burned cold. Until even the memory of his suffering was nothing more than a sigh in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, if he slept long enough… he would forget, too.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Danny awoke to crying.

Not the wailing of the long-dead, nor the hollow sobs of forgotten spirits—but the raw, shuddering pleas of someone new. A voice too young, too broken, gasping between tears:

"Please—"

"Dad, I’m sorry—"

"B, you promised—"

Danny blinked slowly, his limbs heavy from his long sleep. His mind swam in fog, his body sluggish, as if moving through deep water. But the sound, a sound too familiar to ignore, pulled him forward, guiding him through the mist of his own exhaustion until he found the source—a boy.

A small, bloodied thing in a torn costume of green and red and gold, hunched over his own grave.

Danny’s chest ached.

Oh.

A newly dead. A child. One so much like him, once. Danny watched him for awhile. Days maybe? It had been such a long time since he had needed to keep track of time... He stepped closer, his voice soft as settling dust. "Hey."

The boy jerked upright, his masked face streaked with inky tears. "You—you can see me?"

Danny huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, so he does talk."

The boy stared, trembling, his breath hitching. Danny knelt—not too close, not too far—and tilted his head. "My name’s Danny. What about you?"

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "My name? My name is… My name is…?" His voice cracked, panic rising like a tide. "My name—my name—?" He didn't remember. Not many ghostlings did.

"Hey, hey," Danny murmured, reaching out—not to touch, but to offer. With a thought, he summoned a little blob ghost, its form wobbly and bright, and placed it gently in the boy’s lap. The creature nuzzled against him, purring like a gooy contented cat. The boy’s hands stilled. Then, hesitantly, he began to pet it.

Danny smiled. "A name doesn’t have to be a name," he said softly. "It can be anything you’d like."

The boy swallowed. "...Robin," he whispered. "I’m Robin."

"Robin," Danny repeated, like it was something precious. "It’s good to meet you, kid."

A beat of silence. Then, small and scared:

"Am I dead?"

Danny’s core clenched. He let himself float just a little, settling cross-legged in the air, making himself smaller, lesser. "You are," he admitted gently. "I’m sorry, Robin."

The boy—Robin—choked on a sob. "Is that why Dad wouldn’t—why he didn’t—?" Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Robin crumpled.

Without thinking, Danny reached out and gathered him close, tucking the boy against his chest the way Jazz had once held him so very long ago—after bad nights, after bad fights, after the world had been too much. "I know," he murmured, rocking him slightly. "I know. It sucks. It’s not fair. But you’re not alone, okay? Never alone." Robin shuddered, his tiny fists clutching Danny’s cloak of stars. Danny felt the threats forming, a soul bond. He had had one will Elle, with clockwork, with few others. A bond of trust.

Danny didn’t hesitate. He let his ecto unwind, warm and golden green and royal, and carefully, so carefully, began to mend the fractures in Robin’s soul. The pain, the fear, the jagged edges of a death too soon and too violent. The death of someone trying to be a hero—he took them into himself, replacing the hurt with quiet, with safety. Slowly, Robin’s breathing evened. His weight grew heavy against Danny’s shoulder.

Asleep.

Not that ghosts needed sleep. But children did. Danny exhaled, looking around the graveyard—at the other small, lost shades watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

…He could help them.

Just for today. Just for now. He could make Gotham a little lighter. And maybe, just maybe, it would help Robin, too—to have something familiar.

Robin followed Phantom like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a small, determined firefly, darting after the king’s trailing cloak as he moved through Gotham’s gloom. Honestly the child was a little beacon of light. Bright like a little firefly.

At first, he simply watched.

Phantom moved like a whisper between worlds—guiding lost shades toward peace, nudging lingering spirits toward unfinished business, even coaxing the living, stubborn bleeding-hearted vigilantes, into just the right places at just the right times. They never knew they were being helped, of course. But Robin saw.

And slowly, he began to copy.

A nudge here—a whisper there. A flicker of movement to draw a grieving widow’s eye to a hidden letter. A gentle tug on a cape to steer a batarang just wide enough to avoid a fatal blow. Gotham, ever so slightly, began to brighten.

And so did Robin. So much brighter than the dead boy Danny had met. He had even taught the boy to change his form from his one in death to a Robin in life. He was so much brighter not covered in blood and debris..

Phantom watched, warmth curling in his core, as the boy—his little prince—blossomed. Robin laughed as he flew, spinning through the air like a fallen leaf caught in the wind. He chattered to the other ghosts, coaxing even the shyest shades out of their hiding spots. He guided lost souls with a patience that belied his age, his voice soft but steady—"It’s okay, you’re safe now"—and when they finally faded into peace, he turned to Phantom with stars in his eyes.

"Did you see! I did it on my own!"

Phantom ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kid. I saw."

And oh, the way Robin glowed.

He was happy here. Happy to help, happy to fly, happy to tuck himself under Phantom’s arm after a long night and murmur about all the things he’d seen, all the people he’d saved. Gotham was still dark. But now, there were pinpricks of light—like stars or tiny, stubborn sparks—where before there had been none. And at the center of them all, brighter than any ghost light, was Robin.

[tiny-space-platypus]

He's just a baby

Robin wants Batman to loosen up

[tiny-space-platypus]

[tiny-space-platypus]

Day 6 of #timmay

(I am aware I'm behind, I was very sick yesterday :( I am working on catching up.)

Prompt: In the Garden

(Featuring baby Timmy)

[tiny-space-platypus]

Day 5 of #Timmay!!!

Prompt: Prom

(Bow voted for by @tiny-space-platypus )

[tiny-space-platypus]

I love this comic (Batman #145 for the record) where Dick gets amnesia after breaking a woman's fall from idk 50 feet and whacking his head...and Bruce decides to jog his memory by reenacting his parent's death making Dick legitimately think he might have died too for a few seconds. And of course the comic completely glosses over what a fucked up and traumatizing thing that would be to do. Dick is just like 'wow great my memory's back! Good thing you had that safety net Bruce sure wish my parents had had one".

[tiny-space-platypus]

Tim working with the league of assassins after Jason and Damian left it must have been so wild. like going to school and having your older siblings’ teacher. i just imagine Tim desperately trying to get this team up over and done with so he can get the fuck out of dodge while also desperately filing away all the little insane tidbits of information regarding both Damian and Jason’s reputations within that organisation.

Tim: hey, where’d that big crack in the side of that building come from?

Ra’s, tired: your brothers.

Tim: …what?

Ra’s: i was away at the time, i do not know the details. all i know is an elephant was somehow involved and Talia sent them both to Gotham post-haste after the incident.

Tim:

-

League Servant: *tells Tim to fuck off using secret bat-hand-signals*

Tim: what the- what the fuck?

League Servant, now slightly fearful: u-uh… i used to serve Jason Todd… he told me that gesture meant ‘respectful greetings’

Tim:

Tim, wishing he was dead: *does the signal back*

-

Tim: so this was Damian’s old quarters?

League Servant: yes sir, we keep it just as he left it on his mother’s orders.

Tim:

Tim: there’s bloodstains on the ceiling

League Servant: no. that is ketchup. he and Jason Todd got into a fight.

Tim: i am learning so much…

[tiny-space-platypus]

Why would you kill him like this…

[tiny-space-platypus]

Coraline x Monster High Watch the speedpaint here!

[tiny-space-platypus]

Lois's thoughts on Jon?

Jon was a monster.

But he hadn’t always been. Once, he had been her little boy—her sweet little boy, the one who used to cry when he accidentally stepped on an ant. The one who clung to her leg when thunderstorms rattled the farmhouse windows. The one who would giggle, bright and unburdened, as he raced through the fields of Smallville, his tiny hands outstretched like he could catch the sun itself.

Now, he came home every night happy, beaming, bloody recounting his sins like they were schoolyard adventures. "Mom, you should’ve seen it!"he’d chirp between bites of dinner, eyes alight with something that wasn’t quite Jon anymore. "Dami and I, we—" Clark would listen, nodding along, pride gleaming in his too-perfect smile. And Lois would sit there, silently choking on her food, choking on the memory of the child she’d lost.

She should’ve killed Clark when she had the chance. She should have believed Luther. She shoulder have ran the first time he looked at Jon with something other than indifference. But she hadn’t. She’d trusted him. She’d believed in him. And now her son—her son, the one who used to whisper "I love you, Mommy" into her shoulder when she tucked him in was gone.

In his place was this thing. This grinning, gore-splattered shadow wearing her baby’s face. It wasn’t Jon’s fault.

It was his.

Clark had taken her son. Stolen him, piece by piece, warped him into something sharp and cruel and left her with a stranger who laughed at screams and called her "Mom" like he still remembered what the word meant.

Lois didn’t hate Jon. She could never hate her son. She hated the monster that wore his skin. And she hated herself for not being able to save him.

[tiny-space-platypus]

Part 2 bc why not?

konner!clonebaby AU

Storms.

Storms had always been way too painful. The relentless hammer of rain, the thunder that shook the bones of the earth. Every strike of light and thunder fresh torment. The air itself grew heavy, suffocating, pressing in like a weight against his skin. Kryptonians were too sensitive, the curse of super senses. Konner had learned that lesson on his own. Well, not on his own. He was still with Lex. He remembered his first storm. Back when he was still with Lex—well belonged to was probably the right word for it. Lex had watched, cold and unmoving, as Konner collapsed under the onslaught, knees hitting the floor as his lungs seized. The noise was unbearable, a deafening roar that shattered his senses, and all he could do was press his hands over his ears and beg for it to stop. Lex had scoffed. Called him weak. Left him there, shaking and gasping, like his suffering was nothing.

And then he met Tim. Tim, who had never turned away from him. Tim, who hadn’t expected him to just endure it. Tim, who had built something for him—special headphones, carefully crafted to mute the worst of the storm’s fury. Tim, who had held him through the worst of it, whispered reassurances.

Tim, who was gone.

Konner hadn’t worn the headphones since that day. He didn’t deserve them. Not after failing him. Not after letting him die. But Jane.. Their Jane, their bright, beautiful girl. She had them. He made sure of that. Her first storm had been hell. She’d wailed in his arms, tiny body trembling, her cries tearing through him sharper than any thunder ever could. He’d held her as close to him as he could, cradling her against his chest, trying to muffle the noise with his own body. As if he could ever be enough. And then, with shaking hands and a bit of desperation, he’d slipped Tim’s headphones over her ears. She quietly after that. Finally, finally sleeping through the storm. Every storm since she still shook. Still cried. But she wore them in a way that was Tim’s gift to her. While Konner held her like the sky was falling. If he just held on tight enough, he could keep her safe.

He couldn’t. Tim would’ve known what to do. Tim would’ve fixed it. He always had some brilliant solution, some impossible way to make the pain stop. But Tim wasn’t here. He’d never be here again. All Konner had left was Jane. Their daughter. The last piece of Tim he’d ever get.

God, he hoped she took after him. Because Konner was a failure. And Tim had been everything.

Was I listening?

Konner stared blankly as the casket was lowered into its deep, dark resting place. Konner watched as his friend, his closest friend, was lost to time. Konner felt numb as he sat staring at the grave for gods know how long. The world felt too loud as he stared at the grave, listening, hoping, praying he'd hear a heartbeat, movement, something but there was nothing. Tim was dead and no matter how much he listened now, that wouldn't change. “I'm sorry,” Konner whispered, hoping Tim would hear him; he knew he wouldn't. Konner couldn't ask Tim to listen, to forgive him. He had promised to be there, that he'd always be there, that he'd listen for him. Apparently! He was a fucking dirty rotten liar. Apparently! He couldn't hear his best fucking friend being tortured and killed. He replayed the last moments he’d seen Tim alive in his mind, over and over, like a broken record. Tim’s laugh, his smile, his everything. The way he’d always try to tell Kon he wouldn't need him, that he'd be fine. But he hadn’t been fine. He hadn’t been fine at all. And Konner hadn’t been there. He hadn’t heard the screams, the pleas, the silence that followed. He hadn’t heard anything. Was he even listening..? “I'm so sorry.”

In the next few days, Tim's belongings were cleaned out and moved to the Wayne estates. Konner helped. Of course, he would help; he had to help. While moving everything, Konner took a few items, one of Tim's skateboards he now had hanging on his wall, a few of his hoodies Tim had stolen, the fabric still smelling like Tim, and finally, the one thing he probably shouldn't have taken. Something he had no right to take. Not really when he had failed him. Konner took Tim's necklace. Each one a piece of him, a piece Konner had no right to claim. But he took them anyway, selfishly, desperately, clinging to the fragments of his friend like they could somehow fill the void. The necklace was more like a collar. It felt cold against his skin, a constant reminder of his failure. Tim had trusted him with so much, and Konner had let him down in the worst possible way. He wore it like a brand, a mark of his shame. He stitched Tim’s symbol into his jacket, a permanent reminder of the life he held closest to him, the one he couldn’t save. It was a tribute, yes, but also a punishment. Every time he looked at it, every time he felt the weight of the necklace against his chest, he remembered. He remembered the laughter, the adventures, the quiet moments. He remembered the promise he’d made. And he remembered how he’d broken it.

After his death, nights were the worst. Konner seldom slept. Alone in his room, the silence was deafening. He’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, the necklace clutched in his hand, as he’d beg for sleep to take him. But when it did, the dreams came. Tim’s face, pale, lifeless, staring at him. Angry, sad, hurt, contorting in pain... Konner would wake up gasping, his sheets soaked with sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He’d reach for the necklace, for anything that still smelled like Tim, for Tim but he’d never be there. Tim was dead.

Sometimes, he’d find himself standing at Tim’s grave again, just thinking. He’d stare at the headstone, at the name carved into it, and he’d wonder if Tim could see him. If he could hear him. If he knew how sorry Konner was. But deep down, he knew the truth. Tim was gone. And no amount of apologies, no amount of tears, no amount of pain would ever bring him back.

[tiny-space-platypus]

Let me give ya’ll a little angst

[tiny-space-platypus]

Soup! :3

[tiny-space-platypus]

Was I listening?

Konner stared blankly as the casket was lowered into its deep, dark resting place. Konner watched as his friend, his closest friend, was lost to time. Konner felt numb as he sat staring at the grave for gods know how long. The world felt too loud as he stared at the grave, listening, hoping, praying he'd hear a heartbeat, movement, something but there was nothing. Tim was dead and no matter how much he listened now, that wouldn't change. “I'm sorry,” Konner whispered, hoping Tim would hear him; he knew he wouldn't. Konner couldn't ask Tim to listen, to forgive him. He had promised to be there, that he'd always be there, that he'd listen for him. Apparently! He was a fucking dirty rotten liar. Apparently! He couldn't hear his best fucking friend being tortured and killed. He replayed the last moments he’d seen Tim alive in his mind, over and over, like a broken record. Tim’s laugh, his smile, his everything. The way he’d always try to tell Kon he wouldn't need him, that he'd be fine. But he hadn’t been fine. He hadn’t been fine at all. And Konner hadn’t been there. He hadn’t heard the screams, the pleas, the silence that followed. He hadn’t heard anything. Was he even listening..? “I'm so sorry.”

In the next few days, Tim's belongings were cleaned out and moved to the Wayne estates. Konner helped. Of course, he would help; he had to help. While moving everything, Konner took a few items, one of Tim's skateboards he now had hanging on his wall, a few of his hoodies Tim had stolen, the fabric still smelling like Tim, and finally, the one thing he probably shouldn't have taken. Something he had no right to take. Not really when he had failed him. Konner took Tim's necklace. Each one a piece of him, a piece Konner had no right to claim. But he took them anyway, selfishly, desperately, clinging to the fragments of his friend like they could somehow fill the void. The necklace was more like a collar. It felt cold against his skin, a constant reminder of his failure. Tim had trusted him with so much, and Konner had let him down in the worst possible way. He wore it like a brand, a mark of his shame. He stitched Tim’s symbol into his jacket, a permanent reminder of the life he held closest to him, the one he couldn’t save. It was a tribute, yes, but also a punishment. Every time he looked at it, every time he felt the weight of the necklace against his chest, he remembered. He remembered the laughter, the adventures, the quiet moments. He remembered the promise he’d made. And he remembered how he’d broken it.

After his death, nights were the worst. Konner seldom slept. Alone in his room, the silence was deafening. He’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, the necklace clutched in his hand, as he’d beg for sleep to take him. But when it did, the dreams came. Tim’s face, pale, lifeless, staring at him. Angry, sad, hurt, contorting in pain... Konner would wake up gasping, his sheets soaked with sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He’d reach for the necklace, for anything that still smelled like Tim, for Tim but he’d never be there. Tim was dead.

Sometimes, he’d find himself standing at Tim’s grave again, just thinking. He’d stare at the headstone, at the name carved into it, and he’d wonder if Tim could see him. If he could hear him. If he knew how sorry Konner was. But deep down, he knew the truth. Tim was gone. And no amount of apologies, no amount of tears, no amount of pain would ever bring him back.