Genesis. Volume 1.

August 10, 1985. Saturday. 6:00 p.m. The Walker house. Arthur stood before the open closet, staring at the baseball bat. It lay on the top shelf, covered in a thin layer of dust—he hadn't touched it since the day they'd left the mansion for the last time. The training bat, with the "Best Player" sticker, the handle worn smooth. He picked it up, weighed it in his hand. The wood was warm, smooth—from his fingers, from sweat, from fear. He decided to take it with him. Not to use it. To leave it behind. "You ready?" Lisa peered into the room. She was wearing jeans, a sweater, sneakers—as usual these days. Her hair was in a ponytail, her face pale but calm. The same shadows under her eyes—she hadn't slept properly in many nights, but she'd stopped complaining. "Almost." Arthur shoved the bat into his backpack, zipped it shut. Next to the bat lay the old map with the red dots, the photograph of the Crowley family, the yellow ticket with the number 7. All of it would stay with him. The bat he would leave. "Max is already out. We'll meet at the mansion." "And Jenny and Emma?" "Together. Emma's picking up Jenny at half past six." Arthur looked at the clock. Half past six. They were leaving. Downstairs, his mother was washing dishes, his father reading the newspaper. Sofia turned as they came down. "Where are you off to?" "For a walk. Won't be late." "Be home by eight." "Okay, Mom." They stepped outside. The evening was warm, but the air was heavy, like before a thunderstorm. The sky to the west blazed orange; to the east, blue clouds were already gathering. It smelled of rain that just wouldn't decide. Arthur and Lisa walked in silence. Only the shuffle of their steps on the asphalt—shuff-shuff. Past the old pharmacy, past the barbershop, past the park where the swings creaked in the wind. Past Max's house. He was already waiting on the porch—sitting on the steps, his back against the door, staring at the sky. Seeing them, he got up, brushed off his jeans. "Let's go." They turned the corner. Jenny and Emma were waiting by the old acacia tree—Emma leaning against the trunk, Jenny beside her. No one was smoking. "Everyone here?" "Everyone." They walked toward the hill. August 10, 1985. Saturday. 7:00 p.m. The Genesis mansion. Outside. The mansion stood black and silent. The windows were dark. Only on the second floor, in the room that hadn't been there before, did a gray light glow—weak, barely visible, like a candle in the distance. The branches of the maples beyond the fence were still—not a breath of wind. They had come for the last time. Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jenny, Emma. Five of them. Without Jack. Without Jack forever. "Are you sure he'll see us?" "He always sees us. Even when we're not here." They approached the gate. Arthur opened it—the hinges didn't creak. As if someone had oiled them a minute before their arrival. Or Jack. Or the place itself was preparing for goodbye. "What are we doing?" Max asked. "Saying goodbye. Properly." They stepped onto the grounds. The grass was wet with dew, though it hadn't rained. But no traces remained from yesterday's mud—no dents, no trampled earth. As if no one had set foot here since their last visit. Or as if someone had tidied everything up. Arthur pulled the baseball bat from his backpack. He held it in his hands—for the last time. He placed it by the porch, leaning it against the stone step. "Why?" Max asked. "Won't need it anymore. Fighting him is useless. I've figured that out." Lisa pulled out a stack of drawings. On each one was a clown—not Crowley, just a clown, but the smile was the same. The same as the portraits in the mansion, the same as Bryce's in the hospital. She flipped through them—twenty-three in all. She placed them next to the bat, weighing them down with a stone so they wouldn't scatter. "I don't want to see them anymore." Max pulled out a slingshot. Old, homemade, with a rubber band he'd replaced three times. He held it—his fingers remembered every scratch on the wood. He placed it on the porch, next to the drawings. "I wouldn't have hit him anyway. Even if he'd stood still." Jenny pulled out a photograph—the one from the party, where all six of them were together for the first time. Arthur, Lisa, Max, Jack, Jenny, Emma. All smiling. Not knowing yet. Not afraid yet. The photograph was worn, the edges curled—they'd looked at it hundreds of times. "Maybe we should keep it?" "No. Let him know we remember." Jenny placed the photograph on top of the drawings—face up, so Jack could see. Emma pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes. Marlboro, red, crumpled. She shook out the last one, put it in her mouth. The lighter sparked—the flame briefly illuminated her pale face, red eyes. She took a deep drag, blew smoke into the gray sky. She placed the pack on the porch. "I quit. Three days now. I'm holding on." "Good for you," Max said. Without a smirk. "Not good. I just don't want him to think I'm smoking there without him." She took one more drag—the cigarette burned down to the filter. Emma stubbed it out on the sole of her sneaker, leaving a black mark. She threw it into a trash bag she'd brought with her—gray, tied in a knot. "Clean. No littering." Everyone looked at the second-floor window. The light was burning. Gray, dim, pulsing. A silhouette stood at the glass. Not moving. "Jack!" Arthur shouted. The silhouette didn't move. "We're here! We haven't forgotten! We'll come back!" Silence. Then the silhouette raised a hand. Slowly, unnaturally—like a doll, a marionette whose strings had been cut, yet it still moved. And pressed its palm against the glass. Arthur raised his hand in return. "Goodbye." "Not goodbye," Lisa said. "See you later." "What's the difference?" Max's voice wavered. "A big one. Goodbye is forever. See you later means we'll meet again." "We'll meet again," Arthur repeated. The light went out. The mansion sank into darkness. August 10, 1985. Saturday. 8:00 p.m. The Genesis mansion. Outside. They stood for another minute. No one spoke. Only the wind—finally—rustled in the treetops, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Ordinary sounds. Normal. But everything around them felt unreal—like a stage set, like a dream they couldn't wake from. Emma turned and walked toward the exit. The others followed. At the gate, Arthur stopped and looked back. The mansion stood black and silent. The windows were dark. Only on the second floor, in the room that hadn't been there before, the gray light flickered on again—weak, barely visible, like a candle in the distance. "I promised. I'll come back." He stepped out onto the street. The gate closed behind him on its own—not with a slam, but slowly, as if someone on the other side was holding it to keep it quiet. They walked away. No one looked back. In the second-floor window, the gray light came on again—weak, barely visible, like a candle in the distance. Someone with a red eye watched them go. And didn't cry. Couldn't. August 10, 1985. Saturday. 8:30 p.m. The road home. They walked down the dark street. The streetlights weren't working—they'd burned out last month and no one had replaced them. The moon was pale, yellow, like an old circus ticket. Shadows from the trees lay on the asphalt like broken bones. Arthur walked in front, gripping the red thread in his pocket—warm, like a stranger's palm. Lisa beside him. Then Max. Jenny and Emma brought up the rear. No one spoke. At the intersection, they stopped. "Tomorrow?" Max asked. "Tomorrow—the letters. Thirty cities. Thirty letters." "Thirty," Jenny repeated. "Thirty," Emma said. They hugged—silently, tightly, as if for the last time. Because it was the last time. The last time they gathered at the mansion. The last time Jack was here. They split up. Arthur and Lisa—to the Walker house. Max—in his direction. Jenny and Emma—together, as always. "Do you regret it?" Lisa asked as they reached the gate. "What?" "That we started this." "No. I regret not starting sooner." They went inside. Their parents were already asleep. A light was on in the kitchen—his mother had left dinner on the stove, covered with a plate. Arthur didn't eat. He went upstairs, pulled the map from his backpack, spread it on the table. Six red dots. Soon there would be more. He ran his finger over Brookfield. "We'll come back, Jack." He folded the map, hid it in his desk drawer. Lay down on the bed, closed his eyes. Outside the window, the wind rustled.