He ran around among the crowd – through the unfamiliar faces that scattered like grass in a meadow as he searched, desperately for a needle. And when he found his way to the En household, he entered the ghost's silent residence.
No one seemed to be there until he heard a rattling sound coming from the pantry.
The carpet was thrown away and the trapdoor was wide opened.
Toren went down and heard strange sounds getting louder and louder as he creeped in.
There was a mix of rattling and wailing and banging. He could not make anything out of it.
And when he had completely entered, he saw his room a disaster.
It was as if a storm had passed through and ransacked the whole place mercilessly.
The cloths and fabrics torn, hung, and scattered at random spaces, painting materials exploded throughout the floor like corpses in a battlefield, and furniture and upholsteries breaking apart. Coen was restless.
At one point, he would crumple himself and bawl like a child, bothered and unsure of what must be done.
The second moment, he would be breaking things apart, rummaging items to squeeze his anger on, and banging his head through the wall.
Toren wished he could stop his brother's outrage.
And he felt miserable for being able to only wish.
Toren somehow understood that day how his brother felt. With tinges of loneliness and insecurities, a blend of sadness and hatred had warped his heart too.
The bittersweet link he had with his brother made him recklessly emotional and restless.
Coen was not able to sleep that night.
He knew that Toren was just observing somewhere, untouched my air and existence itself, and it was hell for both of them.
Coen hated his brother, but he loved him too.
Toren felt upset, but he never hated anyone.
Not his father who accused him all his life and not his brother who doubted him at one point.
It was only then, throughout that week, Toren truly felt he was dead.
It was not when he was shot with a silver bullet. It was not when everyone had forgotten about him in centuries. It was not when his soul was transferred into the void and it was not when his mother had lured him into confusion.
Toren felt death when he could not erase the loneliness of someone he loves.
Despite the pain, there was a looming comfort too. It never stuck to him that creating things for life would be so much fun, whereas killing something to oblivion would feel quite comfortable.
Not having to do anything and not needing to be in motion along with the world's demands.
After a few more weeks, Coen seemed to have recovered slowly from his slump.
He was able to take care of his hygiene, eat meals properly, and interact with his co-workers.
His eyes would still sometimes hint the lingering love-hate emotion, but it had become too dormant to shake his ground. That was the reason why it took Toren by surprise when a dusk had come and his brother coldly and effortlessly drifted to Airen's lair, carrying artillery, as if he had been doing it for years already.
The routine was so smooth and natural that Toren almost believed that the world belonged to his brother.
Toren had long got the hang of going in and out of the otherworld, so he slipped through it and followed his brother.
When he arrived, Coen was ready to throw hands against his own mother.
The ambush gave him the beautiful woman's attention, whilst Toren had grown roots from his feet. He got fixated to the scene before him – an unfamiliar chain of events, downright confusing him.
Coen did not waste a second as he pulled out a pistol and shot at her chest.
The gunshot banged and echoed eerily throughout the air, threatening the place's tranquility. Airen quickly stood up and sucked out the bullet and morphed it into a tiny bead.
"You dare harm your mother?" Airen threateningly asked as soot black shadows splayed out of her wound.
"I am here to offer a proposition," Coen declared before glancing behind him, towards Toren's direction.