Chapter 1: Don't Leave the Door Open

Chapter 1: Don't Leave the Door Open

The kingdom of Arcadia smelled faintly of damp brick and overflowing dumpsters. Its borders were drawn in gritty, pink chalk on the cracked pavement of the back alley, a sprawling territory that ended abruptly at a rust-stained drainpipe. Leo, in his dual role as Royal Steed and Chief Dungeon Explorer, was on his hands and knees, the rough concrete biting into his jeans.

"Nigher, Sir Leo! The Gribble-Monster is escaping!"

The command came from Queen Lily, a fearsome five-year-old monarch with scraped knees and a crown of woven dandelions slipping over one eye. She pointed a stick-scepter at a particularly grimy patch of wall where a fissure in the brickwork served as the monster's lair.

"He's getting away!" she insisted, her voice echoing with the absolute authority that only a beloved niece can wield over her layabout uncle.

"Never, Your Majesty," Leo grunted, crawling forward. "The beast shall not escape my grasp."

He made a show of wrestling with the invisible creature, his grunts and growls earning a cascade of delighted giggles from Lily. For these few hours, twice a week, Leo wasn’t a 28-year-old failure living in his sister’s spare room. He wasn't the guy whose resume was a constellation of short-lived jobs and abandoned ambitions. Here, in the chalk-drawn kingdom, he was important. He was Sir Leo the Brave. The weight of his sister Sarah’s worried glances and the pity in her voice when she asked if he’d applied for anything new would dissolve under the pure, unfiltered sunlight of Lily’s imagination.

They had been playing for hours. Their game, a variation of 'house' they called 'Castle,' had its own intricate set of rules, mostly invented by Lily on the fly. The chalk outline of their magnificent, multi-room castle covered most of the alley. The 'kitchen' was by the overflowing recycling bins, the 'throne room' was a patch of sun-warmed concrete, and the 'dungeon' was, naturally, the shadowy corner by the drainpipe.

But there was one rule that wasn’t like the others. It was the first one Lily had drawn that afternoon, scratching it into the pavement with a piece of blue chalk she’d guarded like a royal jewel. It was near the entrance to the alley, a crude rectangle representing a door. Inside the rectangle, in shaky, oversized letters, she had written:

DON'T LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN.

Leo had chuckled when he saw it. "What happens if I do? Do the goblins get in?"

Lily hadn't laughed. She’d looked at him with an unnerving seriousness, her bright blue eyes wide. "No. It's just the rule. You can't leave the door open. Not even for a second. You have to pretend to close it every time."

Her solemnity was so absolute that it had sent a faint, foolish shiver down his spine. But it was a kid's game. Kids had funny, arbitrary rules. So he’d played along. Every time he'd 'entered' or 'exited' their chalk castle, he’d made a show of miming a heavy door, turning a phantom key in a lock. It always made Lily smile.

"I'm thirsty, Sir Leo," Queen Lily announced, abandoning her watch over the Gribble-Monster's prison. "The Queen requires juice."

"The royal cellars are empty, I'm afraid," Leo said, getting to his feet and dusting off his knees. "But the royal kitchens—" he gestured toward the apartment building looming over them, "—are fully stocked. I shall return."

"Be swift!" she commanded, taking her seat on the 'throne.'

Leo approached the 'door' to their kingdom, the blue chalk rectangle on the pavement. He mimed turning the handle, swung the invisible portal open, and stepped through. He glanced back, ready to perform the act of closing it. Lily was watching him, her expression expectant. He gave her a goofy smile and mimed pushing the heavy door shut, even adding a little creak sound effect with his mouth before turning a non-existent key.

Lily clapped, satisfied. The rule was obeyed.

He jogged up the three flights of concrete stairs to the apartment. The door was unlocked, as always. Inside, the contrast to their imaginary kingdom was stark. It was Sarah’s world: neat, orderly, and smelling of lemon cleaner and the faint, ever-present scent of adult responsibility. A stack of bills on the small kitchen table seemed to eye him accusingly.

He was a ghost in this apartment, a man-child haunting the periphery of his sister’s hard-won life. Sarah never said it, but he knew he was a burden. A project. A living, breathing symbol of her fear that he would never get his life together. And the worst part was, he feared she was right.

He grabbed the carton of apple juice from the fridge. His one redeeming quality, the one thing he knew he didn't screw up, was his relationship with Lily. With her, his overactive imagination and refusal to grow up weren’t liabilities; they were assets. She didn't see a loser. She saw a knight.

His hand slipped.

The slick cardboard carton tumbled from his grasp, hitting the linoleum floor with a sickening thud and bursting open. A wave of sticky, sweet apple juice flooded the kitchen floor.

"Damn it," Leo hissed, the word sharp in the quiet apartment.

Panic, sharp and out of proportion, seized him. Sarah was meticulous about her floors. He grabbed a roll of paper towels, frantically sopping up the spreading puddle, his mind racing. He had to clean it up, completely, before she got home. No evidence. No reason for that familiar, disappointed sigh.

He worked for several minutes, his back aching, the game forgotten. He was no longer Sir Leo. He was just Leo, the clumsy screw-up, cleaning up another one of his messes. Finally, with the last of the juice wiped away and the sticky paper towels stuffed deep into the trash can, he grabbed a fresh juice box and hurried back toward the door, his heart still thumping with adrenaline.

He clattered back down the stairs, his mind still on the near-disaster, on the look that would have been on Sarah’s face. He burst back into the alley, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Your royal beverage has—"

The words died in his throat.

The alley was empty.

The sun-warmed concrete of the 'throne room' was vacant. The stick-scepter lay abandoned beside it. The dandelion crown was on the ground, a few of its yellow heads already wilting.

"Lily?"

Silence. The alley, which moments before had echoed with laughter, was now utterly, unnaturally still. The ambient city noise—the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of traffic—seemed a million miles away.

"Okay, very funny!" he called out, his voice sounding thin and weak. "Come on out, kiddo. The joke's over."

He checked behind the dumpsters, his heart starting to hammer against his ribs. Nothing but crushed boxes and black plastic bags. He peered into the shadowy corner by the drainpipe, the 'dungeon.' Empty.

"Lily!" he shouted, real fear clawing its way up his throat. "This isn't funny anymore!"

He spun around, scanning the alley, the rooftops, the fire escapes. Nothing. She couldn't have gone far. The alley was a dead end. The only way out was past the 'door.'

His eyes snapped to the ground. To the blue chalk rectangle he had just hurried past in his haste.

He had forgotten.

In his panic over the spilled juice, he had rushed out of the apartment, down the stairs, and straight back into the chalk-drawn kingdom. He hadn't stopped. He hadn’t mimed opening the invisible gate. He had just run right through. He had left the door wide open.

A cold dread, so absolute it felt like ice water flooding his veins, washed over him. It was a stupid, childish game. It was just chalk on pavement. It couldn’t mean anything.

But she was gone.

His gaze fell upon the rule, etched in shaky blue letters.

DON'T LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN.

The chalk seemed to pulse with a malevolent light, the words no longer a child's scribble but a profound and terrible warning. A sentence that had been passed. The world tilted, the grimy brick walls seeming to warp and stretch around him. He fell to his knees, his hands scraping against the rough concrete, his breath coming in ragged, tearing sobs.

In the distance, he heard the familiar rumble of his sister’s car turning onto their street. She would be home in a minute. And he was alone in the silent, empty kingdom, with nothing to show for her missing child but a cryptic, impossible message drawn in chalk at his feet.