Santos had gotten into another argument with his wife, and they had been separated for about ninety years, which was longer than usual for their spats. He was starting to get lonely, and the spurious one-night stands and glory holes were not enough to fill the hole in his soul.

He lived in a small cottage in the woods, terrorizing nearby towns when inspiration struck.

Alone in his cottage in the woods, staring into the roaring flames of his fireplace, he started thinking of Asher, his eldest son who died, he hated thinking of him, and all his children buzzed in his head, telling him that grief is a long process, which just made him angry.

Santos pulled out his coat from his closet and put it on, his children asked him why he wore coats, and he said I just want to look nice, mind your own business for once. So they sulked off to their corners of the world and he put on his boots, and he trekked through the snow.

The hood of his coat had fake fur lined on the inside and the rim of the hood, and even though it was made for warmth, even though he was rarely cold, he liked to buy them, because he liked the idea of it, very few things he could feel being hot and cold.

The longer he was alive, the more he played at being human, trying to find more reasons to not leave, because, as Asher said, there was nothing else to see or do.

So he found more things to find and do.

He made many snow angels, and then when done rubbed his foot in the snow, giving them little pitchforks and horns.

He made an army of snowmen, fighting, a few missing heads, the battle of Snowhurst in full swing.

He stripped naked, danced in the snow, and then put his clothes back on feeling ridiculous.

Santos made the hike into town from the woods and walked through the quiet town of Spring, the curfew in place. He didn’t pay attention to the curfew, because the curfew was for the colonized people of Earth, and it did not matter who was in charge, or what year or day it was, because it was temporary, like everything else.

The smell of death was in the air, and Santos smiled, an easy meal nearby. It was quiet, no one around, and he didn’t have to worry about messy externalities. The still air, the slowly falling snow, everything about it all turned his sad night into a wonderful one, and he followed the smell toward his target.

The meal was on the move, and so was he, and there was no rush as its gait was slow, stumbling in the snow. He could see it, the small thing from across the street, in a thin white shirt and orange shorts, and it was barefoot, feet raw and bloody, the only proper clothing on a blue hat, with a puffball on top.

So he started walking faster, and some part of his rotting mind told him that it must mean something, that he had the same little hat, all these years later, similar in make, the same hue, and size.

Now close up on the little thing he could see it, afraid and sweaty, and it looked up at him with the same eyes, and the same face, and hair, and he knew that it was his son, that he was always taking a nap, that he would be back eventually.

“Asher, what are you doing out here,” Santos mumbled.

“I, I don’t know you,” the boy said.

“You need to come inside and eat, you don’t look well.”

The boy judged the option of freezing outside versus a possible pervert and a few nights of food and went with the man. To his surprise, he picked him up, and he walked briskly, because the smell of death was stronger, and Santos would not lose his son twice.

He could not lose him twice, because there was no one to lose twice, but none of his children dared tell him that.

So he sat in the chair, in the warm room, in the small blue church, next to George and Carlos, curious as to what was so special about such a tiny little thing.

“What does this meat suit have that I don’t,” George cried.

“Georgie, stop being jealous. You’re jealous of everyone, and it’s gross,” Santos said.

“It’s not fair,” George cried.

Carlos alluded that he was going to turn the young boy, forever young, and Santos said he would never do that. Never. This time Asher would grow up, and he would have his wife, house, his children, and everything else under the sun.

Carlos left, and Santos sat alone, waiting for several hours, thinking of the many things he would say to his son, after almost three hundred years of not seeing him. He woke up, and he looked at his son, and he tried speaking without words, but it did not work, and then he knew that he was pretending, and he needed to stop.

“Who are you,” the young boy asked.

“My name is Santos,” the man said.

“Why did you carry me inside?”

“Asher, should I have just left you to die? Is that it,” Santos said, repeating the very same last words he said to his son.

“Who is Asher?”

Santos was happy his dark complexion covered his shame as he turned many shades of red, and he explained that he had misspoken.

“What is your name,” Santos asked.

“Michael. Where am I?”

“A church.”

At the news of this, Michael immediately perked up, and he struggled to sit up, starting to come to life, his fever dying down.

“I like church, they always have games, and they give us food,” Michael smiled.

Santos hated church, but he smiled back, willing to have a few more moments with the person who looked like his son, and in turn, looked like Naomi.

So he started a new game of pretending with Michael, that he was Asher, and that everything was fine, nothing was wrong, because Santos would be in Michael’s life until his very last breath.