A/N: Hello everyone, thanks for checking out this story centered around Henry: the mysterious man who put an end to William Afton's legacy of terror in FNaF 6. This story will be different from anything I've written so far: it will be told by Henry's own diary entries and notes, newspaper articles not written by him, audio transcripts and more documents. We will see some of his daughter as well, and of course the ominous character of William Afton, who caused so much pain to so many people.

William's own story and the one of his family will be told through his own documents in another fanfic that will run parallel to this one: The Afton Archives.

Fair warning: due to the nature of this story, the first chapters will be relatively 'slow' when it comes to plot and will focus mostly on our characters. However, rest assured that as problems arise, a lot of savory plot-points will be shown. Whether you've read my other works or not, I sincerely hope you enjoy this story. Honest reviews and constructive criticism is highly appreciated. And as always, happy reading!

Journal 1: A difficult beginning

Part 1

Newspaper clipping from The Hurricane Herald

Obituaries

August 8th, 1975

In loving memory of Agnes Withers
(1920-1975)

Mrs. Agnes Withers passed away in the early afternoon of the 7th of August due to cardiac arrest. The late widow of Sherman Withers, she was a Hurricane resident all her life. She was a dedicated nurse who enjoyed writing children's stories in her free time. Mrs. Withers was alone at home at the time of the incident, and was found unconscious by a friend who notified the local medical center. Unfortunately, Mrs. Withers passed away before she could arrive to the center by ambulance. Funeral services will be held on August 11th at 2:30 PM on the First Southern Baptist Church. Agnes is survived by her loving son, Henry Withers.

Henry Withers' personal journal

August 8th

As our bus arrived at noon, I realized that Hurricane hadn't changed one bit. It was still this bizarre island of greens and greys in a desert of red and orange. I admit that I forgot just how beautiful my hometown could be this time of year. If only the reasons for my return were different, I might truly enjoy this unique landscape in its entire familiar strangeness. The drab, boring suburban streets and strip malls surrounded by monumental brick-colored cliffs against the blue sky of summer… when I look at them, I wonder if leaving was the right decision. But, more importantly, I wonder if I should've returned.

Not like I had much choice, in any case.

Thankfully, writing and sketching in JR's has been keeping me busy enough, otherwise I would be lost in nostalgia and grief. I probably should've left my two half-empty suitcases and backpacks at the house, but I won't enter that building until nightfall. Can I walk those empty and dark halls, where I first learned to crawl and walk and run? Can I sleep in my parents' empty bed, now that I'll never be able to lie down next to them? Can Lorena and I really make a home out of that house?

Lorena, please be okay.

My nerves try to take the best of me, but caressing the ring around my finger brings me some comfort. She'll be okay. She knows how to take care of herself, despite her condition. She'll get here in two or three days and call me to meet up somewhere. Yes, she'll be okay.

August 9th

10 AM - I ended up spending last night at the cheap motel on Main Street, still incapable of entering that house. Maybe having Lorena by my side will give me the strength to face the ghosts of my past, but until then, I'll be staying here. I've already called her to let her know that I'm not installed in the house yet, and to meet me here if I'm not at the bus station when she arrives. She seemed to understand, and wished me strength and good luck. Smiling, I returned the blessing before hanging up.

8 PM - I'm once again in JR's, the small pub that has been my refuge so many times; funny how all of life's problems seem more manageable after a good cold beer. Mr. Hong and I are all caught up now, after more hours of talking than I thought I could endure. Maybe I overestimated my solitary tendencies. He asked me all the regular questions: how I've been, was I happy with my degree, how's the married life treating me, etcetera. I informed him in the exquisite detail he demanded about the ups and downs of living in Boston, about finishing my degrees in mechanical engineering and creative design, about Lorena. As I kept telling him about my professional goals over the small counter of the pub, he asked a question I've heard over and over again.

"Henry, how are you going to find work here?"

I shrugged. "There's always someone looking for an engineer."

His dark eyes narrowed in disbelief and slight concern. "But you said you wanted to build robots. Nobody here ever asks for a robot. Look at this town!" He pointed at the window with a wrinkled finger, and we saw low houses, empty narrow streets and rock formations just beyond. "There's nothing for you here, you're too smart for this place."

Rubbing my temple, I tried to summarize my hopes and dreams in a way that didn't sound too naïve. "Then maybe I can make the place different." I said, "Maybe people will be amazed if I bring along something new, something they'd never seen before."

"There's a big risk." he warned.

"Almost as big as the potential." I countered.

He gave a little wobble of his head, and I assumed it was some way to acknowledge defeat; or, at the very least, that he won't change my mind.

I doubt he'd be willing to take me seriously if I tell him the kind of robots that I'm building. Even more, I'm not sure he's ever seen a true animatronic before. Hopefully that'll change in a few years. He's at the counter right now, cleaning some glass cups and arranging some bottles of foreign beer. It's closing time, I think he'll ask me to leave in a moment.

But wait, a last-minute customer just entered the pub. I know all of Mr. Hong's regular clients, but I've never seen this man before. He's tall and thin, with sharp features and eyes colored like a shallow sea. He's checking the aisles behind the counter where Mr. Hong is … was organizing the stock; he's now back at the counter to attend the client.

The man just ordered a bottle of Guinness and politely asked Mr. Hong about the day. Both chatted for about a minute, until they wished each other a good night. The client then turned around, walked back to the door and acknowledged my presence with a polite nod and half-smile before leaving the shop.

I think it's time for me to leave, but not before asking Mr. Hong more about this interesting man. I've never heard anyone in this town speak with a British accent.

10 PM – The springs of the motel's cheap mattress taunt my sides as I write this. Lorena should arrive tomorrow at 9 o'clock in the morning, hopefully giving us enough time to make ourselves as comfortable as possible in the house. The hours cannot pass fast enough.

Mr. Hong didn't seem to know much about the curious man. Here's what he told me when I asked him about the stranger, just before leaving the pub:

"He moved here a couple of months ago. And yes, he's definitely British."

"Is he a regular?" I asked, as Mr. Hong turned from the counter and went to his mop.

The owner of the pub nodded. "Comes here at least three times a week, sometimes more. Loves Guinness and Stella Artois. He always asks for stouts and pilsners at room temperature, never drinks anything in a can and treats himself with a tall glass from the tap when he has the time."

I grinned. "Sounds like a man of culture."

He smiled back. "Just like you. You should talk to him the next time you see each other."

Nodding in agreement, I thanked him and began to go to the door, before asking: "Is there any chance you might know his name?"

Mr. Hong replied by shaking his head. "Afraid not, Henry."

But I can't let myself get distracted by chasing little side quests, although escaping my grief and duty as a son is tempting. I must rest; tomorrow is another day.

August 10th

3 PM – My wife is lying next to me, sleeping peacefully on our new bed. Is it new, though? How many years has it stayed here, covered in that stained blanket, gathering dust and memories hung in the air? No, it is only new for our new life that begun today.

Lorena's bus arrived right on time. As soon as she saw me, she ran as fast as she could with travel-bags dangling in both hands, before releasing them and folding her slim and tender arms around me. We stayed there, frozen in each other's arms for around a minute, until she broke the embrace and looked up at me with those honey eyes. I let myself drown in my wife's sweet gaze.

That same gaze turned into mild annoyance when I hurriedly inspected her face and arms.

"Did you fall?" I asked in worry, checking her fingers. "Have you been feeling weak? You're pale. Have you…"

She interrupted me with a calm hush and a small smile. "I'm fine, Henry. I can take care of myself for three days."

Shaking my head in mild embarrassment, I replied "Sorry, I was worried. With your condition-"

"My condition doesn't define me, darling." With a mischievous smirk, she poked my nose before taking my hand in hers. "You really worry too much."

Maybe I do.

Although almost everything has been taken care of, we arranged some last-minute details for tomorrow's funeral before working on the house. We unpacked our bags, cleaned the rooms, had hamburgers and fries for lunch and rearranged what little furniture remained. After this little rest, we will work some more before calling it a day. Maybe then I'll finally be able to show her my overfilled sketchbook.

11 PM – I tried to get some shuteye after my last entry, but I soon found myself staring blankly at the dark ceiling with bleary eyes. Now, the same angst that has been growing and feasting on my nostalgia is denying me some much-needed sleep. Can I really throw dirt on my mother's dead body? This mental image makes me physically sick, like a hangman's noose tightening around my stomach, even with the strength that Lorena's company is giving me. I must get my mind away from these depressing thoughts.

I sketched some more this afternoon as my wife slept. Finally, after Lorena's keen feedback in the early evening, I think I'm fairly satisfied with the bear character I've been working on. It's simple but different, charming and kid-friendly without being too infantile for adults to endure. After much debate, I gave him a purple fedora and checkered tie. The golden fur will make him stand out.

I think I will call him Fredbear.