He's never quite sure who gives him the key. The small piece of metal merely appears under the shop door one morning. No note, just the key, and yet instantly Marco knows to where it goes.
Still, it takes a week for him to use it. Marco's simply not ready. Fear most-likely. Or regret. Or perhaps he's just waiting. He's waited this long; what is another few days? Then one evening he finds himself there, in the hallway, turning the knob and opening the door.
So it begins, the masochistic ritual he has assigned himself. Every evening he climbs the stairs, and enters the room at Granny's. Number 4. August Booth's room.
His boy's room.
Things are as the younger man left them. Marco leaves them be, at least at first. Yet eventually the curiosity takes over.
He finds the small desk first. His hand brushes the typewriter as his eyes glance over the various sheets of paper around it. He imagines the stories his boy has written. A smile dares to tug Marco's lip as he remembers what a storyteller his boy had been. Is he still one now?
The smile fades at the letters, some typed and others written longhand, all addressed to him. No; he won't read those. Not yet.
Marco turns his attention away from the desk. He finds postcards from far off places, many in which he has never heard of before. A small bag containing a random collection of tools lays on the floor, along with small wooden trinkets.
"I just like to fix things…" Isn't that what August had told him once?
Books. A watch. Other odds and ends… Marco absorbs them all, studies each in turn, soaking in whatever he can find. Trying to learn about this person – this man – his boy has become.
His eyes spot a deep orange color. He picks up the object from the floor – a small child's hat. Instinctually Marco brings the small object to his face and dares to breathe in the scent. Pine, the ocean, and something unique he has never been able to place. Still the same. Still the same...
Marco reaches the bed. He sits and stares, looking at the remnants of a life he had no real part in creating. It's a life he caused with one decision so long ago. He wonders, his mind tossing over that decision. Had he been wrong? Had it been punishment and not salvation he had given his son? How badly he had wanted this gift, the chance to be a father… had he really deserved it?
Why else isn't he here? Why else would his boy run, hide away, not come to see him? No. He won't allow those thoughts. He has made his decision, so now will face the consequences.
Still Marco's thoughts betray him, talking him back to before the curse was broken. He's back to the day in Gold's shop, the first time he had seen the man named August. How he now understands that look the younger man had given him then. How he wishes he could go back.
That was your boy, Marco! It was your boy, reaching for you, and you could not see it! Marco looks back at the hat in his hands, running fingers over the fabric. Yes, August's hair is darker and his eyes lighter. He is bigger, rougher, stronger and yet still so very much his boy.
No, he hadn't seen it then. He was blind just like everyone else. But no longer. So in the morning he will go, as always, and look again. He will hunt and search and use every ounce within him to locate his boy again, to tell him what Marco wishes so desperately for him to hear.
My boy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I love you. I'm so proud of you.
No matter what.
Yes, tonight he will weep. He will throw himself into his sorrow and guilt and shame over what has been. He will succumb to his pain. He will let himself go over every detail and decision.
Then tomorrow, he will rise and start again. He won't give up, because it's his boy he's searching for.
Tomorrow he will hope again.