He remembered.
Time didn't much matter to him anymore. The seconds, hours, and decades were indistinguishable, all rushing together in some bleak current.
But, then, in the past, it was so different. Every moment stood out in crystal clarity and exuded a vibrancy impossible to truly comprehend. When he met his wife - she was so beautiful with her short golden curls and crinkles in the corners of her eyes from laughter and smiling too wide and she was so beautiful- when they married - it was a close, small ceremony filled with laughter and happiness and so light and jubilant mother was so pleased and all of their friends were so joyous - when they found out she was pregnant, despite the problems - it was a dream come true, a continuation, the risks were nothing they'd pull through.
He worked a simple job at packing company, he needed to support her and his child and he worked so hard. He never claimed to be that smart, and the thought of doing anything "more important" or "acceptable" never occurred to him.
He remembered the day his son was born.
The pregnancy was risky, his wife was so small – he felt so small now – they didn't know if she could carry it, there were so many problems. They almost lost him twice already. Then, three months early, their son was born.
There was screaming and blood, and –oh god – it wasn't right, it wasn't right at all. Sirens, emergency room, cold piercing light, it was all so bright and wrong and unnatural and so goddamn sterile.
And then she died. He didn't really understand it, but they couldn't save her. She was gone.
But their son remained. And he was so beautiful and so very very small. So fragile, and it was all he had of her. He loved him completely.
A year later, he celebrated his son's birth half-heartedly. He bought the boy a set of wooden airplanes-work was hard money low it was so hard all the time.
Laughing and babbling, the boy, ignoring the toys, put the cardboard box on his head, as if to wear a hat. Too big, it fell to his shoulders, swallowed his head.
And, watching his son, he couldn't help but chuckle. His son fell over harmlessly, box fell with a muffled thump, and the boy laughed joyously. "Blockhead, you okay?"
The baby laughed some more, and grabbed the box again, inspecting it with an intensity babies are wont to do. It was the beginning of his son's complete fascination with any cardboard package he could hide himself in.
For a few moments, he forgot it was the anniversary of his wife's passing.
Two years later, and he stopped buying his son toys. Instead, he brought home empty wooden cartons and cardboard boxes. His son build giant forts-a majestic prince in his palace, the Red Baron fighting, a jungle explorer-and lost himself in his imagination. He was so beautiful, smart, strong.
The boy would fly and jump and glide and swim and everything with only some empty boxes in an empty room.
Even though his job wasn't doing much right now, it still gave him this. And he was happy somehow again.
Then his son fell sick.
It infected masses of people, most survived. Many didn't.
He was back with the sirens and lights and moaning and everything smelled bitter and sick and of antiseptic.
His son, his little boy, was so pale and weak and helpless. And, he knew, it was hopeless. He was so tired.
Coughing and hacking and mumbling incoherently, his son no longer saw or heard or understood. He was so pale and too hot and not there at all-crazed eyes, impossible to catch or look into, a wall of nothing.
Again, he was left without someone he dearly loved. Again, he didn't understand why they couldn't save him.
He was so tired. Everything was too much and he didn't want it. He needed… He needed it all to…
And then everything stopped.
He found himself hiding in a carton at his old work site. But things-dusty, worn, torn, broken, abandoned-weren't the same, weren't right.
Then, he floated through the days because time didn't matter anymore, he didn't need to listen or speak. He hid in boxes, thinking of his son and his smiles and the golden curls from happy moments. Of all the laughter, and of his wife's kisses and his boy's eyes.
He only remembered.
Until one day: "Well, what do we have here? Some pathetic little ghost?"