Sheep

Max thumbed to the next page of the tattered hardback. The cover, once a deep navy blue, had faded to something closer to the colour of old denim, washed too many times and left too long in the sun. The title, The Little Prince, was still barely visible, though the letters were so faint they looked like shadows of their former selves. Its spine had been broken beyond repair, pages yellowed like old newspaper left in an attic, their corners softened from years of eager fingers flipping through them. The smell of the book carried something nostalgic . . . aged paper, dust, the faintest trace of something floral, like it had once lived on a shelf lined with old lavender sachets.

Max sat propped up against a mountain of overstuffed pillows on the single bed . . . well, it had once been a single bed. Now it belonged as much to Magnus’s stuffed animals as it did to Magnus himself. A well-loved, oversized fox teddy sprawled across the foot of the mattress, its body sagging where too many tiny arms had squeezed the stuffing into submission. The sheets beneath them bore a childish montage of rockets and planets, their bright colours dulled from countless washes, the fabric soft as an old T-shirt stretched too thin.

The whole room was a small, contained universe, a blend of childhood wonder and hand-me-down furniture. A rickety wooden dresser sat against the far wall, its drawers slightly misaligned, as if it had been assembled just a little wrong years ago and no one had ever bothered to fix it. On top of it, an old lamp with a cracked shade leaned at an odd angle, its cord snaking behind the dresser, disappearing into the dark.

“…But it’s just a drawing?” piped up a small voice. “I don’t understand…”

Magnus, his eight-year-old son, was curled against Max’s side, wearing pajamas that . . . while not identical to his bedding . . . still carried a space theme. His fascination with astronauts, with the endless stretch of the unknown, was only natural given who his father was. Stars, planets, and tiny astronauts floated across his pajama shirt, the design slightly faded from wear. His head rested on Max’s chest, rising and falling with his father’s breath, his small body warm and solid, a comforting weight in the dim room.

“Yes, well, this story is a little hard to follow, Magnus,” Max murmured reassuringly. His voice was hoarse, the kind of hoarseness that came from too many late nights and not enough rest, the kind of hoarseness that settled in a man’s throat after years of conversations that hurt to have. “Maybe it’s not for you. Have you managed to follow everything else so far?”

“I think so,” Magnus replied hesitantly, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on the blanket. “A pilot crashes his plane in the desert, then he meets a boy called ‘The Little Prince.’ Then the Prince asks the pilot to draw him a picture of a sheep, but the Prince doesn’t like any of the drawings… he’s so picky! Then the pilot just draws a simple box with air holes and tells the Prince that there’s a sheep inside the box, and then the Little Prince sees the picture and says it’s just the kind he wanted…”

Max considered this before replying. “It sounds like you’re up to speed. What’s your question again?”

“This book doesn’t explain why he wants a drawing of a sheep in a box,” Magnus said, his brow furrowed. “You can’t even see the sheep in the picture! It’s just a drawing of a box.”

Max chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Magnus’s head bounced along with it like a buoy caught in a tide.

“Daaad!” the boy protested, though a grin was already tugging at his lips.

“Sorry,” Max said, attempting to stifle his amusement. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you? Never satisfied. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”

Magnus tilted his head, craning his neck to look up at Max with wide, inquisitive eyes. “You think I’ll be an astronaut too when I’m older?”

Max smiled, something warm and distant flickering behind his gaze. “You can be whatever you want, Magnus,” he said. “And I’m sure you’ll be the best at whatever you choose. Asking questions is the most important part of any job.”

Magnus beamed, his grin so big and so toothy that it practically swallowed his face.

“Now,” Max continued, tapping the open book lightly with his finger, “shall we try something else? This one’s a little strange.”

“But, Dad,” Magnus objected, “wasn’t this your favourite book when you were my age?”

Max hesitated, his thumb hovering over the brittle page. “Well, yes,” he admitted, “but… "

“…Then I want to read it too!” Magnus interrupted, bouncing excitedly. “Please, Dad! Just… can you explain the hard bits? Like how he gets the sheep out of the picture?”

Max let out another soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Magnus,” he said, feeling slightly embarrassed, “I don’t actually know what the Little Prince did with the picture of a sheep in a box.”

Magnus’s expression twisted into one of genuine confusion, as if this new information physically pained him. “But, Dad… you know everything! Why would you like reading a book you don’t understand?”

Max paused, his fingers idly brushing against the frayed edges of the book’s cover.

He glanced toward the open doorway. The house was quiet . . . too quiet, the kind of quiet that made a man feel like he was being watched by something unseen.

Satisfied they were alone, he leaned closer to Magnus.

“You want to hear a little theory of mine” he whispered, his voice low and conspiratorial.

Magnus’s eyes went wide, and he nodded frantically, squirming closer. “Why’re we whispering, is it so mom doesn’t hear? Is it science stuff?” he whispered back.

“Hmm, yes and… yes again. She always pokes fun at me for this theory. Best if she doesn’t hear me filling your ears with it too,” Max whispered. “Between me and you, I think this book had another story, hidden, but also in plain sight. I think it was written in a way so that people would purposely misread it, but maybe a few would be able to work out the real story from the clues.”

The lights in Magnus’ room flickered. Once. Twice.

And then steadied.

Both of them froze.

The brief interruption passed, and only then did Max realise he’d been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, carefully, as if exhaling too fast might stir something in the walls.

Magnus chewed his lip. “Dad…?”

“Yes, Moonbeam?”

A pause. Then, his small voice, just above a whisper. “Is the house… haunted?”

Max blinked. “Of course not! What makes you say that?”

Magnus turned his head toward the corner of the room. The wooden panelling there stood out slightly, protruding just enough to suggest it wasn’t quite flush with the rest of the wall. It was old, darker, the grain more pronounced. Maybe an old chimney stack. Maybe an abandoned riser for pipes and cables.

“Sometimes, when the lights flicker,” Magnus whispered, “I feel like there are ghosts in the walls. I hear them… I hear them banging on the wall over there.”

He pointed at the panelling, his small hand trembling slightly.

Max followed his son’s gaze.

“Magnus,” he said softly, “that’s perfectly normal. When people are scared, they think all kinds of crazy things. It’s all in your head, Moonbeam. Being scared can make you imagine things that aren’t really there.”

Magnus considered this for a moment.

His small fingers twisted the fabric of his duvet, his brow furrowed as if he were sorting through puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. The way a child thinks . . . slowly, methodically, looking for the edges before placing anything in the middle.

“But,” he finally whispered, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the steady hum of the house, “what if it’s the other way around, Dad?”

Max’s head fell a fraction to one side as he tried to pull apart Magnus’ words.

“The other way around?” He asked.

Magnus swallowed, his small Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He leaned in closer, voice dropping lower.

“What if things are really there all the time… but… we can’t see them?”

The air in the room felt different then.

Thicker.

“What if we can only see them… when we’re scared?”

Max felt a chill . . . thin, creeping . . . crawl along his spine.

It was ridiculous, of course. Kids say all kinds of weird things. But something about the way Magnus said it, the slow, careful deliberation of it, made the words feel heavier. Like he wasn’t just talking.

Like he was explaining a memory.

“Magnus… "

“…You know,” Magnus interrupted, his voice trembling now, “not the kind of scared you get when someone’s mean to you.

The other kind of scared.

The kind that makes all the hairs on your arms stand up.”

The warm glow of the wall-lights flickered briefly. A single, quick pulse. Barely there. But enough to make the shadows in the room stretch, just for a second, like something long and thin had unfurled its fingers from the corner.

Then the noise came.

A sudden, sharp rustling from behind the panelling.

Scraping.

Something moving.

Max felt Magnus stiffen, but before his son could spiral, he spoke . . . calm, matter-of-fact.

“That,” Max said, squeezing Magnus’s shoulder, “is a mouse.”

Magnus flinched, his wide eyes darting from his dad to the panelling.

“A mouse?”

“Yup.” Max nodded, settling deeper into his role of all-knowing father. “They get into the walls, chew through insulation, make a mess of things. Probably found a nice snack in the wiring. That’s what’s been messing with the lights.”

Magnus blinked. The tension in his little body didn’t quite fade, but it wavered, uncertain.

“But it sounded so… big.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head.

“That’s the acoustics of the walls, Moonbeam. You ever notice how a fly buzzing around your window sounds way louder than it should? Or how a cricket outside your room in the summer sounds like it’s right inside your pillow?” He ruffled Magnus’s hair. “Same thing. A tiny little mouse in the walls can sound like a whole monster stomping around in there.”

Magnus hesitated.

Then, slowly, he let himself relax, sinking deeper into the blankets.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

The boy exhaled, his shoulders losing that tight, wary stiffness.

“Okay.”

Max smiled, settling back.

“Tell you what,” he said, shifting tactics, “I’ll call someone in the morning to take care of it.”

Magnus exhaled in relief, burrowing himself back into his duvet. His small fingers loosened from where they’d been gripping the fabric. The tension in his shoulders eased.

“Okay.” 

A beat. 

Then, softer. “But, Dad…”

Max already knew what was coming.

“The story,” Magnus murmured. “You said you know why the prince wanted a picture of a box, instead of a sheep.”

Max hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the bedside clock. The numbers glowed red in the dark, warning him of just how late it was getting.

“I didn’t say I knew, I said I had a little theory. It’s late, Magnus. How about we save this for tomorrow night?”

“Daaaad,” Magnus whined, stretching the word into a full-bodied plea. “Just tell me, and we can read more tomorrow. I promise!”

Max sighed.

He glanced at the doorway, half expecting to see a shadow standing there.

He didn’t.

Still, he lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Alright,” Max said, leaning closer. “I never solved the whole book. I found clues, but not all the answers. I’ll explain what I can… bit by bit. Maybe we’ll figure it out together.”

Magnus nodded, eyes bright with curiosity.

Max hesitated, then asked, “You ever heard of Schrodinger’s Cat?”

Magnus squinted. “Is that the one with the weird tail? Like Auntie May’s?”

A soft laugh escaped Max’s throat. “No, Moonbeam. It’s not a real cat. It’s something scientists call a thought experiment… like a brain puzzle.”

Magnus tilted his head. “So… it’s not real cat?”

“It’s pretend. Just a way to explain a strange idea. Picture this… a cat inside a box. No one can see in, and no one knows what’s happening inside.”

“Like the sheep in the box,” Magnus whispered, sitting up straighter.

Max smiled. “Exactly. But this cat… it’s got a vial of poison in there with it.”

Magnus recoiled. “That’s awful!”

“It’s all pretend,” Max said gently, lowering his voice. “No real cat. Just an idea.”

Magnus didn’t look convinced.

“There’s also something radioactive inside,” Max went on, shaping an invisible cube with his hands. “If it decays, the vial breaks.”

Magnus frowned. “Wouldn’t the cat get sick from the radio… active… thingy?”

Max blinked. He’d explained this a dozen times before, but somehow never thought about that.

“Well… yes. If it were real. Which it’s not.”

“And does it have air? Because cats need air.”

Max paused. “I always imagined a lead-lined box. But… yeah. Good point.”

Magnus smirked. “You should’ve thought of that. You’re the scientist.”

Max sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. It’s a magic box. No poison, no radiation, no oxygen problems. Just imagination.”

Magnus leaned back, satisfied. “So a magic pretend cat. In a magic pretend box.”

“Right. And until someone opens it, no one knows if it’s alive or dead. So in a weird way… it’s both.”

Magnus’s brow furrowed. “Like a zombie?”

Max snorted. “No. Not a zombie. It’s just… potential. Everything possible, all at once, until we look.”

Magnus looked thoughtful, his fingers curling into the duvet. “That’s kinda cool.”

Max brushed a hand over his son’s hair. “Reminds me of The Little Prince. The prince didn’t want a picture of a sheep… he wanted the belief that it was there. Like the cat, the sheep had to stay inside the box to be real.”

Magnus went quiet, breathing slow and even.

“So…” he murmured, barely awake now, “it’s like a magic sheep?”

Max smiled. “Exactly. And maybe the prince knew something we forgot. Maybe he knew how to choose what came out of the box.”

Magnus snuggled closer, his voice soft and fading. “We’ll read more tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Max whispered, kissing the top of his head. “Sleep tight, Moonbeam. No more ghosts tonight.”

A yawn. A murmur.

“It still doesn’t make sense.”

Max chuckled, the sound low and warm in the quiet room. He closed the book with a soft clap, smoothing his hand over the worn cover.

“One day,” he said. “We’ll figure out the real story.”

Magnus groaned, the sound dissolving into a sleepy mumble.

“Aww… okay…”

His eyes fluttered closed, his small body sinking deeper into the mountain of pillows.

Max waited a moment, making sure he was fully asleep before carefully easing himself off the bed.

He slid Magnus’s head from his chest and onto the pillows, tucking the rocket-patterned duvet snug around his son’s small frame.

Then, leaning down, Max pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.

“I love you, Moonbeam,” he murmured. “Sweet dreams.”

Magnus didn’t stir.

Just the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing, lost in sleep.

Max lingered for a moment, watching him.

Then, quietly, he rose to his feet, careful not to make a sound as he stepped toward the door.

Max turned to leave.

Then he saw her.

He froze.

She stood just inside the room, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, watching him with that familiar, knowing smile. Warm. Playful. Tinted with mischief.

Her eyes shimmered, full of something softer. Something more tender.

“Maximus,” she murmured, voice laced with accusation, yet unbearably fond. “What have I told you about filling our little boy’s head with quantum physics?”

She pushed off the door frame, her movements unhurried. Deliberate.

Max didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

Like a child caught red-handed, like he was five years old again, standing in the kitchen with cookie crumbs all over his face, swearing up and down he hadn’t touched the jar.

“And your little conspiracy theory about that book too.”

She came closer.

“His school friends already tease him enough because of who his dad is,” she continued, gentle, but firm. “You have to let him be a kid, Max. Don’t make him grow up too fast, or fill his head with crazy ideas”

Max lifted his hands in surrender, fumbling for a defence.

“But he asked… "

Her arms slipped around his waist, cutting him off.

She pressed her head against his chest, fitting into him like she always had . . . like she was meant to be there, like she belonged.

The scent of her hair rose up to meet him.

Familiar.

Soft.

Like home.

“Shut up, Max,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. “Just tell me you love me.”

His breath hitched.

His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, afraid to let go.

“I love you, Flower,” he murmured into her hair. “Always.”

She sighed. A broken, fragile sound.

“I know you do,” she said, voice trembling. “But I don’t want you to go.”

Her grip tightened.

Max felt her fingers press harder into his back, as if she could anchor him there. As if she could hold him in place and keep the inevitable from happening.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “I’m not leaving for another three months. I promise, it’ll be over before you know it.”

Her body shook. She buried her face in his chest, breath hitching, sobbing against him.

“No, Max, you don’t understand.”

She pulled back.

Max’s stomach turned.

Her face . . . Blood.

It streaked down her cheek, smeared across her temple, dark and wet and wrong.

“Flower?” His voice barely worked.

She stepped back. “Max, I don’t want you to wake up.”

Max’s breath stilled. Then he felt it. The warmth spread across his chest. He looked down.

His shirt was soaked . . . Blood. Seeping outward, blooming across the fabric in deep, scarlet waves. His hands shot up, pressing against the source. Fingers came away wet. Dripping . . . Crimson.

He lifted his gaze to her, desperate, pleading.

“I miss you, Max,” she whispered, voice cracking with grief.

“I’m right here… "

Pain . . . A white-hot explosion in his chest.

His spine arched involuntarily as another jolt struck.

He tried to scream but his mouth wouldn’t move. Something forced his jaw open, pried it apart, shoving air down his throat. Blinding light swallowed him whole.

Then . . . Voices.

“He’s back! I have a pulse!”

The room snapped into focus. Too bright. Too loud. Harsh fluorescent lights flickering. Monitors screaming. The rustle of scrubs. The scrape of wheels against tile. The frantic movement of people swarming around him.

A doctor stood to his side, holding a pair of Defibrillator paddles.

His chest heaved, lungs burning, throat raw as the breathing tube choked him. The weight of it, the way it cut into his throat . . .

He gagged.

Sweat soaked his hospital gown, dampening the sheets beneath him.

The world spun.

Her face still lingered behind his eyelids.

Tears slid down his temples.

Had his new heart stopped? Had that memory just been his life rushing past his eye’s . . . before he . . .

No!..

His fists clenched against the sheets.

Not yet . . .

Not . . . yet . . .

He focused past the pain. Past the chaos.

Just a little longer . . .