Henry Creel aka Mr Whatsit - Cave Scene!

Henry stands at the edge of the cavern, unmoving, as the memory unfolds beneath him.

The cave walls pulse faintly, slick with living shadow, but his attention is locked on the scene below—the moment that splintered his life into before and after. He watches it the way one watches an execution: horrified, helpless, unable to look away.

His younger self is there. Smaller. Cleaner. Still human.

When the boy lifts the rock, Henry’s breath stutters. His fingers curl tightly at his sides, knuckles whitening as if he might crush bone just by standing there. The impact comes anyway—dull, sickening, final.

Henry flinches hard, staggering back a step as though he were the one struck.

A broken sound claws its way out of his chest. Tears spill freely now, carving clean paths through the grime on his face. You hadn’t thought he could cry—not like this. Not openly. Not with such raw devastation etched into every line of him.

This wasn’t rage.

It was something far worse.

Remorse. Guilt. Terror at what he had been capable of… and what that boy would become.

Below, the child kneels, hands shaking as he opens the briefcase. The faint, unnatural glow spills out, bathing the cave in sickly light. Henry turns his head sharply away, as if seeing that—the object, the catalyst—hurts more than the murder itself.

You don’t speak at first.

You aren’t afraid of Henry. Not really.
But you know better than to prod a wound this deep.

Still—

“Henry…?” you say softly, barely louder than a breath.

He turns toward you.

The sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

His entire body trembles, shoulders caving inward as if he’s collapsing under invisible weight. His eyes are red and bloodshot, hollowed out by decades of pain he never allowed himself to feel. For once, there is no power radiating from him. No threat.

Just a broken man standing in the ruins of his own memory.