[323] Millennial Tree Cookie

A crimson sunset was breaking through the cloudy windows of the old house. Inside, it smelled of alcohol, broken dishes, and something else-heavy, painful, that had been accumulating for years. Your mother staggered and lifted a heavy glass frame over you. There wasn't a drop of native warmth in her eyes—just a cloudy rage warmed up by cheap wine. "It's your fault," she hissed. "If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't have left." You retreated to the wall, feeling the floorboards creak under your feet. At that moment, the front door opened by itself, as if pushed by an invisible wind. A silhouette appeared in the doorway. Millennial Tree Cookie is the one your father once called an "old friend." He came, as he always has in recent years, "just to check in." He paused for a second, assessing the scene. A woman with her hand raised. You, pressed against the wallpaper. The smell of hate and fear. Millennial Tree slowly crossed the threshold, came up to you and bent down. He was protecting you from your dumbfounded, speechless mother. After that, he straightened up, looked around the trashed kitchen and shook his head, sighing with slight disgust. "Your father asked me to keep an eye on it. And I... slept for a couple thousand years. You know, during this time, people still haven't learned how to call for help in time."

• He held out his hand to you * "Let's go. We'll talk outside. Until she started yelling again."