Chapter 9

Sheep

Max thumbed to the next page of the tattered hardback. The cover, once navy blue, had faded to the colour of old denim. The title, The Little Prince, was still just visible, though the spine had long since given up pretending it held the book together.

He sat propped against a mound of pillows on the single bed. Most of the space technically belonged to Magnus, though the stuffed animals had a strong claim. An oversized fox lay slumped across the foot of the mattress, its shape distorted by years of enthusiastic affection. The sheets beneath them were printed with rockets and planets, their colours softened by time and washing.

The room felt like a small, self-contained universe. Childhood wonder mixed with furniture that had clearly lived elsewhere first.

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

Magnus, his eight-year-old son, was curled against Max’s side in space-themed pyjamas that almost matched the bedspread. His head rested on Max’s chest, rising and falling with his father’s breathing, his weight warm and reassuring.

“Yes, well, this story is a little hard to follow,” Max said gently. His voice was hoarse, worn thin by late nights and long conversations. “Maybe it’s not for you. Have you followed the rest so far?”

“I think so,” Magnus said, fingers worrying a loose thread on the blanket. “A pilot crashes his plane in the desert, then he meets a boy called the Little Prince. The Prince asks the pilot to draw him a sheep, but he’s really picky. He doesn’t like any of the pilot’s drawings. Then the pilot just draws a box with air holes and says the sheep’s inside, and the Little Prince says that one’s perfect.”

Max nodded. “Sounds like you’re keeping up. So what’s bothering you?”

“It doesn’t explain why it’s the best picture of a sheep,” Magnus said, frowning. “You can’t even see it. It’s just a box.”

Max laughed, the sound low in his chest. Magnus bounced slightly with it.

“Daaad.”

“Sorry,” Max said, trying to rein it in. “You always ask good questions.”

Magnus tilted his head to look up at him. “Do you think I’ll be an astronaut when I’m older?”

“You can be whatever you want,” Max said, warmth softening his smile. “Asking questions is the important part.”

Magnus grinned, all teeth and pride.

“Now,” Max said, tapping the open page, “shall we try something else? This one’s a bit strange.”

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

Max hesitated, his thumb resting on the brittle paper. “Yes, but—”

“Then I want to read it too,” Magnus said, bouncing slightly. “You can explain the hard bits. Like how he gets the sheep out of the picture.”

Max shook his head, smiling. “That’s the thing. I don’t think he ever does.”

Magnus stared at him, genuinely unsettled. “But you know everything. Why would you like a book you don’t understand?”

Max didn’t answer straight away. His fingers brushed the frayed edge of the cover as he glanced toward the open doorway. The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that made a man lower his voice without knowing why.

Satisfied they were alone, he leaned closer.

“Want to hear a theory of mine?” he whispered.

Magnus’s eyes widened. He wriggled closer. “Is this so Mum doesn’t hear? Is it science stuff?”

“Something like that,” Max said. “She teases me about it. Best not to give her more material.”

He paused, then added, softer still, “I think the book has another story hiding inside it. One people are meant to miss. Most of them do.”

The lights in Magnus’s room flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then they steadied.

Both of them froze.

Only after the hum of the house returned did Max realise he’d been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, careful not to move, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

Magnus chewed his lip.

“Dad…?”

“Yes, Moonbeam.”

A pause. Then, barely a whisper.

“Is the house… haunted?”

Max blinked. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Magnus turned toward the corner of the room. The wooden panelling there didn’t quite sit flush with the wall. It was older. Darker. Something structural that had been built around, not removed.

“Sometimes,” Magnus said quietly, “when the lights flicker, I feel like there are ghosts in the walls. I hear them. Banging.”

He pointed. His hand shook.

Max followed his gaze.

“That’s normal,” Max said gently. “When people get scared, their brains start filling in gaps. You imagine things that aren’t really there.”

Magnus considered this, fingers twisting the duvet as he worked through it, slow and deliberate.

“But,” he whispered at last, his voice so quiet it almost vanished into the steady hum of the house, “what if it’s the other way around, Dad?”

Max’s head tilted slightly as he tried to parse the question.

“The other way around?”

Magnus swallowed, his small Adam’s apple bobbing. He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

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

The air in the room felt thicker.

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

A chill crept along Max’s spine.

It was ridiculous. Kids said strange things all the time.

But the careful way Magnus spoke, the thought-out precision of it, made the words feel heavier.

Not like a question.

Like a memory.

“Magnus—”

“Not the kind of scared you get when someone’s mean to you,” Magnus interrupted, his voice trembling now. “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 stretch for a heartbeat, as if something long and thin had unfurled its fingers from the corner.

Then the noise came again.

A sharp rustling from behind the panelling. Scraping. Something moving.

Magnus went rigid.

“That,” Max said quickly, squeezing his shoulder, “is a mouse.”

Magnus looked from his father to the wall. “A mouse?”

“Yep.” Max nodded, calm and steady. “They get into the walls. Chew insulation. Mess with wiring. That’s what’s been flickering the lights.”

“But it sounded big.”

“Walls amplify sound,” Max said. “A tiny mouse can sound like a monster in there.”

Magnus hesitated.

Then, slowly, he relaxed back into the blankets.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He let out a breath, the tension draining from his shoulders.

“Okay.”

“I’ll call someone in the morning,” Max added.

Magnus nodded, already burrowing deeper beneath the duvet.

A moment passed.

“But Dad—”

Max didn’t look at him. He already knew what was coming.

“The story,” Magnus murmured. “You said you know why the prince wanted the box.”

Max glanced at the clock. Red numbers glowed softly in the dark.

“I said I had a theory,” he replied. “It’s late.”

“Please,” Magnus said. “Just tell me. Then we can read more tomorrow.”

Max sighed.

He glanced toward the doorway.

Nothing there.

Still, he lowered his voice.

“All right,” he said. “I never solved the whole book. I found pieces. Clues. Maybe we can figure the rest out together.”

Magnus’s eyes lit up.

Max hesitated, then said, “Ever heard of Schrödinger’s cat?”

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

Max laughed softly. “No. Not a real cat. It’s something called a thought experiment. A brain puzzle.”

“So… pretend?”

“Exactly. Imagine a cat in a box. You can’t see inside. No one knows what’s happening in there.”

Magnus pushed himself up on one elbow. “Like the sheep.”

Max smiled. “Like the sheep. Only this one has a vial of poison in the box.”

Magnus recoiled. “That’s horrible!”

“It’s just an idea,” Max said quickly. “No real cat.”

Magnus frowned. “But wouldn’t it get sick from the radioactive thing?”

Max paused. He hadn’t expected that.

“Well… yes. If it were real.”

“And does it have air?”

Max sighed. “You’re ruining the experiment.”

Magnus grinned. “You’re the scientist.”

“Fine,” Max said. “Magic box. No poison problems. No air problems. Just imagination.”

Magnus settled back. “So a magic pretend cat. In a magic pretend box.”

“Right. And until someone opens it, the cat is both alive and dead.”

Magnus considered this. “Like a zombie?”

“No,” Max said, laughing. “Just everything at once, until we look.”

Magnus nodded slowly. “That’s kinda cool.”

Max brushed his son’s hair. “That’s why the prince didn’t want to see the sheep. He only wanted the sheep to exist as a possibility inside his imagination.”

Magnus’s breathing slowed.

“So… it’s a magic sheep,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Max whispered. “Something like that. I always felt it was important. I just never worked out why.”

A pause.

“We’ll read more tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Max said, kissing his head. “No more ghosts tonight, okay.”

A sleepy mumble. “Still doesn’t make sense.”

Max smiled and closed the book, his hand resting on the worn cover.

“One day,” he said softly. “We’ll work it out.”

Magnus was already drifting, his weight sinking into the pillows.

Max waited until the breathing evened out. Then he eased himself free, tucked the duvet around his son, and kissed his forehead.

“I love you, Moonbeam.”

Magnus didn’t stir.

Max turned toward the door.

And stopped.

She stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching him with that familiar smile. Warm. Knowing. Dangerous in its gentleness.

“Maximus,” she said softly, fondness and warning intertwined. “What have I told you about filling our son’s head with quantum physics?”

She pushed away from the door frame, her movements unhurried but deliberate.

Max didn’t move.

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

She stepped closer.

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

“But he asked—”

Her arms slipped around his waist, cutting him off.

She pressed her head to his chest, fitting there like she always had. Like she belonged. Like this was where she had always been meant to stand.

The scent of her hair rose around him.

Familiar.

Soft.

Home.

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

His breath hitched.

His arms closed around her, holding her tightly, afraid to let go.

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

She sighed. A fragile, broken sound.

“I know you do,” she said, her 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 was streaked with blood.

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

“Flower?” His voice barely formed the word.

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

His breath stopped.

Then he felt it.

Warmth spread across his chest.

He looked down.

His shirt was soaked. Blood seeped outward, blooming across the fabric in deep scarlet waves. His hands flew up, pressing against the source. His fingers came away slick.

Dripping.

Crimson.

He lifted his gaze to her, desperate, pleading.

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

“I’m right here—”

Pain detonated through him.

White hot. Overwhelming.

Not the pain of injury.

Electricity.

His spine arched as another shock tore through him. His jaw was forced open. Air was driven into his lungs, sharp and invasive.

Light swallowed the room.

Voices burst in from everywhere.

“He’s back. I have a pulse.”

The world snapped violently into focus.

Fluorescent lights. Alarms screaming. Monitors shrieking in uneven rhythms. Scrubs rushing past. Wheels rattling across tile.

A doctor loomed beside him, defibrillator paddles still in hand.

His chest convulsed. His lungs burned. A tube filled his throat, gagging him, forcing breath where it did not belong.

He gagged.

Sweat soaked his hospital gown. The sheets beneath him were damp.

The room spun.

Her face lingered behind his eyelids.

Tears slid sideways into his hair.

Had his new heart stopped?

Had that been his mind clawing backward through memory before the end?

No.

Not yet.

His fists clenched weakly in the sheets.

Just a little longer.