The boy stood below the portrait. His lady. Her. His tiny form swayed slowly from side to side, the precious notebook slipping from his hand. It fell to the floor with a quiet fluff of disturbed dust ballooning out into a miniature mushroom cloud of destruction.
And he sang ever so softly, “Close your eyes; have no fear. The monster’s gone; he’s on the run and your mommy’s here...” The gentle melody drifted through the house in a futile effort to breath life into a place long dead. Though he did not know why, the boy cried, quietly and without dramatics.

He didn’t know how long he’d stood there and cried, like a girl he thought, chiding himself. But his shirt was damp, and his cheeks felt raw and cold. The lady in the portrait remained as pristine as when he had arrived, still blanketed in comforting dust. His little chest heaved an over-sized sigh.
As his breath came out, a creak from somewhere below announced that he was not alone. The house was no longer still. His lady had another visitor.