The Thief of Broken Toys Read Online Free PDF

he
was mostly safe where he walked now.
    A gust of wind brought the scents of the sea,
and rain stung the right side of his face. He
heard a cough, and cleared his throat before
realizing the sound had not come from him.
    Ray
paused,
motionless
beneath
the
weather doing its best to set him tumbling,
or rolling, or rushing back for shelter. A chill
ran down his back like a drip of icy water, and
he squinted as he scanned the path ahead
of him. A dozen steps from where he stood,
slightly uphill, a holly tree leaned toward the
sea, and he remembered that directly beyond
it the path veered left and down a short
series of uneven, naturally formed steps. A
shadow stood beneath that tree now, so still
he wondered whether it was his own. But the
moon was to his right, not behind him. And
then the shape dropped away along the path.
    â€œHey!” Ray called, because the complicit
storm of rain and wind needed breaking.
He stumbled ahead, slipping and almost
sprawling in the mud, heart thudding and
chest pulsing from the shock. When he found
his feet again and paused beneath the holly,
the path ahead and below him appeared
empty. He moved on, stepping carefully down
the rocky steps. Movement ahead drew his
attention again, and as he glanced up, his foot
slipped. He reached out and grasped a branch
hanging above him, howling as several leaf
spikes pierced his palm and fingers.
    The shadow moved along the path and then
paused again, as if drawing him on.
    Ray let go of the branch and put his hand to
his mouth. He tasted blood.
It doesn’t matter
,
he thought.
Even if it is someone, I don’t need
to meet them
. But something about the vague
form lured him on, and he followed.
    He passed by several places that held
memories of Toby, but kept his eyes on the
figure. It maintained the same distance
between them, however fast or slow Ray
moved. Once, he started running along a
stretch of path he knew to be relatively level
and unhindered by protruding stones or roots.
The shadow also ran.
    At last he paused, examining his stillbleeding hand in the moonlight. Rain diluted
the blood and swilled it across his palm and
wrist, inside the arm of his coat to stain the
fabric in there.
    â€œFuck you!” he shouted into the storm, and
he turned around to walk back the way he had
come. At home he’d build the first fire of the
winter, lock all the doors, close the curtains,
and his house would become his castle against
the world. He would open a bottle of wine —
just for a glass or two, because drinking
never numbed the pain — and listen to the
storm defeated against the walls. If memories
came to haunt, so be it. If tears came, he
would let them flow. But he could rest with
the knowledge that he’d at least commenced
clearing Toby’s room. Over the next few days
the room would change, and as it became a
spare room for visitors that never came, so he
too would try to move on. He’d always hated
symbolism — he prided himself on his straight
thinking — but sometimes, since Toby’s death,
it was the only way he could see things.
    â€œHave you brought me a broken toy?” a
voice said.
    Ray spun around. An old man stood several
feet from him along the path. His voice had
carried well, though he’d spoken softly.
    â€œWho . . . who are you?”
    â€œJust an old man.” He eyed Ray up and
down, expression neutral. He wore a long black
raincoat with a hood pulled over his head, and
he stood leaning forward slightly, right hand
propped against his right knee. It was a calm
pose, as opposed to a frail one.
    â€œWhat toy?” Ray asked.
How did he know?
What was this?
He brushed his hand across his
coat, feeling the uneven shape of the Ben 10
watch in his pocket.
    The old man blinked, and water gathered
on his long eyelashes.
    Ray took a step forward to see the man
clearer. It was an unconscious decision, and
as his foot lifted and moved forward, he was
assaulted by a flood of