The sweater

He held the knife, his fingertips shifting the organs exposed inside the chest cavity. Cold, soft organs that had long since stopped beating folded beneath his fingers. There was no hesitation in his movements, not a trace of discomfort, as though he were handling a puppet.

There was no curiosity, no fear, not even a hint of inquiry, only an almost mechanical calm.

He was touching the texture of death, feeling the emptiness left after life had faded. In that utter cold and stillness, he digested the helplessness in his heart that had nowhere to go, while quietly nurturing an extreme hunger for power-he wanted to learn what death looked like, to know what kind of power could make those who wanted to hurt him and you sink into this same stillness forever, never to open their eyes again.

The morgue's chill mingled with the smell of formalin in the air. The firelight before the hearth, the deep purple bruises around your neck, the helplessness of clutching the hem of your clothes-all slowly settled through that icy touch, becoming an obsession etched into his very bones and blood.

Isabel remained silent. Only the faint clink of forceps against a metal tray occasionally broke the deathly quiet, as though beating out a silent rhythm for Freddy's movements.

Under the cold white light, his blue-green eyes reflected the cold and broken things before him without a trace of warmth. All that remained was a cold-tempered indifference, and deep beneath it, a hard, cold flame slowly beginning to burn.

Cold white light fell across the aligned bone seams. The scalpel at Freddy's fingertips paused, and the pad of his finger brushed the curve of a rib with the familiarity of someone who had done it thousands of times-he had a butcher's skill, but none of a butcher's roughness, only an almost precise indifference. Even the pressure he used to fold back the organs was exact.

Isabel looked up from the register and swept her gaze over his back, the suture needle held in her forceps suspended in midair. She had seen medical interns' hands shake before corpses, had seen the caution of experienced forensic pathologists during dissections, but she had never seen an eleven-year-old child understand the boundaries between flesh and bone so thoroughly, as though he had been born to stand in this cold.

The anatomical diagrams from the book lay crumpled in his pocket, their corners stained with formalin, yet his blade never went wrong. The course of the arteries along the neck, the arrangement of organs within the chest, even the weak points where bones joined-all were carved into his mind, more clearly than in any apprentice she had ever seen.

A vague judgment flitted through her mind-talent. This child harbored a cold, hard talent. Directed down the right path, it meant a white coat and a stethoscope, saving lives at the dissection table; directed astray, it meant a knife hidden in the shadows, striking precisely into the softest part of a person's heart.

But it only flitted through. The suture needle at her fingertips descended, piercing the white cloth and leaving fine, close stitches. Whether he became a doctor holding a scalpel or a devil holding a murder weapon was, to her, no more than two fallen leaves drifting past the funeral home's entrance. Wherever the wind blew, they would go. It had nothing to do with her.

The sky gradually darkened. When the alarm clock hanging on the wall as a reminder began to ring, Isabel cremated the dismembered corpse. In the end, the whole person, all his experiences both before and after death, became nothing more than the contents of a small urn.

Freddy threw away his gloves, gave his hands a quick wash, and took the windiest road home so the wind could carry away the scent of death clinging to him.

He knew it was Christmas. Klein had told him several days ago that they would hang baubles beside the fireplace together, make a fake Christmas tree out of green velvet, and bake cinnamon bread, saying that was what the holiday ought to look like. There was also the sweater Klein had been secretly knitting for ages. He had noticed it long ago.

He could not help passing the house that had once caused him such suffering. It looked utterly out of place among the other homes on the street. Even at Christmas, no one had done much to decorate it. How sorrowful and broken this place was, yet he had been bound to it, as though he could never escape. That was what he had once thought, but things were different now.

Even before he met him, Christmas had only recently passed. How had he spent that Christmas?

"Useless brat! Standing there like a rotten lump of wood! I'd be better off keeping a dog than raising you!"

The man's curses came crashing down, followed by the sharp crack of a belt against his arm. Searing pain exploded in an instant. Freddy bit his lip, afraid to cry, his fingers digging into the plaster on the wall, crumbs lodging beneath his nails-he had only wanted to pick up half a piece of bread from the floor when his drunken foster father seized him by the back of his collar and hauled him up. The belt fell again and again across his back and thighs, making him sway, new wounds layered over old scars, the pain piercing his heart.

Underwood grabbed his hair and pressed his face against the cold edge of the stove, spraying alcohol-laden breath into his face.

"You were born a curse, the spawn of a hundred lunatics! I only keep you for that little welfare check. You think you deserve Christmas food?"

The handle of the belt struck his forehead. After the dull thud, his vision kept going black. He saw disgust and brutality in the man's eyes, as though he were looking at a worthless piece of trash. Even the kicks and blows carried a perfunctory irritation.

The Christmas lights outside glowed warmly, bells ringing clear, but inside this broken-down house there was only the lash of the belt, the man's curses, and his own sobs, stifled until they were almost inaudible. Freddy curled up on the floor, the pain in his back burrowing along his bones into his heart.

He buried his face against the cold floor, smelling dust and alcohol, and tightly gripped the shard of glass hidden in his sleeve-he had picked it up, its edges ground sharp. It pressed into his palm, the pain keeping him clearheaded enough to remember every lash, to remember the cold of this Christmas Eve, to remember this bone-deep hatred.

When Underwood tired of beating him, he spat and threw the belt onto him. "Get into the corner. Don't expect any dinner tonight."

Then he turned and went back into the living room, switching on the radio. The Christmas songs coming from it mingled with his drunken belches, grating and ironic.

A cold gust made him shudder, finally bringing him back to himself, and he walked on.

When he arrived home, the fire was blazing in the hearth, and a warm, sweet fragrance filled the house. Baked gingerbread and cookies already sat on the table by the door.

Then Klein came out of the kitchen at the sound of the door opening and closing. He wore a red top decorated with a Christmas tree bearing a star, bells, and ribbons, looking warm and lovely. He walked over and, with easy familiarity, took off Freddy's scarf and hat and rubbed his frozen cheeks.

"Are you cold?"

Freddy shook his head, yet craved the warmth of the hands against his cheeks more than anything.

"Then have a few treats to tide you over. Dinner will be ready soon."

The warm glow of a happy Christmas surrounded him. The fire crackled with a sweet fragrance, and baubles shimmered softly among the pine branches.

While he went upstairs to change, a carefully wrapped present appeared beneath the not particularly large but lavishly decorated artificial Christmas tree made of fluffy garlands.

"Looks like Santa's been here~"

That was what Klein said, but Freddy had never believed Santa existed, and Klein knew it. He turned to see Klein's face full of teasing smiles-he knew perfectly well.

He opened the box, but it was not quite what he had imagined. It was a set of scalpels that looked expensive at a glance. Each blade had a protective cover, yet still gleamed coldly. Klein was always so thoughtful. This should have been the gift most to his liking, but now, as the warm firelight fell across the blades, it somehow lent the cold metal a lonely chill.

But...

There was something he wanted more. Something soft, perhaps?

Like that sweater...

Freddy loosened his fingertips against the edge of the gift box, the cold silver gleam of the blades reflected in his blue-green eyes.

He gently pushed the box beside the Christmas tree, then turned and walked up to Klein. When he stopped, the tip of his nose barely reached Klein's chest. His body was held rigid, and his fingers curled. First, he brushed the little bell embroidered on the hem of Klein's clothes, then quickly drew his hand back.

He looked up, his lowered lashes hiding some of the unease in his eyes. His voice was quieter than usual, but every word was clear, carrying a little of a child's stubbornness.

"Klein."

At that moment, I was taking the not particularly large roast chicken out of the oven. Its skin was glossy and crisp, with potatoes and broccoli arranged around it as decoration, and the scent of fat and seasonings wafted into my face.

"What is it? Is something wrong with the present? Santa said this was your favorite gift."

Freddy neither shook his head nor nodded. His gaze seemed to pass beyond him, back to a few days earlier, before he had come down the stairs, when Klein had seemed to be racking his brains in a struggle with two sewing needles. In his hands, those needles had seemed alive, but they would not obey their owner.

He pressed his lips together, edged another half step closer, and reached up to catch Klein's wrist, pressing his fingertips firmly against the warm skin.

He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, as though composing the most awkward words of his life.

"The sweater..."

I had not heard him clearly. His mumbling lips had moved rapidly a couple of times, his head still lowered.

"What did you say?"

Freddy swallowed and said, a little hoarsely and hesitantly, "My classmate got a sweater. Red and green. It looked... very warm..."

Seeing him beat around the bush like this, how could I not understand? I smiled a little sheepishly.

"You saw it? Looks like I didn't hide it very well."

I rubbed my head in embarrassment, then turned and pulled a sweater from a corner of the sofa. Just as he had imagined, it had red and green stripes with crooked stitches, and it was a little too big.

Freddy's gaze snapped straight to the sweater.

"I wanted to knit a pattern, like a Christmas tree or a teddy bear or something, but... I could barely even get a striped sweater into the right shape."

He watched Klein hand him the sweater. Its crooked stitches tangled together, one side of the neckline sat higher than the other, and the red and green clashed a little.

He reached out. As the sweater's fuzzy surface brushed his fingertips, its warm softness spread up from the pads of his fingers.