The house of Belvin, a dilapidated country house at the back of an alley lined with willow trees, if looked at through the lens of geography, is nothing but a shy dwelling at the vicinity of Morano village, in the northern province of Santi; but to me and Eva it was the palace to which we sought refuge after having played till dusk in the city main, and when night came, we ran back with downward gazes, lest we look into the eyes of the demons perching above.

We never entirely knew what came to pass that we ended up here, and it was only the occasional murmurs heard when we were buried whole under our blankets that gave some clue as to the reason for our relocation. It had something to do with father's work. That much I knew. But however be it, our sudden search for a new home led us here, where by chance some local agent sealed the deal for the place and father, seeing that here was the most comfortable place for spending the upcoming years and having the benefit of decent scenery, gave in.

It had become a recurring thing for me lately, when at the time we stepped back home after a day of fun, the sight of the house would remind me of the day we moved in, almost a month ago. Upon our first setting foot in, we found a gun, stained with dried blood, leaning against the wall of one of the backrooms. Father had inquired the agent about it, who seemed by all means to be as bewildered as him, remarking that the house had not been occupied for some considerable years. The inability to determine a plausible origin for this object made for a peculiar incident, but after the agent's leaving, and his final considerations taken into account, father decided to clean it, put it in a drawer and lock it, in case it might be of use.

Sudden as the incident was, I was curiously drawn to that thing father hid from us behind the locked drawer, and were it that I had more time to look closely at it, perhaps my fascination with it would have abated. As it was, that rifle and its burnt-umber stock never left my imagination. I was bewitched to hold it in my hands, to feel it. My days passed with the thought of mine and Eva's daily ventures, the preparations for school and the house chores, but midmost of them all the shape of the gun would seep itself glowingly, where all the others revolved around. It was before one of our daily excursions that I saw the drawer's key in pa's room, dropped sideways on his desk. Tempted, I excused myself to not go out for the evening walk with Eva.

With Ma and Pa out and Eva playing in the backyard all day, I found myself preoccupied with the thought of bringing out the rifle. I kept wondering what it would be like to hold it in my hands, even just for a moment, to examine it up close. Would anyone notice if I put it back in its place within a minute? I couldn’t help but think about how it would feel! The thought that no one would dare come near me with it in my hands sent a thrill through my veins, to which I ultimately gave in.

I stepped inside father's study, where to my disappointment, the keys had seemed to have vanished. With my childhood fantasies and the delirium induced in me by the object of my desire, I set about searching the room, knowing the futility of my endeavor, and to my astonishment, found the keys hiding behind one of the cases father kept on his work desk. Ma had gone out for the groceries and the time could not have been any better.

With much excitement I ran back quietly and snuck into the room where the drawer had been. Hearing the clank and seeing the outline of the gun inside brought with it a warm sense of clarity. It was better even than what I could have imagined. I brought it out and sat myself, praising the creases, and deep in meditation and awe became one with the golden plaques on its both sides.

But my voracity knew no bounds. Burning with excitement to do something with it and seeing the moment apt, I grabbed the gun with me and went for a walk through the orchards on the eastern side of the house that led to the river. On the walk through the orchards, in solitude and the company of no soul but my own, I became invigorated with the heft of the rifle in my hands and felt the breeze more strongly than could have been felt by one who did not have what I held leaning on my chest.

It was some time past the advent of spring, and the river shone with the tranquility of the sunbeams above it. Taking light steps around the curve of the river, I stopped for a moment, taking in the surroundings, but in the midst of all the sounds coming from various directions, found nothing more comforting than the clink-clink of the machinery moving with my hands. To point at something and to have it in my grasp felt to me then as the most natural thing, and however awkwardly I held the gun, I brought it up to look closer at something—a fish jumping or a bird moving in from above—an innocent experiment to satiate my wonderment at how it would feel to shoot.

When I pulled the trigger, to my shock and sudden, visible leaving of my soul from its corporeal counterpart, forth flew a bullet, vested inside, that was not taken out. Its loud noise rippled through me and knocked me on the ground. The birds, in unison, flew in all directions and were out of sight in less time than it took for me to gather myself up. The fish seemed to have taken refuge in the depths.

Terrified of the attention the sound would bring, I looked back from my shoulder at the gun I had dropped, but dared not take it. It had taken a fiendish look, and not being able to bear fear shoring up in me any longer, I started running for the orchards. Nature's repose had taken a pause and the beating of my heart and throat had taken its place.

But when after countless strides the side door of the house came into view, I felt as though the reprieve that I sought would not be granted with me alone. What would someone who finds it do? What if they go further? What if they came to our house. The thought that someone, maybe a kid like me, could find the gun, and what would they then do with it struck me with great force, fear pouring into my back.

Running back with my whole frame shaking and fatigue taking root at the edges of my body, I found the gun, muddy and carefree, taking shade beside some bushes. It was dusk when I entered the house from the side door, and night was starting to creep in. No one was home yet. Eva seemed to have not taken notice of the sound and was lost in a book, her head buried down in it.

Sneaking past her, I went through the corridors and soon, looking around me in utter terror and glancing sideways at the windows, found myself in the now darkened room where I had got the gun. The sweet sound of mother came from outside, calling us, and Pa was also with her. I put the gun inside, knowing it was the proper place for it to be.