Addiction

The boy sat beside the fire, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames but seeing something far beyond them—some shadowed place where his demons stirred. He drew in a breath, shallow and uncertain.

“How does one escape the grip of addiction?” he asked, his voice barely above the crackle of wood.

The old man didn’t answer at once. He remained still, his gaze resting on the night sky, as if weighing stars instead of words.

At last, he said, “You wish to kill your addiction?”

The boy nodded.

The old man turned to him, and his eyes were not unkind.
“Then kill your fantasies.”

Silence settled between them. The boy furrowed his brow, frowning into the firelight.

“But… not every addiction is born of fantasies,” he said.

The old man gave a slow, tired smile, the kind that knows too much and says too little. He didn’t look at the boy when he replied.

“Perhaps. But you know which one I mean.”