arlo hornsbee —「d5. fin.」cbd 3

This is a story about being the scion of a dying house, the best storyteller in class, a travelling magician, a vintage collector, and a compulsive liar.

What? I am kind of a scion. Isn’t that a fancy word for prince? My Nana calls me a prince so that has to be the truth. But what is truth anyway but a rigid scheme, a load of boringness? I lie because there is magic in bending the truth. And I steal—or well, borrow things from people sometimes, too. It’s not malicious. It’s not important items either, but small and sentiment objects such as their favorite yellow scarf, or a memorial ring on their finger, or a necklace they looked so beautiful wearing. The small stuff. The sort of stuff that doesn’t have much monetary value but something more than that. I stole my father’s favorite watch before the day he left us, and I know he has to come back for it. Those are the things I steal—the things you have to come back and get, because they mean more than they appear to you. And I love all my baubles and trinkets equally. I take care of these things until their owners remember them again.