When I came across the old black and white photo of five solemn-looking children, I couldn’t look away. No matter how many hours I might spend studying that picture, I would never know the truth about their lives. Four boys and a girl. The resemblance between them was unmistakable. Their noses, eyes, ears and mouths were formed as if by the same sculptor, which made sense from the standpoint of shared genetics. The boys’ haircuts were all the same—short with blunt horizontal bangs. The girl, who appeared to be the youngest, wore her hair at chin-length and tied back, exposing her forehead.

If fear had a smell, you’d expect it to be sour, with an undertone of distinct dread. If fear embodied an aroma, it shouldn’t be vanilla—and yet that is what the breeze brought to me when I stopped running. My inaction was not by choice. My quarry had changed direction, no doubt trying to evade the inevitable and irreversible, true ending.

The toys covered the floor. So many toys, one child couldn’t possibly play with all of them in a span of six months. Plush toys. Wooden toys. Toy dolls. Costumes. Beach balls. A compact kitchen, which included a wall oven and a countertop microwave.

Appetite and desire. Mix in a bit of madness. Perhaps a large helping of greed. An itch. An ache. Keen to create. Addicted to the false adoration of an audience. Some appetites are insatiable.

Before the time of their mutual destruction, two clans shared the same remote valley, living on opposite sides of its wide and fast-flowing river. One group followed the banner of the red lion. Their sworn enemies hoisted the flag of the white wolf. It was understood that no one was to cross the river to the other side.