The skitter-skritch of claws and paw-pads scrabbling against the wooden floors carries to Ozzy’s studio, alerting him to his imminent visitor—or at least, it would have, had he not been so focused on the painting in front of him: gloomy clouds, towering castles and lavish fountains, their once-colourful images now rendered in nothing but shades of grey.

“Arf! Arf!”

Ozzy’s ears twitch as his little friend’s presence registers to him, but he doesn’t look away from his painting—he’s trying to get the shadows just right, and he’s always had a hard time with the smaller, more delicate brushes required for fine details. Broad, sweeping strokes with large brushes are more his style, but that doesn’t seem to catch anyone’s attention, so maybe if he tries something different…

“Not now, Styx. I’m almost done…” 

Apparently undeterred, Styx trots into the room and marches right up to Ozzy’s feet. He’s got a stick in his mouth, as usual—he’s amassed quite a collection now, all of them piled up at the foot of Ozzy’s bed where Styx likes to sleep—and he drops it right where Ozzy can see it in his periphery, tail wagging and tongue cheerfully hanging halfway out of his mouth. 

Ozzy glances down at it and frowns, truly rueful. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t stop right now. We’ll play later, okay? Promise.” 

With a whimper, Styx lowers his head. His ears droop and the tip of his fluffy tail brushes against the ground, and for a moment, Ozzy feels something pulling at his heartstrings. He really is busy, though, and he wasn’t lying about promising to play with Styx later…

But strangely enough, Styx perks up a moment later, turning and scampering off to a different corner of the room. Ozzy glances at him as the little guy rummages through a messy array of canvases, palettes, and a collapsed easel or two, but doesn’t pay too much attention. He probably spotted something that looked like another stick. 

A moment later, the Doglefox emerges with something in his mouth. Ozzy doesn’t really see it, since he’s turned back to his painting, but his attention is drawn back to his fluffy friend when he drops whatever he’d been holding and nudges Ozzy’s foot with his nose.

“Ruff!”

Ozzy sighs, scrunching his eyes shut for a moment and laying his paint brush aside. “All right, all right, what is…”

The Grey Paint Brush Plushie stares up at him from the floor, balls of dust and cobwebs clinging to it. The room goes cold, all of a sudden, and a lump forms in Ozzy’s throat, icy and sharp like he’d just swallowed an iceberg.

Styx bends down to nudge the plushie toward him with his nose. His tail is wagging, his ears flopping as he raises his head. Ozzy turns away briskly, back to his latest black-and-white painting.

“Why do you want to know about that? It’s… it’s nothing. Nothing important, anyway.” It hurts him to say it, but the anger and sadness burning inside him and melting the lump in his throat—the abandonment he can still feel branding him just as strongly today as it had when he’d first seen Nyx reading that letter—hurts even more. 

Styx whimpers. He picks the Paint Brush Plushie back up and nudges Ozzy’s foot with his snout, but Ozzy doesn’t turn around to look at it, or him, again.

“I told you it’s nothing,” he snaps, hating how his voice comes out broken but cold. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want it anymore.” 

Another whine, but this time Styx backs off. Ozzy can hear the scritch-scratch of his claws against the wooden floor, leaving this time, but he chooses to ignore it. He’d forgotten all about that stupid plushie before now.

He’d wanted to forget all about that stupid plushie.

“But then things started to change. 

“Again.”