Thalion Silver

Marcus sat at the edge of his mother’s bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. At age fifty-three, he carried more of it than he’d like. The cardboard box in his lap seemed to stare back at him.

OLD CLOTHES were scribbled on it in fading marker. Marcus lifted the flaps, already knowing what he’d find.

A pair of acid-washed jeans, a T-shirt with a cracked graphic of his favorite show, ThunderCats. And a red Members Only Jacket.

Marcus lifted the jacket, the zipper jingling softly. For a moment he saw himself at fourteen again—standing in the mall, begging his mom to buy it because it would’ve finally made him cool. The kids at school would stop calling him a loser.

Spoiler alert: it hadn’t. But at least he’d been a loser with a cool jacket.

The bedroom smelled faintly of lavender sachets and furniture polish. The floral wallpaper had faded near the ceiling, where the sun had bleached the colors over the years. On the nightstand, the once-white clock radio had turned a pale yellow.

It looked smaller than he remembered. The ceiling seemed lower too, or maybe Marcus just grew up.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror—thinning hair combed back, a three-day stubble and dark circles under eyes that had spent too many nights staring at the ceiling.

His mother stood on the other side of the bed, folding sweaters.

Age had softened her frame, bending her slightly forward. Wisps of silver hair had escaped the loose bun at the back of her head. Her reading glasses were looking too large for the fragile face that had once appeared so strong to him.

“You don’t have to stay the whole weekend,” she said, placing another piece of clothing into a box. “The movers will handle the rest.”

Marcus shrugged. “I’ve got time.”

She glanced at his box over her glasses. “Have you checked the pockets of those jeans? You always used to carry change. For that blasted arcade.”

That made Marcus chuckle, especially when he remembered how much money he’d spent trying to beat Tim’s high score of Ms. Pac-Man.

His mom looked up and flashed a grin. “Glad to see that smile of yours again.” An awkward pause followed. “How’s work?”

“Fine.”

He didn’t add that he spent most days staring at spreadsheets under humming fluorescent lights. Or how twenty years had slipped by since he’d started the job “temporarily.”

Once upon a time, he’d had plans. He just couldn’t remember what they were anymore.

His mother closed the dresser drawer. “And Rachel?” she asked gently.

Marcus fingers traced the collar of the Members Only jacket before putting it back in the box.

“We signed the papers last week.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

Marcus nodded, though the motion felt automatic. The strange thing was he wasn’t even sure what he felt anymore. Probably for the best.

Silence settled between them. The kind that forms when conversations slowly run out over the years.

“You used to love this house,” his mom said finally, taping another box shut.

Marcus forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still do, mom. I grew up here.”

“No, I mean really love it. You and your friends were always here, every Friday evening.”

He blinked, caught off guard. The words stirred something in his memory.

“Oh, yeah.”

She uttered a breathless laugh. “I remember the noise you boys made. All those strange names you’d shout upstairs. Something with wizards and dragons. Whatever it was.”

She shook her head fondly.

“Yeah, something like that,” he sighed, staring down at the grey, wool carpet, aware of how worn the fibers looked beneath his shoes.

She gestured toward the ceiling. “The attic still has some of that stuff. Never had the heart to throw any of it away.”

Marcus pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers, “I’ll take a look.”

The attic stairs creaked the same way they always had. He pushed open the hatch and climbed into the dim space. Dust drifted through a beam of afternoon light from the small round window.

Most of the room had already been cleared. Rectangular patches of lighter wallpaper showed where the posters once hung. They were from bands Marcus had sworn they changed his life.

The old oak table still stood in the center of the room. Marcus ran his fingers across the dusty surface, remembering how he used to live for this table—so had Tim, Luke and Kevin. Together they were unstoppable. At least in the Forgotten Realms.

Marcus opened a box, sitting atop the table. Inside lay a worn rulebook for Dungeons & Dragons, its cover bent from years of use. Something stirred in his chest. After digging deeper, he found a thin sheet of paper, yellowed at the edges—his character sheet.

At the top of the page, written in messy teenage handwriting:

Thalion Silver, Half-Elf Ranger, Level 19

Marcus let out a quiet laugh. For a moment he could almost hear them again. Dice clattering. Pizza boxes sliding across the floor. Soda cans tipping over when someone rolled a critical hit—judging by the stains on the wood, they’d rolled quite a few.

He could even hear Luke arguing with Kevin, the dungeon master, about spell rules.

Marcus ran his thumb across the paper. It felt warm to the touch. Behind him, faintly, he thought he heard a voice.

“Dude, it’s your turn.”

Marcus turned, only to be answered with the familiar hum of the house, settling into its old bones—creaking floors and ticking pipes.

He frowned. Must be the lack of sleep.

He lowered himself onto the dusty floorboards, where a chair once stood. It was the spot of Thalion Silver. A brave half-elf who’d abandoned a perfectly normal life to chase danger and glory with his companions.

He flipped the character sheet over, its back covered in pencil scribbles. It told Thalion’s backstory. Marcus had loved writing it. He’d even tried to write a full fantasy novel during a summer break about him. All because teenage Marcus had been absolutely certain he’d grow up to be something interesting.

“Guess that didn’t work out,” he muttered, rubbing his face.

His fingers traced the faded name of Thalion. This time the warmth spread through the paper and into his fingertips like sunlight. The stale attic air shifted. And Marcus smelled something new—something that wasn’t there just now.

Pizza.

Not the artisanal kind from the place down the street. This was the scent of cheap, grease-soaked delivery pizza.

The sound of dice clattering onto the table followed. Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, certain he was daydreaming. But when they opened again, the attic was brighter.

The cardboard boxes had vanished, replaced by sleeping bags and backpacks tossed against the wall. Posters from Guns N’ Roses, Aerosmith and Van Halen covered the slanted ceiling.

High-pitched voices rang across the room.

“No way that hits! My armor class is fifteen!”

“His attack bonus is plus three and I rolled a thirteen!”

“You rolled that behind the book, that doesn’t count!”

Marcus’s heart lurched.

“I’m the dungeon master and I say it counts. Deal with it, Luke.”

A skinny boy, roughly fourteen years old, leaned over the table covered in graph paper and painted miniatures. He wore the same ridiculous velvet cape he always threw over his shoulders on game nights.

Kevin.

Two other boys sat around the table. Luke faced Kevin, our dungeon master, with theatrical outrage, his thick-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose.

Tim had both hands buried in his curly, red hair.

Luke groaned, crossed his arms and slumped back in his chair. “Well, I’m down.”

Tim looked at Marcus, eyes wide. “Dude, you gotta save us. I only have a few hit points left!”

Marcus stared at him with disbelief.

Kevin looked up, frowning impatiently. “Earth to Marcus. You’re up.”

“W-what?” His voice sounded... younger.

Marcus looked down, at his smaller hands. He ran a hand through his now, thick hair. He was wearing the ThunderCats T-shirt from the box downstairs, except it looked brand new.

The character sheet in front of him was no longer yellowed with age.

Across the table Luke snorted. “Did he fall asleep again?”

Marcus ignored him, still processing what was happening. Next to his hand sat his trusty twenty-sided die.

“You gonna attack the dragon or what?” Kevin asked, fingers tapping on the oak wood.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Please, don’t let it end this way!” Tim cried.

Marcus’s mouth opened, wordlessly. Heart racing, he looked closer to the dungeon map stretched across the table. The miniature of Thalion Silver—painstakingly painted by himself years before—stood three squares away from a massive dragon figure.

Luke had already pulled out his Sony Walkman and was mentally checked out as soon as the headphones touched his ears.

“Luke, come on. Pay attention,” Kevin said, nudging him.

“Why? I’m down. Gotta wrap this up anyway. I have science club tomorrow.”

Marcus froze at that exact line.

His eyes darted across the table, from the dragon figure to Tim’s paladin character sheet, showing he has only three hit points left.

It’s then that everything clicked into place.

This wasn’t just a memory. This was that night. Their last game. After tonight, Kevin got too busy with sports, while Luke became invested in science competitions and Tim’s family moved across town.

The fellowship broke apart quietly. None of them had even noticed when it happened.

But right now, they were all still here.

Marcus picked up the twenty-sided die. Suddenly he knew exactly what to do. Afterall, Thalion always had a plan.

Kevin leaned forward dramatically. “What do you do?”

Marcus smiled, reaching his eyes. For the first time in years, the answer came easily.

“I grab my poison dagger,” he started, just as Tim looked up with a hopeful glint in his eyes, “and I slice his ankle!”

Luke pulled off his headphones.

“Roll for it,” the dungeon master commanded.

Marcus let the die tumble across the graph paper. It clattered once. Twice. Then it landed.

All their jaws dropped. “Natural twenty!” the room erupted.

Kevin grinned behind his dungeon master screen. “The dragon falls down, taking serious damage.” He tipped the miniature onto its side. “He’s looking rough.”

Marcus slid the die across the table to Tim. “Finish him, Sir Cedric. You can do it.”

Tim nodded, eyes blazing with heroic determination. He scooped up the die and rolled. Another hit.

Kevin slapped the table. “Sir Cedric leaps forward and gives the final blow!”

Tim jumped to his feet, while Luke tossed his Sony Walkman to the side.

“He beheads the dragon!” Kevin concluded.

Cheers exploded across the attic. Luke knocked over a half-full soda can, staining the floor.

“That was amazing, Marcus,” Tim said, grabbing Marcus in a headlock. “You can do anything!”

For a moment the words hung in the air. He wanted to say something. Something important. But the attic was already fading. The laughter softened and the last rays of evening light from the round window dimmed.

The voices drifted away like a radio losing signal. And then—Marcus was alone again. In an old, dusty room filled with boxes and cobwebs.

He still stood over the table, the character sheet of Thalion Silver in his hands. His chest felt lighter. It was like a window he didn’t know was stuck had finally opened.

Nothing actually changed. He was still over fifty. Still divorced. And stuck in a job that drained the color out of his days.

But he can do anything. Even if it means starting fresh.

Marcus stood, brushing dust from his trousers. He carefully folded the sheet, as a lost treasure, and slipped it into his pocket. He took once last look at the crooked beams of the attic, before he climbed down the ladder.

“Hey mom?” He shouted. “I think I’m gonna call Tim. And maybe Luke and Kevin too.”