The Wearing of the green jacket

The short dusty walk up to the attic was beginning to be pretty scary. The stairs creaked under his feet, rickety steps of an old house. He breathed slowly, fear deep in his belly as he gripped the spanner tight in white knuckled fists.
Ilyas stopped. He heard it again. That singing. It was faint, but unmistakable, a soft but familiar voice, wafting from the attic.
There was someone in there.
" Hello ? Is someone there?"
Ilyas gulped the big ball that was suddenly in his throat, and he uttered a prayer. A deep breath, and he pushed the door to the attic open, ready to swing away.
The song stopped.
Ilyas faced a darkened room, musky with dust. A small window let in the light of the moon, shining down on a wooden chest. The wooden chest was beautiful, Ilyas noted silently. His eyes wandered silently through the inlaid carvings, and momentarily, he gaped at how beautiful it was. The spanner in his hand grew heavy and his grip slackened but he didn’t drop it. His fear fell away like a second skin. He felt sad. The chest had a mournfulness that he couldn’t place.
" Hello?" he uttered again, but his attention was riveted on the chest. Slowly, without fully realizing it, he moved towards the chest. He was suddenly upon it, hands trembling as he fingered the carvings, feeling the cool, smooth wood. The need to open the chest filled him, and this time the spanner fell as he knelt, worked the old lock with the key he found in his father’s room. It opened with a sigh. He pushed the top away, and it fell back without a creak.
He pushed aside the myriad of papers and trifles that filled the chest. He knew it was inside, whatever it was, but he couldn’t find it. That song. That eerie, sad song that filled his dreams each night. The source was within.
He found nothing.
Ilyas felt tears run down his face. Frantically, he searched. He tore apart papers, trinkets that were worthless to him, yet he couldn’t find what he sought. Where was it?!
He started to sob, with a sudden pain, he fell back. He ached. He knew it was there. Where was it?
As he sobbed into his hands, a figure started to rise from the chest, a grinning, dark figure forming slowly as it stood from the nothingness in the chest. Ilyas looked up with tear filled eyes, and this time, his fear was unmistakable. A scream died in his throat as the grinning shade drew a dagger from nowhere.
" Looking for something, your majesty?"
Like shining doom, the dagger came down hard and fast, straight for Ilyas’ throat.

* * *

"No!"
Ilyas jerked awake, the song in his ears fading slowly away. It was a dream. Just another dream.
But there, on his table, shining in the early dawn sun, was the key he took from his fathers room.
Untangling himself from his blanket, Ilyas made one of the rashest, most unplanned thing he had ever done.
He picked up the key, and headed straight for the attic.

No one was awake yet, the cool morning air refreshing in the pale sun light. Ilyas noticed nothing. Echoes of his dream reverberated within him, and he suddenly felt the need to be armed. He reached for the neares thing available as he walked through the living room, towards the stair. A spanner. In his dreamy state, he failed to notice the irony of his choice.
One step at a time, creaking stairs following his every footstep, Ilyas advanced up the stairs. He gripped the spanner, white knuckled fists tensed by his head. The door loomed darkly before him. He hesitated. It had all been a dream, right? He didn’t feel too certain about that. But this time, he would not let go of his weapon.
The door was locked. Ilyas tried again, unsuccessfully, turning the handle as hard as he could. He cursed, anticipation sour in his belly. Slowly, it dawned on him. He inserted the key. It fit. With some difficulty, Ilyas turned it and heard a satisfying click. Without meaning to, Ilyas pushed open the door a little to enthusiastically and it banged hard against the wall, making him jump.Steady, steady. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. No monsters, no grinning villain, just musk and dust and a whole lot of old rubbish.
Right where the sunlight filtered through the grimy window, was a pile of folded clothes on an old chair. There was no chest.
Ilyas stopped short. He felt silly. It had been a dream after all. He took a deep breath, and laughed weakly. All the suspense for nothing. He threw the spanner into the open tool box where he had fetched the spanner from earlier, and threw the cover down. It clanged loudly. He yawned mightily as he realized he still had a couple of hours left before he had to get ready for school. Might as well get some sleep.
It was then that he saw it.
From the corner of his eyes, he saw the jacket lying topmost on the pile of clothes atop the chair. It was folded nicely, the red lettering brilliant on dark green, and Ilyas was drawn to it. He cocked his head, studying the unreadable script on the jacket. It looked a little like some Indian writings he had seen on his friend’s Tamil language composition. He went closer, examining it with his eyes, then tracing it with his fingers.
No, he thought, it was similar but not the same.
Curious, he picked it up, holding the shoulders of the soft, green material and allowed it to fall open. It was beautiful. Holding it up against the bare light of the window, he grinned at his wonderful find. He unbuttoned the jacket, and slid it on, feeling the cloth( wool?) against his skin. It fit him as if it was made for him.
Ilyas buttoned up, and caught sight of the top of a full length mirror behind a couple of boxes marked ‘fragile’. He freed it without incident, sliding it on its wooden frame and looked for a good place to put it. Propping the mirror against the door to take full advantage of the weak light, he regarded himself in the mirror.
"Wow", he whispered, as he shifted from side to side. The jacket was miles ahead of his grey one, which were loose and could grow itchy if exposed to rain. Ilyas could not imagine this jacket being anything but comfortable. He nodded and threw himself a happy wink via the mirror.
But then, he froze. The jacket was exquisite, but what if it belonged to his father? It was just like the old man to deny him what he truly wanted. Especially if it belonged to him. He remembered how hard he had to work to convince his father to lend him his tools not so long ago. His father had only consented after Ilyas had shown his exemplary Ordinary level marks and his invitation to join St Albert’s. And even so, his father had insisted he supervise Ilyas to make sure the tools were returned in good condition.
Ilyas looked at himself in the mirror again. He admired the smooth cut of the jacket. He lifted his arms, tapped his shoulders and pulled on the attached hood, and pushed it off. It was decided. He would keep the jacket. To hell with what the old man thought. He smiled once more at his reflection, yawned again, and made to leave the room.
As he closed the door behind him sleepily, a thought crossed his lethargic mind.
"If only it wasn’t green, then it would be perfect."