Thyme couldn’t tell you how he got here- hell, he couldn’t tell you why either, and yet here he is. It’s funny just how easy it is to find yourself back somewhere familiar, even without meaning to, and today is no different. Here he is. Standing before his childhood home as the flames rise to the upper floors and spread through the halls, as happy with the dusty carpets and tattered curtains as it may be with some nice dry grass. It is _beautiful_.

Thyme moves to sit on the blanket he had laid out for himself, pulling his legs into a crisscross position before leaning forward to straighten out the wrinkles in the fabric beneath him. He wishes he’d had the foresight to grab a water bottle before setting the house ablaze, but he can make do with the just the sandwiches and watermelon squares he had in his bag.

There’s a deep, ominous creaking from one of the upper floors before one of the shutters comes crashing to the ground only a few feet from him. He bites into his sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly. Grape jelly, to be exact.

He takes a second bite as the another creak comes from the twin shutter still above. It now hangs loosely from the window casing, clearly poised to follow its companion to the grass below.

_Maybe they’ve hung on better if they hadn’t been such crap construction._ The thought pulls a chuckle from him as he taps his foot against his other knee, taking another bite happily.

Eventually, the other shutter comes down, followed by a fair bit of the roofing. He wonders if they can hear it now. If the sounds of the house burning above them finally penetrates the music that had been so deafening before he’d made his exit..

Oh well, doesn’t quite matter if they do hear it since there’s no way out for them. The basement door locks from the outside and if Thyme’s time spent down there over the years taught him anything, it’s that there’s no way out of there until you’re oh so kindly let out. No matter how many tears cried or if your voice gives out from screaming or if your hands bleed as you try to make your own way out to no avail.

Thyme wipes his mouth politely, just as taught, before tucking his trash back in his bag to throw away later. He pushes himself up, brushes himself off, and picks up the blanket. He shakes off all the crumbs, pinches out the bright piece of ashe that threatens to sear a hole in the fabric, then folds it up nice and neat before setting it on the railing of the porch that still barely manages to stay standing as the fire eats away at it like most of the house now. It’s not his blanket after all, he’s not gonna just take it.

Just like that, he settles his bag on his back and turns to walk back down the street.

Truly a lovely day for a picnic.