In the night, the stormy night, away [he'd] fly.
The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls.
Black shapes, grimacing faces, and the evil eye. Like open windows with no curtains, no shutters. No one even bothered to put glass in the panes.
The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls. He didn't look up, because he could feel them scurrying then stopping to stare. It was so much better when they ignored him.
He concentrated on the work in his hands and the cut papers scattered on the floor. His fingers worked. It was the best he could hope to do. To fashion what he never otherwise would have.
The holes in the wall were too small for the things to step through. But much too small to hide him (or for him to step out). Once in a while they laughed or spat, but he never stopped or looked up. They moved all hours of the day and night. And that is just how it was.