He didn’t know why the music made him feel sick.

  Maybe it was the way it kept playing while the chair beside his mother stayed empty.

  The boy kept his hand pressed to his thigh—the one the ruler had marked red—and his eyes on the plate in front of him.

  He didn’t even know what he was eating. He was eating because he’d been told to.

  From the wireless, a soft, warbled jazz tune filled the room. The kind that used to make his mother smile.

  “By the way, Adrian... thank you for setting the table,” she said. “Even though you had homework.”

  She sounded tired. Ethan looked across the table at him, not at her.

  “You’re welcome,” Adrian said, too quickly. Too brightly. Like he’d been waiting for it.

  Their eyes met.

  Adrian smiled—perfect posture, perfect manners.

  Ethan stared at him, slow and bitter. Looked him up and down.

  “Suck-up,” he muttered.

  If his little brother heard, he didn’t let it show. He never did. He was a wall Ethan couldn’t break.

  At least the oldest one.

  “Where’s your little brother, Ethan? He’s not hungry?” their mother asked.

  Ethan shrugged, not meeting her gaze. He opened his mouth, but—

  “He’s playing in his room, I think. Want me to go get him?” Adrian offered, already pushing his chair back.

  Ethan’s fists clenched beneath the table. His mother nodded. Adrian left.

  Now it was just the two of them. And Ethan didn’t know if he hated it more… or less. Because with Adrian gone, there was nothing left to glare at— Which meant nothing left to hide behind.

  “Adrian told me about his first day of school and—”

  “Yeah, no shit,” Ethan snapped.

  His mom froze mid-sentence. Her mouth stayed open just a second too long before closing. She looked hurt, and for a moment, Ethan almost regretted it. Almost.

  “I just wanted to hear about yours,” she said softly.

  He almost laughed. Not because it was funny—but because, for half a second, he considered telling the truth. About how he’d been set up, yelled at, humiliated. About the sting in his hand. About how no one had his back. About the one strange thing that didn’t hurt—

  That weird, old book.

  He caught himself staring at the wall. Shook his head.

  “Yeah. Great. It was fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “My teacher’s... nice. Got the same classmates as last year.”

  It was a perfect Adrian-smile. But on Ethan, it looked like it hurt to wear.

  His mother didn’t smile back. Not like she did with Adrian. She looked straight through it.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Then why did your teacher correct you on the first day?” she asked, her voice still calm—but with an edge.

  Ethan’s fists clenched without thinking. The bandage pressed against the sting. He stood up fast, pushing his chair back hard enough to scrape the floor.

  “I gotta pee,” he muttered, and walked out.

  Ethan pushed open his bedroom door harder than he meant to, letting it creak wide on its tired hinges. The room was its usual mess—papers on the desk, clothes half-hung from drawers—but his eyes went straight to the small shape curled on his bed.

  Oliver.

  His little brother froze like a cornered animal, clutching something behind his back.

  Ethan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to ask what happened to the mess. He could see the guilt written all over Oliver’s face.

  He almost shouted, the words rising in his throat like steam—but they caught there, stuck, when he saw Oliver’s wide eyes. They were too big for his face. Too scared.

  “…Your plate’s cold,” Ethan muttered instead, his voice more tired than angry. “Adrian should’ve told you to come down.”

  He crossed the room toward his desk, but paused halfway, something gnawing at him.

  He turned slowly. “What are you hiding?”

  “I... I told Adrian I already had a welcome lunch… at the end of school,” Oliver stammered. “For the first day…”

  It was a dumb excuse, and they both knew it. Ethan raised an eyebrow. Well—at least he was better than Adrian at something.

  Lying.

  Ethan stepped closer, his voice low. “I don’t care about that. What are you hiding behind your back?”

  Oliver hesitated, then started doing everything except what he was actually hiding. Stalling.

  Ethan snapped.

  “I’m bloody tired of this—give it back. Now.”

  He stood, chair scraping loudly behind him. Oliver flinched, retreating toward the wall, hands still clenched behind him. He looked tiny, a shadow of a shadow.

  Ethan moved toward him—but stopped short when Oliver lifted the object like a shield. A wooden sword.

  To Oliver, maybe it was still a weapon. A toy pirate’s blade.

  But Ethan recognized it instantly.

  A chipped stick. Two nails. A strip of cloth tied at the hilt like a grip.

  Something he made—years ago.

  Forgotten under his bed. Abandoned.

  “Where’d you get that?” Ethan asked, quieter now.

  “You don’t even play with it,” Oliver said, trying to stand his ground.

  But Ethan reached out and took it without another word.

  “I don’t care,” he said, defensive. Then, pointing at the door, “Now get out.”

  Oliver’s lip wobbled. He turned slowly, walked out without a word, not even slamming the door behind him.

  He wouldn’t cry. Not loudly. He never did. He hated trouble.

  And Ethan—Ethan always took advantage of that. He hated himself for it.

  The sword weighed heavier in his hand than it should have. It was just a stupid stick. Just a childhood memory .

  Ethan sighed and tore his eyes away from the wooden sword. He stood, brushing dust from his trousers, and went to put it back where it belonged. He didn’t have time to mess around with old junk—not when his teacher already seemed one bad day away from murder. If he didn’t do his homework, he might not survive until winter.

  But as he crossed the room, something caught his eye.

  The small chest under his bed—his old treasure box—was open. For the first time in years.

  He dropped the sword in with a clatter, ready to turn back to the boring stack of math problems, when something on the floor stopped him cold.

  A pile of drawings.

  Oliver must’ve pulled them out. Probably rummaging through everything the second he was alone.

  Ethan knelt, thumbing through the rough crayon pages until he landed on the one at the top.

  He’d seen it before.

  Not the drawing itself—it was clumsy, the head too big, the hands all wrong, the body too small—but the character. He knew him.

  A smile tugged at Ethan’s mouth.

  “Captain Barbarus...” he murmured, chuckling. “That’s what I used to call him?”

  It wasn’t mockery. Not really. Just... wonder. Like remembering someone you used to be and being surprised they were ever real.

  Because for a little while, he’d really believed he could be this guy. A hero. A legend. Someone brave. That was before the war. Before all the rules. Before the world got colder.

  Then it clicked.

  The book, he drew him in it earlier, it was this pirate.

  The weird one he’d taken to school. His “math notebook.”

  That wasn’t a normal notebook. Something had happened earlier. That message— Who is that? — it wasn’t some trick of his imagination. He hadn’t drawn it with ink. He hadn’t written that question.

  And yet, there it was.

  Ethan froze.

  He hadn’t looked at the book since the teacher shoved it back at him.

  Now he wasn’t sure he wanted to.