We got home late that evening—after the disaster at the registration office.

Father pushed open the door. “Aggy, we’re ho—”

“Momma! I got my picture taken! By a moody man!” Calista barrelled past him, grinning from ear to ear—a total reversal from the pouty mess she’d been just hours ago.

Mother smiled softly, voice gentle. “Well, that’s nice, sweetie.”

She looked like something out of a fairytale—long white hair tied in a lazy ponytail, sky-blue eyes mirroring Calista’s delight like sunlit water.

“Kam, honey?” she said.

“Yeah?”

She exchanged a glance with Father, her hands clasping with restrained excitement. “Your father and I have been talking. We know how much you love books, how curious you are about the world…”

A pause. Her eyes sparkled.

“We’ve saved enough to send you to school this summer.”

I froze.

“…S-school?”

“Yeah, buddy!” Father added. “It’s like book city!”

Book city. A place full of eyes. Judgement. Loneliness. My stomach twisted.

“…no… no… no no no NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOO!”

I screamed—and ran.

Out the door. Into the snow. Away from school. Away from them.

As fast as my little legs would carry me.

I found the tree. The same crooked old pine just outside the house. I curled beneath it, knees tight to my chest, trying to outrun memories that had already caught up. Classrooms. Whispers. Laughter that wasn’t kind.

My breath came sharp, shallow. My ribs trembled.

Humanity can be cruel. It only takes one thing—a face, a habit, a word—to become the exile everyone unites against. It’s selfish. Cowardly. And all too easy.

Father’s voice called faintly behind me. Gentle. Distant. I didn’t move.

Eventually, he sat beside me. He started saying something—about uniforms and tuition. His voice was warm, careful. But I didn’t hear a word.

I was already somewhere else. Back in the dark behind my eyelids. Where no one could touch me. Where only I could do the hurting.

And I did. Over and over.

Stupid Erik. Always talking like he understands me. Like he knows anything about being hated just for existing. What does he know about pain?

His words blurred into the snowfall.

Then—he pulled me into his arms. Not tight, not forced. Just there. Solid. Warm.

What is he doing?

Stop. Go away. Just leave me alone.

But I didn’t fight him.

His embrace stayed firm. And I stayed frozen.

His warmth bled into me. I hadn’t realized how cold I was.

His voice—soft, stupid, sweet—barely reached me. Mine, when I spoke, tasted like iron. His intentions were pure. Mine were rotted with fear.

Guilt struck like lightning.

I’m not his son. Not really. Maybe by blood—but that’s all.

My thoughts, my reflexes, the haunted way I see the world—that comes from somewhere else. Another life. Another death.

Now I just pretend. Pretend to be the boy they think I am. Pretend to be young. Pretend to belong.

I’m not real.

I’m just… faking it.

I bit down hard. Metallic warmth filled my mouth.

I can’t do anything right… how can I look at them?

Calista.
Agatha.
Erik.

Five years I’ve played this part. Five years of lies. How haven’t they noticed?

I’m no better than the ones who broke me before. No—worse. I’ve latched onto a life that isn’t mine, leeching off love I don’t deserve. It’s disgusting.

Maybe that’s why I died the first time.

The cycle always repeats.

Erik was still holding me. I wanted to push him away, scream at him to stop—but my arms wouldn’t move.

I just sat there, shaking.

Pathetic.

And then the sobs came. Quiet at first. Then harder—like something inside had cracked and given way.

Erik didn’t say anything.

He just picked me up—like I was something fragile. Like I mattered.

And he carried me home.

His arms said everything words couldn’t.

But I still couldn’t hear them.