The zipper gave a satisfying zzzt as Kye closed the last compartment of his hiking bag. The weight of it felt oddly comforting—like armor strapped to his back. The sun was barely up, smothered behind low-hanging clouds that painted the world in dull greys. His room was still and quiet, the only sound the soft creak of the floorboards as he moved.
The poster of a mountain trail hung above his desk—torn at the corners, curling from age. He stared at it for a second, then at his reflection in the mirror: cropped black hair, faint dark circles under sharp eyes, and that look he always wore like a shield—half-bored, half-ready to snap. Built, sure, but not polished. Like a fighter who trained in shadows, not gyms.
His aunt's voice broke the silence. "Got everything?" she called from the kitchen, where she was torching toast again. The smoke alarm had long since given up on warning them.
Kye stood in the hallway, watching her fuss over a paper plate like it held state secrets. Her curly hair was pinned up in a lopsided bun, and her oversized hoodie read: Warning: I Have No Filter.
He nodded. "Yeah."
She gave him a once-over. "Spare socks? Painkillers? Emotional resilience?"
"Check, check, still in development."
A smile tugged at her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Be careful. You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"That I'm-trying-not-to-think-about-my-parents look."
He forced a smirk. "I thought that was just my face."
They exchanged a long glance. No hugs, no dramatic goodbyes. Just silence wrapped in understanding. Then, with one last nod, Kye turned and stepped out into the chilled morning air.
The wind bit his cheeks. The street was quiet. A lone bird croaked somewhere high above, breaking the silence. His boots hit the pavement with slow, steady thuds. The dull ache of something unspoken clung to his shoulders, heavier than the bag.
He didn't look back.
The route to school was familiar—four blocks, one broken stoplight, and a corner bakery that smelled like yeast and old stories. He passed a coffee shop where sleepy-eyed baristas scrawled names wrong on purpose. The owner waved at him through the foggy window; Kye nodded back without slowing.
A car rumbled by with muffled techno music thumping. A pigeon stared down from a lamppost like it knew things it would never say. Morning fog clung low to the cobblestone gutters and chilly breeze curled under his sleeves.
At the last corner, he paused. A kid's soccer ball rolled into the street ahead of him—no kid in sight. The ball stopped in the center of the road. Then slowly rolled back toward the sidewalk.
Kye narrowed his eyes. No footsteps, no scolding parent. Just the ball.
Then he kept walking.
By the time he reached the school gates, the courtyard buzzed. Old brick walls surrounded the main building, the kind covered in ivy and memories. Students were already gathering in groups, their breath forming little clouds in the cold.
Kye had mentally run through every item in his bag twice. Not because he feared forgetting something, but because the silence in his mind was dangerous. It pulled up memories too fast, too sharp. He could still hear the hollow thud that came after the crash—not the shattering metal, not the screaming tires—just that thick, absolute silence. And after that, nothing had really sounded the same.
The air even now carried the weight of that silence, like a storm waiting behind a polite sky.
His aunt tried, of course. Bought him books, cooked the foods he hated less, and left the door to his room half-open even when he closed it. She knew not to ask. Kye didn't have answers anyway. Just cracks filled with instinct and fists.
He walked past the bulletin board pinned with today's camping checklist: signed forms, medical kits, equipment. He had all of it. Even the form with the awkwardly scribbled guardian signature in his aunt's rushed handwriting.
He stood for a while under a tree near the assembly hall, watching fog cling to the wrought iron fence that lined the school perimeter. A cat walked along the top bar, perfectly balanced. It paused near him, staring.
Kye stared back.
It blinked first.
He smirked, just a little.
A voice cut across the yard. "Hey, Kye!"
He turned. It was Clara from his Literature class. She jogged up, cheeks flushed from the cold.
"You're going too?" she asked. "Didn't think you liked the whole 'nature makes us whole' thing."
He shrugged. "Didn't think you remembered my name."
She laughed, genuine. "Hard to forget the only guy who made a presentation on nihilism funny."
"I try."
"Anyway," Clara said, giving him a crooked grin, "see you on the bus."
"Yeah."
She walked off, her bag swinging wildly behind her. He watched her go, then pulled out his notebook from the side pocket of his hiking bag. The edges were soft, the cover smudged. He turned to the latest blank page and wrote:
Today: Play along.
A soft cough startled him. The janitor—a man everyone just called Old Emil—stood nearby with a broom. He was staring at Kye's boots.
"Those'll get you where you need to go," he said.
Kye blinked. "What?"
Emil looked up, smiled vaguely, then walked away, broom scraping the ground.
Kye slipped the notebook away.
The bell rang. It sounded sharper than usual. Not louder—just too crisp. Like someone had polished the sound.
He looked up at the school building, saw the windows flash briefly with a reflection of light that shouldn't have been there. The clouds hadn't broken.
He walked toward the assembly point without a word.
Time to get this over with.