Chapter 7:
The sound of Mortimer's laughter could rattle through the rafters of a hall, drown out a storm, and even make the old stone-faced shopkeeper Mrs. Clackett smirk despite herself. Children gathered around him after school, eager for the next ridiculous joke or absurd story he could spin. To anyone watching from the outside, Mortimer appeared to be the happiest boy in the village—a boy who found the world endlessly amusing and who gave the gift of laughter to anyone who came near.
But Mortimer knew better.
His laughter wasn't born from joy. It was armor.
The first time he laughed too loudly was on the day his father left. The neighbors gathered at their doorway, whispering in pity as his mother clutched her shawl and fought back tears. Mortimer, just eight years old, had felt the weight of their eyes pressing on him. And so, to break it, he laughed. Not a giggle, not a chuckle—a booming, ridiculous laugh, as though someone had told the funniest joke in the world. People looked away, uncomfortable, muttering that the boy didn't understand what had happened. That was the point. His laugh drowned out the sorrow, even if only for a moment.
Since then, it became a habit.
Now, at fifteen, Mortimer was known not just for his humor but for the way he could shatter silence with mirth. When others were sad, he laughed. When he was nervous, he laughed. When something threatened to reveal the quiet ache inside him, he laughed until his ribs hurt.
"Mortimer!" called Bram, one of his closest friends, as they lounged by the millpond. "Tell us that one again, about the baker and the goose!"
Mortimer obliged, putting on voices, flapping his arms, and exaggerating every detail until the whole group of boys was howling. His own laugh, sharp and roaring, rose above them all. But as the others bent over, wiping tears from their eyes, Mortimer's smile faltered for just a heartbeat. He glanced at the rippling pond and saw his reflection staring back—a boy whose grin looked like it was drawn on with chalk, ready to be washed away by the first rain.
That night, Mortimer's mother found him in the kitchen, still chuckling to himself though the room was empty.
"Morty," she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder, "you don't always have to laugh."
He shrugged her off with another laugh, this one higher, more frantic. "What else am I supposed to do, Ma? Cry?"
She didn't answer, but the silence lingered long after she left the room.
---
The trouble began at the Harvest Fair. Mortimer, true to tradition, had drawn a crowd with his antics. He stuffed apples into his cheeks until he looked like a squirrel, tripped dramatically into a barrel of cider, and spun wild tales about farmers who trained their cows to dance. Laughter roared around him, echoing off the tents and wagons.
But as Mortimer threw his head back for another howl, he caught sight of someone watching him from the edge of the crowd—a tall, thin boy named Elias, new to the village. Unlike the others, Elias wasn't laughing. He stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed directly on Mortimer.
Something inside Mortimer tightened. He tried another joke, louder this time, but Elias didn't flinch. Finally, Elias stepped forward and said, clear enough for everyone to hear:
"Why do you laugh like that? It sounds like you're trying to drown something out."
The fair fell into silence. Even the fiddlers stopped playing. Mortimer's heart slammed in his chest. He forced another laugh, shrill and manic, but it echoed strangely in the hush.
"Don't stop on my account," Elias said softly, but the words sliced through Mortimer sharper than any insult.
The crowd dispersed uneasily, muttering, their smiles fading. Mortimer stood alone, suddenly aware of how raw his throat felt, how heavy his chest was. He left the fair early, slipping away before anyone could stop him.
---
That night, Mortimer dreamed he was drowning in his own laughter. It bubbled up from his lungs, flooding his mouth, suffocating him. He woke gasping, his pillow damp with sweat.
Over the next few days, things changed. People still asked for his jokes, but now their laughter carried a different edge, as though they wondered if Elias was right. Mortimer laughed louder to cover it up, but the sound rang hollow in his own ears.
One evening, Bram confronted him by the millpond.
"Mort," he said carefully, "you don't have to be funny all the time. We like you anyway, you know?"
Mortimer's first instinct was to burst out laughing, to crack some joke about how Bram was secretly in love with his jokes and would die without them. But he couldn't find the energy. Instead, for the first time in years, he said nothing.
The silence stretched between them, strange and heavy.
Bram didn't push. He simply sat beside Mortimer, skipping stones across the pond until the sun dipped below the trees.
---
It wasn't easy to stop. The laughter still came, rising in his throat whenever he felt cornered, whenever grief threatened to spill over. But slowly, Mortimer learned he could pause, breathe, and choose. Sometimes he let the laugh out. Sometimes he didn't.
One afternoon, he found himself face-to-face with Elias again, outside the baker's shop. The other boy regarded him with the same unreadable expression.
"You're quieter," Elias observed.
Mortimer felt a flicker of embarrassment. "Yeah, well. Maybe you were right."
Elias tilted his head. "I wasn't trying to embarrass you. Just… I know what it's like to hide behind noise."
For the first time, Mortimer didn't laugh. He nodded instead, a small, careful nod.
Elias offered the hint of a smile. "It's harder to let people see the quiet parts of you. But it's worth it."
Mortimer walked away, thoughtful. His chest still ached with all the laughter he hadn't used, but for once, it didn't feel like suffocation. It felt like possibility.
---
The boy who laughed too loud would always be part of him. But slowly, he was learning that people might love him not just for the noise he made, but for the silence he kept—and the truths hidden inside it.
And though laughter still echoed in the village streets, it no longer sounded quite so hollow.