He didn't know why he felt this way, but little Tom tilted his head, a vague discomfort settling in. He frowned and silently took a few steps back. The woman before him seemed triggered by the gesture, letting out a despairing wail that jolted little Tom straight out of his dream.
Seeing the familiar surroundings, Tom let out a breath of relief. He threw back the covers and was about to get dressed when he glanced at the old woman sitting nearby. "Dean! How did you fall asleep like that?" He scrambled out of bed with practiced ease, slipped into his shoes, and hurried to the chair, reaching out to shake the Old Dean's hand.
The touch was no longer warm—instead, it was stiff and ice-cold. For the first time, Tom felt a chill of fear. He gripped harder without thinking, his voice rising to a near-scream. "Dean! Wake up! Please wake up!"
His cries quickly drew the early risers. Mrs. Cole kicked the door open, her face twisted in irritation. At the sight of the Old Dean sitting there with her eyes closed, the furrows between Mrs. Cole's brows deepened enough to crush a fly. She rushed over and held a hand under the Old Dean's nose, only to discover in shock that she had already stopped breathing.
"Oh God! The Old Dean's dead! Damn it! Get out of my way."
Tom was shoved roughly to the floor, his mind buzzing like a struck bell. The clamor around him faded into nothing, leaving only that word echoing in his head: *death*. What did it mean? Like his mother—never opening her eyes to look at him again?
Why did people die? Last night, he'd bid goodnight to the Dean. So why had everything changed after just one sleep? Would there be no one left to stroke his hair, to smile and tell him stories? No one to hold him close, to wrap him in that warmth? No one to say goodnight, no more kisses on his forehead?
Curled up on the ground, Tom's inner turmoil twisted into a deep, gnawing fear. He clutched his head and prayed over and over: *If there really is a God, please open your eyes and see this. I beg you—let the Dean wake up again...*
He didn't know how long he sat there alone before getting up and wandering out of the room. Watching the people around him sob uncontrollably, Tom couldn't understand why no tears came for him. Wasn't he the Old Dean's favorite? He could feel it so clearly—a gaping hole ripped open in his chest.
But why couldn't he cry?
"You weird freak! The Dean was so good to you, and you can't even shed a tear!" An older boy shoved Tom to the ground. Everyone else was heartbroken, but this kid—the Dean's pet—didn't react at all! It was unnatural!
"Billy, leave him alone!"
Tom stared down at his palm. There were small scrapes, bits of dust and tiny pebbles ground into the wounds. They should hurt, but why couldn't he feel a thing? It was like... he was dead too. Maybe he really was broken.
He didn't argue back. Tom moved like a doll with no soul, drifting in a daze to the rocking chair where the Old Dean often sat in the sun. "Dean... is it that everyone I care about leaves me? I've heard Mrs. Cole complaining—says I'm a strange one..."
"A child born unable to cry... Am I abandoned by God...?"
*'Hiss~ Humans are so peculiar~'*
The sudden hissing voice startled Tom. He whipped his head around, searching for the source. That cold, slithering tone—it definitely wasn't from anyone he knew. Who would sneak into Wool's Orphanage just to eavesdrop on him?