Chapter 3 – The Silent Home
Bairon Thornton's house was just like him—silent.
Only the wind howling against the windows and the rhythmic ticking of the dishwasher upstairs broke the stillness. His mother was usually in the kitchen, but today she had withdrawn to her room again. As for his father… he barely ever saw him.
Bairon set his bag down quietly. He took off his shoes without untying the laces. He remembered the hallway light was still broken—he had mentioned it last week, but no one had cared enough to fix it.
He went upstairs. Before entering his room, he glanced at his mother's door. It was slightly ajar. In the dim light, he could make out her back as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her hair was messy. She was holding something in her hands, but Bairon couldn't tell what it was. Maybe an old photo. Maybe just a piece of paper.
She hadn't noticed him.
Or maybe she had—and chose not to.
Bairon gently closed the door and went into his room.
The walls were bare. On the corner of his desk, there was only a notebook and a pen. He didn't write his thoughts in it—because putting things into words sometimes made them too real.
But for Isla, he had picked up that pen a few times. Just a few lines. Then erased them.
He lay down on his bed. Stared at the ceiling. Didn't blink.
Sometimes, the silence inside him grew so loud that even hearing his own heartbeat became unbearable.
Downstairs, a plate shattered in the kitchen.
His mother had been drinking again.
His father was probably already in someone else's home.
It had been a long time since he broke his promise to visit on weekends. He didn't call anymore. The phone didn't ring.
And Bairon didn't ask. Because he already knew the answer: no one was coming.
Then Isla came to his mind.
The words she had said that morning, the smile right before she rolled her eyes,
"You quiet ones are actually the loudest—
but it takes effort to hear it."
Maybe Isla was the only real thing in his life.
Maybe one day, she'd be the only voice left whispering in the silence.
As his eyes slowly closed,
he didn't dream of Isla.
He didn't dream of his family.
He only watched a falling leaf—
drifting endlessly,
never landing.