The house had always been quiet, but it was different now.
The silence felt sharp, like a knife grazing the skin. The walls seemed to close in, and the weight of unspoken words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
James and Sarah's relationship, once a flickering flame of hope, now felt like a slow burn.
That constant bitterness in the way James looked at Asher. His eyes narrowed whenever the boy walked into the room, a resentment so thick it was almost tangible.
"Another mouth to feed," he'd mutter under his breath, too quietly for Sarah to hear, but not for Asher.
Sarah would always fight back in a whisper. "He's our son, James. Blood or not."
But even Sarah's stubborn love couldn't stave off the growing tension, the quiet cracks in their foundation that no one dared to acknowledge.
When the money ran thin, the food grew scarcer.
The arguments at the dinner table grew louder, but they were just background noise to Asher, who had grown used to the chaos. James, in his frustration, decided that Asher should work.
He sent him to Mr. Thompson's garden, a few miles away, where the old man could use a hand with the vegetables. And pay Asher a few bucks.
The first day Asher came back with a smile, his arms sore but his heart light.
Mr. Thompson had treated him like a real person, and that had been enough.
James didn't like it.
"You're not there to make friends," he snapped one night, his eyes dark with jealousy. "You're there to work."
And just like that, Asher was pulled from the garden, and sent to the mill instead—a place where the hours stretched on, endless and grueling, where the work was harsh, and the machines thundered like beasts.
Sarah never knew. James told her it was father-son bonding time, that Asher had insisted on helping him, eager to please.
Asher never corrected him. He never said a word.
He worked. He endured.
But there was a quietness to him now, a sadness that clung to his every movement, like a shadow that would not leave.
And then came the sickness.
Sarah had always been strong—stronger than anything Asher had ever known—but even the strongest of people can break.
It started with the coughing. It was subtle at first, a little too harsh, too ragged, but Sarah had always brushed it off. She told him it was nothing, just stress, just being tired from the long days.
But Asher had seen her, in the dead of night, huddled over the bathroom sink, the blood splattering onto the porcelain. He knew.
One evening, after seeing her stagger to the table, pale and sweating, Asher couldn't stay silent any longer. "Mama, please. You need to see a doctor."
Her smile was weak, too weak, as she waved him off. "It's nothing. I'm fine."
But she wasn't.
Finally, she agreed to go, though it was too late. The diagnosis hit like a heavy blow, something worse than the dust in the air at the mill.
Esophageal cancer. Stage four.
Sarah tried to hide it from James, but Asher saw the way she staggered when she moved, the way her hands trembled when she cooked, when she spoke. He was the one who took care of her, quiet in his actions, gentle in ways James would never be.
The twins, Rave and Ryan, were already eight, and had learned to mirror their father's bitterness even more.
They threw their taunts like stones, each one heavier than the last. But Asher didn't care. He had long since learned not to care about their words.
It was Sarah he focused on. Her weakening body, the fading spark in her eyes. And yet, despite it all, she still managed to smile at him, even when she could barely lift her head from the pillow.
One night, when the rain poured relentlessly against the window, Sarah called for Asher. Her voice was strained, but she tried to sound steady.
"Asher," she whispered, her hands trembling as she reached beneath her pillow. She pulled out something small, something old. A pendant, the crescent moon catching the light.
"This belonged to your mother," Sarah said, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't know who she was, but... she loved you. I...I love you."
Asher took the pendant, his fingers brushing the cool metal, and the moment felt frozen, like time had paused.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest.
Sarah's eyes closed then, a soft sigh leaving her lips, and she drifted into silence.
For the first time in his life, Asher felt the weight of something heavier than the world itself—something he couldn't run from, couldn't escape. The truth.
And as the storm raged outside, he sat there in the stillness, the pendant in his hands, and for the first time, he didn't feel so alone.
After Sarah's death, the house collapsed into a silence so heavy it pressed into Asher's lungs. No more soft footsteps in the morning.
No humming in the kitchen. No arms to wrap around him when the weight of the world got too much. She was gone, and with her, the last bit of warmth that ever touched that house.
The funeral happened fast. No ceremony, no speeches. Just dirt over wood and James barely sober enough to stand. Asher didn't cry. He couldn't. He stood like stone while the world turned to ash around him.
James took to the bottle like it was air. Drunk mornings bled into drunker nights, and Asher became invisible. He no longer worked the garden. No one asked him to. The bruises faded, the chores disappeared, and so did the need to speak.
The twins drifted like ghosts—quiet, withdrawn. Maybe Sarah's death broke something in them too, or maybe they were just growing into whatever version of James life had carved out for them.
Asher didn't care.
He didn't ask. He just… endured.
He stopped school and so did the twins. There was no need.
James couldn't pay the fees, and honestly, Asher didn't see the point. What future could exist for someone like him? A black-haired ghost among blonde boys.
A walking question no one had answers to.
He kept the pendant Sarah left with him close. Tucked beneath his shirt, always warm against his skin.
It was the only thing she left him with—the only clue to a story half-told. A strange crescent moon tangled with forgotten symbols. A goodbye wrapped in silence.
Some nights he sat alone, whispering into the void. "Who am I? Why me?"
The silence always answered back.
And then came the rumors.
Old folk spoke in hushed tones about the woods—the cursed forest, the place people didn't return from. Some said it whispered names. Some said it ate souls. Others said there were things older than death in there, waiting.
Perfect.
He figured if he ran into the woods, maybe the dark would finally make sense. Maybe he'd find something—or nothing. Either way, it would be better than this.
So, on a night when the wind sounded like voices and the stars refused to shine, Asher packed what little he had. The journal. The pendant. Few shirts. His bag pack. A pair of worn boots.
And he ran.
No note. No goodbye. No looking back.
If he died out there… at least it'd be his choice.
And if he lived?
Well. That would be a problem for tomorrow.