One night, the bottle rolled off the table. Jack reached down to pick it up.
His father's boot caught him in the ribs before he could rise.
The pain bloomed immediately, sharp and bright.
"You watching me, boy?" his father snarled. "You spying on your old man now? Think I don't see the way you
skulk?"
"I wasn't," Jack choked out.
"You always weren't," the man snapped. "Weren't talking, weren't lying, weren't crying. Like a rat skulking
through this house—quiet as rot."
Jack stood slowly, breathing through his teeth. "I didn't do anything."
"No, you never do, do you?" His father laughed bitterly and grabbed the jug again. "Useless little ghoul."
Jack's hands clenched at his sides.
"I'm not the one who stopped speaking to his own family."
His father turned, eyes bloodshot, voice low. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare speak to me about family."
Jack didn't flinch.
"I'm all that's left," he said.
"No." The word came slow, venomous. "You're what shouldn't be left."
Silence. The wind pressed against the windows.
Then: "You think I don't see what you are? You talk to trees. You whisper names that don't belong here. Your
mother died and you just watched. If something's wrong in this house, it's because of you."
Jack didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The next morning, a list was waiting for him on the table. A sack of barley. Two bushels of root vegetables.
Four tanned hides. A pouch of coin.
And a note scrawled in shaking ink:
Take the cart. Trade this. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't come back if it suits you.
His father didn't say goodbye. Just sat by the fire, another bottle already open, eyes glazed over.