The cold leather of the sofa creaked as Shual Zaylen shifted his weight, his feet landing dully on the frostbitten floor. He leaned back, gaze fixed on the speckled ceiling, a sigh escaping his lips like a whisper no one asked for.
> "I guess my life is as little as a flicker of a candle in the galaxy," he murmured to himself, tone absent of emotion.
"I wonder… if I were to disappear… who would even notice?"
He didn't wait for an answer. There wouldn't be one anyway. Rising sluggishly, he wandered into the tiny kitchen tucked beside the living room. He flung open the fridge, as if expecting hope to be hiding behind the shelves.
Only a wilted bell pepper and a plastic container of leftover fruit salad stared back.
> "…That's not good," he said quietly.
Donning a coat that had long lost its warmth, he walked to the door. His fingers curled around the knob—but stopped.
> "Why? Why should I go outside?"
"It's dark out there… terrifying. People smile, pretend they care, then stab you the moment your back's turned. It's just a cycle."
With a bitter breath, he pulled out his phone instead. A few taps later, a fast-food order was placed. At least machines didn't lie.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. He wasn't counting. He sat back on the sofa, arms wrapped around his knees like a fragile cocoon.
> "It's cold… I'm alone," he whispered.
The doorbell rang.
He rose without hurry, peering through the peephole. A young delivery guy stood there, pizza box in hand.
> "Excuse me! Your pizza's here," the delivery boy said, cheerful but clearly rehearsed.
"…Just leave it there," Shual replied. His voice was soft—icy, yet cracked with sadness.
> "O-Okay," the boy responded, setting the box down before walking to his bike.
He lingered there, on the sidewalk, glancing back.
> "Poor kid… he lost a lot. Still clings to life by a thread," he muttered, then rode off, engine sputtering into the night.
---
The Next Morning – Usawalda Junior High
The school bell rang with mechanical cheer. In the classroom of Class 2-B, students scrambled to their seats like any other day. Desks slammed, chairs screeched.
Mr. Harrow entered, a thick file in one hand and a dog-eared book in the other.
> "Settle down, settle down. Attendance now," he announced, placing the file on the podium and scanning the room.
One by one, names were called:
> "Miley McKay."
"Present!"
"Susan Smith."
"Here!"
"Jamie White."
"Present."
"Ashley Williams."
"Here!"
"Shual Zaylen."
Silence.
Heads turned. Whispers began.
Mr. Harrow sighed and scribbled on the sheet.
> "Absent. Again."
Susan leaned toward Ashley, brow furrowed with concern.
> "It's been almost two months now… What's going on with him?"
Ashley hesitated. Then leaned in closer, lowering her voice.
> "You really don't know?"
"No… What happened?"
"It was the day you were out for that dentist appointment. You missed everything."
Susan's heart skipped. "Tell me."
Ashley exhaled. Her eyes dulled slightly, as if replaying something too heavy for middle schoolers to carry.
> "It's bad. Shual's been through hell."
---
> "Three months ago, his parents filed for divorce. Ugly stuff. They fought over custody like it was a game. His dad's an alcoholic. His mom's… a strip dancer. They fought, shouted—he and his two younger siblings, Selina and Devon, got caught in the middle."
Susan nodded slowly. "I… I remember hearing rumors."
Ashley continued, voice quieter.
> "On November 5th, they went on a 'family holiday' to the Bahamas. One last attempt to make it work, I guess. But their car ran out of fuel, stranded in the middle of nowhere. They walked for hours till they found a small town. Got food. Shelter. Then… that night happened."
Susan listened, frozen.
> "Bandits attacked. Thought they had valuables. His dad tried to fight back—got shot. Multiple times. Shual, his mom, and the kids ran. But his mom—she'd twisted her ankle earlier that night. Tried to run anyway. Fell. He tried to lift her up…"
Ashley swallowed hard.
> "Another gunshot. Right into her back. They were dragged away by the bandits, but on the road, cops intervened. There was a shootout. Bullets everywhere. Chaos."
> "When the police opened the trunk of the bandits' vehicle… they found Shual. Alive. Barely. A bullet was stuck in his ribs."
Jamie White joined in, face solemn.
> "He got treated… but he never came back. Not to school. Not to life."
> "He's traumatized," Ashley whispered.
Miley McKay looked down at her desk.
> "You remember the bruises he used to have? The ones no one wanted to ask about?"
Jamie nodded.
> "His dad used to beat him. And his mom… she barely came home."
Susan whispered, "But he still smiled."
> "Yeah. He was… warm. Now?" Miley bit her lip.
"Now he's just a walking ice."
---
The classroom grew heavy with silence—until Mr. Harrow clapped his hands.
> "Alright, class! Eyes front. Homeroom begins now."
But even as the lecture started, the whispers of a boy lost in shadows lingered.
Far away, in a dim apartment, Shual Zaylen sat curled up on the sofa, the pizza box untouched.
A single message on his phone blinked in the dark:
"Your school attendance has dropped below minimum. Please reach out."
He didn't open it.
He just stared.
Alone.