The air is heavy today, thick with fog that presses against the walls and seeps into the room. Everyone nods along with Big Mouth, as if the Priest's words are law carved in stone. Big Mouth eats with a childish hunger, crumbs clinging to the corners of his lips, as though dignity were something he never learned.
He and his mother will stay here tonight. Perhaps that's for the best—especially for my mother. Humans, I've noticed, soften their grief when another body shares the silence.
Big Mouth tugs at me, asking to play outside. His smile stretches wide, eyes narrowing into crescents of joy, his whole face folding into a grin. For a moment, I wonder: did his father's death leave no mark at all?
We step outside. The fog hasn't lifted—it lies low, a tired animal refusing to move. Big Mouth kicks a stone forward, laughing as if the world hasn't just split his home in half. I follow, not because I want to, but because the silence inside is heavier than the damp air out here.
He runs in circles, arms wide like a bird that will never leave the ground. His voice cracks in the cold as he calls me to chase him. I move, sluggishly, like a puppet dragged by its strings. The game begins. A stupid game. A childish thing. He laughs when I miss his arm, laughs when I finally tag him, laughs at everything—as though laughter is the only weapon he knows.
And so, I laugh too. A thin, forced laugh. Because what else can I do? There is no dignity in refusing. There is no escape either. Sometimes grief doesn't sit quietly with you—it runs around the yard, demanding to be noticed.
Two teenagers playing. That's what it looks like. Innocent. Almost pure. But the fog knows. know. Only Big Mouth doesn't.
We collapse onto the snow, breath tearing from our lungs, spilling into the cold .The silence lingers between us. My tongue betrays me.
"Don't you grieve that your father has passed away?"
What the hell did I just ask?
Big Mouth rises halfway, his bright, oversized eyes shimmering, tears pressed behind them like prisoners waiting to escape. A minute drags before he wipes them away, and with a voice cracked but stubborn, he speaks:
"Of course I am very, very, very sad. But Mama said Father is in heaven, watching me. If I cry, he will be sad. And I promised him—I will work hard, study hard, and help my mother. That's what men do. I love her. I cannot hurt her. I have to be manly enough to protect her from grief, from hardship… from even the monster."
His words stumble, breaking on his tongue, but determination clings to them like frost that won't melt. Silly Big Mouth—serious this time. A sermon from the mouth that usually swallows crumbs.
"And don't you remember, brother," Big Mouth chuckles, "how I protected you when we were seven? He-he… that time, like a superhero."
How could I forget that humiliating evening? I was trudging home from school, clutching a few coins like treasure, when a pack of seniors decided to rob me. They laughed, shoved me, threw their fists around as if cruelty were a sport. Then came Big Mouth, charging in with all the authority of a broken slingshot. "Don't you dare hurt my brother!" he yelled.
Of course, they beat us both. His nose was bleeding, his shirt stained, yet he didn't cry. Instead, he hurled his little body at them until they scattered. I still hear his ridiculous words through the blood and bruises: "He-he… I will always protect you, brother."
The irony? A beaten dog promising to guard the house. Sometimes his foolishness weighs heavier than my pride.
"Uh… yes, my dear Big Mouth, I remember your love for me. You will indeed protect and care for your mother like a real man." I push myself up, brushing snow from my sleeves, the cold biting at the skin beneath.
"Do you remember the daughter of the shopkeeper, the girl with the blue ribbon?" I ask. The question shapes itself on my tongue, though I never needed the answer.
"Yeah, brother, I know her. She is a good girl, I mean, very good girl." Big Mouth says suddenly. His grin is still there, but softer now, bending toward memory.
"Remember the day you left me crying over that dead kitten? She came after you left."
"Yes, I left you that day," I tell him. "Because I repeated many times that crying over a dead animal—which you knew would not survive—is useless. The weak don't survive. But you kept crying, so I left you and went home."
"She gave me her handkerchief," he says, almost proudly. "And then we buried that kitten together. For a few days, we met… and, he-he, she used to give me apples."
"But why did you ask about her?" he mutters.
How could any person grin so much? He's still smiling as he asks.
"Her father killed a neighbor of mine before your coming, claiming she was a witch. Never mind," I answer, trying to lift the discussion away. Big Mouth leans close, grin spreading wide again, as though the tears never threatened him. He plucks a handful of snow, shapes it clumsily, then lets it crumble through his fingers.
"You see, brother? That's why God gave me a big mouth. To shout loud enough that no monster can hide. Even if the monster is right beside me."
The words hang in the freezing air between us. My own breath catches, a silent gasp. A beat of silence. He's still smiling, but the sound of his laughter—so loud, so careless—now gnaws at me. A fool who laughs at everything… even at me. "It's almost evening, brother. We should go inside." Time runs faster with him. He's always there, mysteriously, whenever I feel I need someone. It only proves how foolish a human can be. "Yes, you're right. We should go inside." As we step inside, my sister's laughter stabs my ears. The three of them—my mother, my sister, and Big Mouth's mother—are cooking together, a tableau of domestic warmth. They are laughing. Women are unique creatures. Just hours ago, they were weeping.
"Is that curry?" Big Mouth's voice booms.
My mother's voice, usually a tired hum, is suddenly alight with an energy I haven't heard in ages. "Yes, dear, and soup too," she says, her smile wide and bright. I watch her, noting how her face lights up for him, for his mother, in a way it never does for me. Maybe it's the effect of a crowd, or maybe my own voice simply gets buried when I try to act human.
The smell is so good. It's been a long time since I ate in such a loud, bustling atmosphere. We used to, when Father was alive, but this is different. This is a warmth that feels cheap, borrowed. It's a performance for two new people in our house, a show of resilience. Looking at my mother's smile and my sister's laughter, I feel a strange, hollow sensation.
Pity.
I pity myself for not being able to feel the warmth they've embraced. They are fools, finding solace in a moment that is nothing more than a temporary reprieve. A new kind of venom begins to coil inside me. Their laughter is a lullaby for fools. And I am a fool too—because for one brief, stupid second, I almost believed it.