The silence was the first thing that changed. It wasn't the comfortable quiet of an empty house Raymond was used to, the kind filled with the latent potential of his friends' imminent arrival, the certain knowledge that the door would soon burst open to Iris's laughter or Jayden's booming voice. This was a different silence. A final one. It was a vacuum that had swallowed sound whole and left behind only the hollow echo of what was missing.
He stood in the exact center of his bedroom for a long time, unsure how he had gotten there from the front door. The journey up the stairs was a blank space in his memory. His body felt like a foreign object, heavy and uncoordinated. The rain, which had started as tentative taps, was now a steady, gray drumming against his window, blurring the world into a watercolor smear of melancholy.
He became aware of a low, rhythmic sound. It was his own breathing, shallow and tight. And beneath it, the metronomic tick-tock, tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs. Each tick was a hammer driving the nail of his new reality deeper. Each tock was the sound of a door closing, forever.
His room, his sanctuary, had turned traitor. Everything in it was a monument to his inadequacy. The poster of Vega, the premier hero of the Hero Organization, seemed to stare down at him with cold, judgmental eyes. The man's chiseled features and confident stance were a brutal contrast to how Raymond felt: soft, undefined, broken. The shelf of science fair trophies and academic awards, once his pride, were now just metallic lies. What did it matter that he understood quantum mechanics when he couldn't generate a single spark of energy? What was the value of a perfect score on a calculus exam when he couldn't stop a bus with his mind?
His eyes fell on the framed photograph on his desk, still face-down where he had placed it. He could see the ghost of their image through the cardboard backing. With a trembling hand, he reached out and slowly, reluctantly, turned it over.
There they were. Last summer at the Meridian County Fair. The photo was a little over-exposed, washed in golden hour light. Iris was in the middle, her head thrown back in a laugh so vivid he could almost hear it, a stray curl stuck to her cheek with melted cotton candy. Jayden was on her left, his arm slung around her shoulders, grinning at the camera with that infuriating, effortless confidence, a flicker of playful challenge in his eyes. And there he was, on the right. Raymond. His smile was smaller, quieter, but genuine. His eyes held a simple, uncomplicated happiness. He was anchored by them, completed by them.
Now, he was untethered. Adrift.
A cold knot tightened in his stomach. He could feel the phantom warmth of Jayden's celebratory fist bump, the lingering echo of Iris's empathic joy from her hug. His mind, so accustomed to the gentle, background hum of her telepathic presence—the unspoken commentary, the shared jokes that needed no words—was now a silent, desolate plain. He realized he'd been half-listening for it ever since the gym, a mental ear cocked toward a radio station that had gone permanently off the air.
He found himself forming a thought, directing it toward the empty space where she used to be in his mind. Iris, you should see the rain. It's really coming down out there.
The thought hit the walls of his own skull and died there, unanswered. The silence that followed was more profound than any lack of sound. It was a cognitive silence, a void where a connection had lived. It was, he realized with a fresh wave of nausea, the loneliest feeling in the world.
He walked to the window and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The world outside was a study in gloom. The vibrant reds and golds of the autumn leaves were muted to soggy browns and dull ochre. A lone car sloshed by, its tires hissing on the wet asphalt, its headlights cutting weak yellow cones through the premature twilight. In the distance, the skyline of Meridian City was shrouded in mist, but the top of the Aegis Spire—the Hero Organization's local headquarters—pierced the low clouds, its apex glowing with a clean, white, unreachable light.
That's where they are, he thought. In that clean, bright, powerful place. And I'm here. In the damp and the dark.
The chasm between those two points felt infinite.
A sudden, sharp memory assaulted him, unbidden and vivid.
---
Flashback - Two Years Ago
The treehouse was their kingdom. Perched high in the gnarled oak in Jayden's backyard, it was a rickety confection of weathered plywood and stubborn dreams, built by their fathers years ago and now claimed by them as a sovereign state. The air was thick with the sweet, resinous smell of pine needles and the damp earthiness of the coming night. Crickets sawed their legs together in a relentless chorus.
Iris, at fourteen, was cross-legged on a threadbare rug, frowning at a deck of cards. "I'm telling you, when my powers manifest, I'm going to be a telekinetic. A strong one. Not just lifting pencils." She flicked her fingers, and the ace of spades wobbled, then rose an inch off the floor, trembling with effort. "I'm going to move cars. Stop bullets."
"Bullets are cliché," Jayden retorted, lounging against the wall with a practiced casualness. He snapped his fingers, and a tiny, beautiful flame—no bigger than a ladybug—bloomed and died on his thumbnail. "I'm going to be a pyrokinetic. Not just party tricks. I'm talking about controlling infernos. Forging fire into shapes. A sword, maybe. Or wings."
Raymond, whittling a piece of scrap wood into the vague shape of a bird, looked up. The shavings curled at his feet, smelling of fresh-cut pine. "And what if you don't?" he asked, his voice quiet amidst their boasts. "Get powers, I mean."
The question landed like a stone in a pond. The cricket chorus seemed to swell in the sudden stillness.
Iris and Jayden turned to look at him, their expressions a mixture of confusion and pity.
"Don't be stupid, Ray," Jayden said, his tone dismissive but not unkind. "Everyone gets powers. It's like... a second puberty. It's just a matter of time."
"Yeah," Iris agreed, nodding vigorously. The ace of spades fluttered back to the rug. "It's biological. A genetic certainty for our generation. Some just get them later than others. You'll see."
Raymond didn't say anything. He looked down at the wooden bird in his hands. It was lumpy, one wing slightly larger than the other. It would never fly. He had always felt a kinship with flightless things. "Yeah," he murmured. "I guess."
But a cold seed of doubt had been planted in his gut that night, and now, two years later, it had grown into a full, choking vine. They had been wrong. It wasn't a certainty. It was a lottery, and he had been the one left without a ticket.
---
End Flashback
The memory faded, leaving the bitter taste of prophetic irony in his mouth. Everyone gets powers. The naivete of it was almost funny. He didn't laugh.
The front door opened and closed downstairs, the sound a dull thud that reverberated through the quiet house. The familiar jingle of keys being tossed into the ceramic bowl on the entryway table. His mother was home.
"Raymond? Honey, I'm home!" her voice floated up the stairs, a little tired, but warm. "It's really coming down out there! Did you eat? There's leftover lasagna in the fridge I can heat up."
Her voice was a lifeline to the world of the ordinary, the mundane. The world of leftovers and domestic routines. A world that, just hours ago, had felt comfortable. Now, it felt like a prison.
He couldn't answer. He stood frozen by the window, his back to the door, hoping if he was still enough, she might think he wasn't home.
Her footsteps on the stairs were measured, a little heavy after a double shift at the hospital. She appeared in his doorway, still in her blue nurse's scrubs dotted with cartoon characters, a pathetic attempt to cheer up her pediatric patients. Her face, usually a landscape of soft smiles and gentle wrinkles, was etched with a concern so deep it looked like pain.
"Hey, sweetie," she said, her voice softening further. She leaned against the doorframe. "I heard... well, the whole hospital was talking about it. Iris and Jayden. Scouted by the Hero Organization. Taken right from school." She shook her head, a strand of her mousy brown hair escaping its ponytail. "It's incredible. Just incredible."
Raymond didn't turn around. He kept his gaze fixed on the rivulets of water tracing paths down the windowpane. "Yeah," he managed, the word a dry croak. "Incredible."
He heard her take a few steps into the room. The floorboards creaked under her weight. "How are you holding up?" she asked.
The question was so vast, so impossible to answer, that it just hung in the air between them.
"I'm fine," he said, the lie automatic and brittle.
"Raymond," she said, her tone gentle but firm. She came to stand beside him, not touching him, but her presence was a palpable warmth. He could smell the faint, clean scent of hospital soap and the fainter, warmer scent of her perfume—something with vanilla. It was the smell of his childhood, of safety. It offered no comfort now. "It's okay to not be fine. Your best friends just left. That's... that's a lot for anyone."
"They didn't just leave, Mom," he snapped, the words exploding out of him with a violence that made her flinch. He finally turned to face her, his eyes blazing with a hurt so raw it was almost feral. "They were chosen. They were taken because they're special. Because they're better. They didn't leave me; they graduated from me."
The words hung in the air, ugly and true. His mother's face crumpled, her own eyes glistening.
"That is not true," she said, her voice fierce with a mother's love. She reached for him, but he took a step back, evading her touch. Her hand fell back to her side. "You are just as special as they are, Raymond. More, in some ways. Powers don't define a person's worth."
"They do in this world!" he shouted, his voice cracking. He began to pace the small room, his agitation making the space feel claustrophobic. "What good is being a 'good person' when you can't do anything? What good is being 'smart' when Iris can solve complex equations in her head in a second? What good is being 'loyal' when Jayden can literally forge a shield of fire to protect someone? My best qualities are... are quaint. They're relics. I'm a dinosaur, Mom, and the meteor has already hit!"
He stopped in front of his trophy shelf. With a sudden, sweeping gesture of his arm, he sent the collection of gold-painted plastic and fake marble clattering to the floor. The sound was terribly loud in the quiet room—a cacophony of shattered pride.
"Raymond!" his mother cried out, a hand flying to her mouth.
"See?" he said, his chest heaving, gesturing at the wreckage. "Nothing. It's all nothing. It doesn't mean anything. I don't mean anything!"
Tears were streaming down his face now, hot and shameful. He hated them, but he couldn't stop them. "Iris can read minds, Mom. She can feel what people are feeling. She can move mountains with a thought. Jayden can create sunfire in the palm of his hand. He's a walking, talking supernova. And what can I do?" His voice dropped to a broken whisper. "I can get a B-plus on a calculus test. I can wire a circuit board. Big. Fat. Deal."
His mother looked at the wreckage on the floor, then back at him, her own tears falling freely. "Raymond, please," she whispered, her voice thick. "Listen to me. You are intelligent, and you are kind, and you have more courage in your little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. That heart of yours, that good, strong heart, matters more than any parlor trick."
"It's not a parlor trick!" he yelled, the frustration boiling over. "It's the fabric of the universe now! And I'm a loose thread! I'm a zero, Mom! A zero!"
The word echoed in the room, final and devastating. It was the first time he'd said it out loud, and giving it voice made it terrifyingly real.
His mother flinched as if he'd struck her. "Don't you ever say that," she said, her voice low and shaking. "Don't you ever let me hear you call yourself that."
But it was too late. The truth of it was already crystallizing inside him, cold and hard. He was a zero in a world of heroes. The friend who got left behind. The one you outgrew.
"I need to be alone," he muttered, turning his back on her again, on the broken trophies, on everything. He stared out at the rain-washed world, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
He heard her take a shuddering breath. He felt her hovering behind him, a vortex of wounded love and helplessness. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the relentless drumming of the rain.
Finally, he heard her soft, defeated footsteps retreating. The door didn't close, but her presence withdrew from the room, leaving a new, more profound layer of silence in its wake. He had pushed away the one person who was still in his corner. The isolation was now complete.
He didn't move for a long time. The gray light outside deepened into the indigo of full night. The streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows across his wall. His stomach growled, a mundane protest, but the idea of food was repulsive. His body felt like it belonged to someone else.
His phone, which had been silent on his desk, suddenly buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again. A rapid, insistent staccato.
A part of him, the old, hopeful part, leaped. Iris. Jayden.
He practically stumbled over his own feet getting to the desk. He snatched the phone. The screen glowed, a rectangle of painful light in the dark room. It was a group chat. The group name, "The Triumvirate," felt like a cruel joke now.
There were three new messages, followed by a picture.
Jayden (7:14 PM): Made it to the Aegis Spire. This place is absolutely INSANE.
Jayden (7:14 PM): They have a training simulator that generates actual, controllable fire zones. I feel like I've come home.
Iris (7:15 PM): It's... overwhelming. There are so many minds here. It's like a constant, low-level symphony of thought. Hard to focus, but amazing. The architecture is all clean lines and open space... it feels designed for telekinetics.
Then, the picture. It was from Jayden. A slightly blurry, off-angle shot taken, presumably, from his new room. A floor-to-ceiling window formed the entire back wall, and beyond it was a breathtaking, postcard-perfect view of the Meridian City skyline at night, glittering like a bed of jewels. The Aegis Spire was so high up that the rain clouds were below them; the city was bathed in a clear, star-dusted darkness. On the windowsill, resting casually, was Jayden's hand, and dancing just above his palm was a perfectly formed, miniature phoenix, woven from living flame, its wings gently beating.
Raymond's breath caught in his throat. The image was a punch to the gut. It was a vista from another world, a world of heights and light and power. A world he would never see.
His fingers trembled as he typed a response. He started with, That's great. Glad you're settling in. It sounded bitter. He deleted it.
He tried again. Sounds awesome. Happy for you guys. It sounded hollow, fake. He deleted it.
He just stared at the screen. Another message popped up from Iris.
Iris (7:17 PM): I wish you could see this, Ray. It's... it's everything we dreamed of. It doesn't feel real.
The words, meant to be inclusive, were a shard of glass in his heart. Everything we dreamed of. But it was their dream, built on their power. He had just been a spectator to the dream.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't pretend. The chasm was too wide, and his voice was too small to cross it.
He tapped the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a final, decisive movement, he opened the group info and muted the conversation. The notifications would no longer bother him. He then placed the phone back on the desk, screen down. The light died, plunging the room back into near-darkness.
The act felt symbolic. It was him closing the door.
He was alone.
Truly, completely, and utterly alone.
The feeling of abandonment was no longer an emotion; it was a physical environment. The air in the room was thick with it, hard to breathe. The four walls were made of it. He walked to his bed and lay down, fully clothed, on top of the covers. He stared at the ceiling, where the shadows from the streetlights painted shifting, monstrous shapes.
He could hear the faint sounds of his mother moving around downstairs—the clink of a plate, the hum of the microwave. She was heating up the lasagna he would never eat. The normalcy of her actions, the sheer distance of her world from his, made the loneliness ache like a physical wound.
He thought of Iris, trying to sort through a symphony of alien minds. He thought of Jayden, crafting fire into art. They were already transforming, evolving into the heroes they were meant to be. And he was here, in the dark, with the shattered pieces of his old life, a boy whose only power was to feel the crushing weight of his own absence.
He was Raymond, the one left behind.
The friend of heroes.
The zero.
And as the rain finally began to slow its relentless drumming, fading into a soft, mournful patter, he closed his eyes. The silence in his mind was absolute. The emptiness in his room was complete. He didn't cry. The tears had been burned away by the sheer, scalding magnitude of his loss. There was only the void, and the certain, chilling knowledge that this was his life now. This was the beginning of the end.