Simple.
That was the word Jayson would have used if someone had asked him what life was.
Simple mornings, when the sun slipped through the broken slats of their wooden walls. Simple breakfasts, usually rice and whatever his mother could make taste warm. Simple days filled with noise, dust, and laughter that didn't ask for permission to exist.
But simplicity is fragile.
Jayson woke up to shouting.
Not playful shouting. Not the kind that meant someone had won a game or fallen into a puddle. This was sharp, rushed, and heavy—voices crashing into each other like they were afraid of being late.
His eyes opened slowly. The room felt different. Too quiet underneath the noise outside.
He sat up, rubbing sleep from his face, and listened.
A man's voice—deep, strained. His uncle, maybe. Another voice answered, lower, serious. Words slipped through the walls, broken and incomplete, but one thing was clear: something had happened.
Jayson stood and walked toward the doorway.
"Stay inside."
His mother's hand stopped him before he could step out. Her grip was firm, firmer than usual. When he looked up at her, he noticed something strange—her smile was gone, and she wasn't trying to replace it.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
She hesitated.
Adults always hesitated before lies.
"Nothing," she said finally. "Just… stay here."
But Jayson had already learned something important, even if he didn't know it yet.
When adults say nothing, it usually means everything.
He sat back down on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, listening as the world outside continued without him. Boots scraped against dirt. Someone cursed under their breath. A dog barked and then went silent.
Time passed strangely—slow and fast at the same time.
When his mother returned, her eyes were red. She knelt in front of him and brushed his hair back, her fingers trembling just enough for him to notice.
"Jayson," she said softly, "today, you're not going to play outside."
He nodded, even though he didn't understand why that mattered.
The rest of the day felt wrong.
The field where they always played was empty. No laughter. No running feet. The air itself seemed to be waiting for something that never arrived. Jayson stood by the window, watching shadows stretch longer as the sun lowered, feeling a tightness in his chest he couldn't name.
That night, there were no stars.
Clouds covered the sky completely, thick and unmoving. Jayson lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to his mother breathe. Each breath sounded careful, like she was afraid the world might hear her.
For the first time in his life, Jayson felt it.
Not fear. Not yet.
But uncertainty.
And though he didn't understand it, the world had already taken its first step away from being simple.