Loneliness wasn't loud.
That was the first thing I learned.
It didn't announce itself.
Didn't demand attention.
It simply sat beside me when the room emptied.
Days passed after the celebration, but nothing truly returned to normal.
The estate was still full of people.
Servants came and went.
Guards changed shifts.
Nobles sent letters.
Yet somehow, I felt more alone than I ever had.
In my previous life, loneliness had been rare.
Even when I felt bored or lost, there were always people around me—friends who joked too loudly, laughed at stupid things, dragged me along whether I wanted to go or not.
And my sisters.
Especially my elder sister.
She used to scold me for being lazy, mock me for my excuses, and still—somehow—stand beside me when it mattered.
I remembered her voice clearly.
"You think too much. Just do something."
She never let silence linger.
Here, silence was everywhere.
And it stayed.
I sat alone more often now.
On window ledges.
In corners of large rooms.
On garden benches where sunlight filtered through leaves.
No one told me to move.
No one told me to join.
They simply… let me be.
Because I was a duke's son.
Because distance was respect.
I didn't cry.
But sometimes, my chest felt tight in a way I couldn't explain.
I missed having someone speak to me without fear or expectation.
Someone who didn't measure every word.
Someone who didn't bow.
My mother noticed first.
She always did.
She found me one afternoon sitting quietly in the garden, staring at nothing in particular. The breeze moved the leaves above, shadows dancing across the ground.
She didn't call out.
She sat beside me instead.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
"You don't play much anymore," she said gently.
I didn't respond.
She brushed her fingers through my hair, slow and careful.
"You used to laugh more," she continued, not accusing—just observing. "Even before the celebration."
Her hand paused.
"…Are you lonely?"
The word struck deeper than I expected.
I didn't nod.
Didn't shake my head.
I simply looked away.
That was enough.
That evening, she spoke to my father.
I wasn't meant to hear it.
But silence carries sound.
"He's too quiet," my mother said softly.
"He's always been observant," my father replied. "That isn't a flaw."
"This isn't observation," she said. "It's isolation."
There was a pause.
Longer than usual.
"He sits alone even when he doesn't have to," she continued. "He watches others, but doesn't reach out."
"…He's different since the announcement," my father said slowly.
"He's two," my mother said. "And he already looks like someone who expects to be alone."
That silence afterward was heavy.
My father spoke at last.
"…I will handle it."
Not cold.
Not dismissive.
Decisive.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling.
I missed my sister.
Not the idea of her.
Her presence.
The way she filled space without trying.
The way she made loneliness impossible.
I wondered if I would ever have that again.
Or if this world would only ever see me as a name.
A role.
A future problem.
For the first time since transmigration—
I felt small.
Not weak.
Just… small.
And alone.