The plate hit the table harder than it needed to.
"That's it?"
Charlie didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the floor, watching a crack in the tile like it might split open if he stared long enough.
"I asked you something."
Don't look up.
Don't answer too fast.
Don't make it worse.
"I… that's all there is."
His voice came out smaller than he wanted.
A chair scraped. Slow. Loud.
"All there is," his father repeated, like the words tasted bad.
Charlie's stomach tightened. He'd heard that tone before.
Always before something.
"You think I work all day for this?"
"No."
Too fast.
His fingers curled into his shirt.
"No?"
There it is.
Charlie shook his head quickly. "I mean—I didn't mean—"
The impact came from the side this time. Not a kick. A hand. Open.
It still rang in his ears the same way.
Don't fall.
He steadied himself against the table, blinking hard.
"You always have something to say," his father muttered.
That wasn't true.
Charlie knew it wasn't true.
But he nodded anyway.
"Sorry."
His mother sighed from the corner, like all of this was just… tiring.
"Charlie," she said softly, "why do you make things harder than they need to be?"
He looked at her without thinking.
Big mistake.
She smiled. Not kindly. Just… calmly.
"You know how your father gets."
He did.
"If you'd just listen, he wouldn't have to do that."
Wouldn't have to.
Charlie swallowed. His throat felt dry.
That means it's my fault.
He lowered his head again.
"Okay."
His stomach growled. Loud enough that all three of them heard it.
Silence.
Then a short laugh from his father.
"Hungry?"
Charlie didn't answer.
Don't say yes.
Don't say anything.
"Look at me."
He did. Slowly.
Wrong choice.
The fist came fast.
Everything went white for a second.
He hit the floor this time.
Don't cry.
Don't cry.
Don't—
"…pathetic."
The word blurred past him.
Charlie pressed his hand against his mouth, not to stop the blood—but to stop any sound from coming out.
Quiet.
Stay quiet.
That's how it ends faster.
—
He didn't remember getting outside.
One second the floor was cold against his cheek, the next he was sitting on the curb, knees pulled in, the night air sticking to his skin.
It was quieter out here.
Not silent. Never silent.
But quieter.
Charlie pressed his forehead against his arms.
Don't think about it.
He thought about it anyway.
The timing. The tone. The way his father's voice changed right before—
You should've answered differently.
You should've stayed quiet.
You should've—
"You're still doing that."
Charlie froze.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
An old man sat beside him.
He didn't remember him being there before.
"Doing what?" Charlie asked. His voice was hoarse.
The old man glanced at him, then down at Charlie's clenched hands.
"Blaming yourself for things you were never in control of."
Charlie frowned.
"You don't know anything."
The old man hummed softly. Not offended. Not surprised.
"You think if you find the 'right' answer," he said, "you can avoid the next hit."
Charlie's chest tightened.
"…that's not—"
"You watch his tone. His posture. The way he breathes."
The old man's voice stayed calm. Certain.
"You adjust. You shrink. You apologize before you even understand what you did wrong."
Charlie stared at him now.
"You stay quiet," the man continued,
"Because you learned that silence ends things faster."
Don't listen.
"…Who are you?"
The old man smiled faintly.
It wasn't a warm smile.
It was a tired one.
"Someone who learned the same lessons," he said.
Charlie shook his head. "No."
Too fast. Too sharp.
"No, you're not."
The man didn't argue.
He just looked at him. Really looked.
Like he already knew everything.
"You start believing it after a while," the man said quietly.
"That it's your fault."
Charlie's jaw tightened.
"It is."
The words came out automatically.
Practiced.
Safe.
The old man's expression didn't change.
"That's what keeps you alive right now," he said.
Charlie blinked.
"…what?"
"Believing that," the man continued, "gives you the illusion of control."
Silence stretched between them.
"If it's your fault," the man said, "then maybe you can fix it."
Charlie's hands started shaking.
He hated that.
"But you can't," the man added.
Something in Charlie's chest twisted sharply.
"Stop talking."
The old man didn't.
"No matter how quiet you are."
"No matter how careful."
"It still happens."
"I said stop."
"Because it was never about you."
"STOP."
His voice cracked.
The street fell quiet again.
Charlie's breathing came out uneven.
The old man finally looked away.
"…You're not ready to hear that yet," he said softly.
Charlie swallowed hard.
"…Then why are you here?"
The man paused.
For a moment, he looked… almost uncertain.
Then—
"Because you don't survive this without becoming me."
Charlie frowned.
"What does that even mean?"
The old man stood slowly.
"You'll understand," he said.
He hesitated—just slightly.
"…when you finally leave this world."
Charlie looked up—
And the man was gone.