Ashen laid back on the bed, his body sinking into the familiar mattress. He stared up at the ceiling and said nothing at all. A small crack ran from the light fixture toward the window like a jagged scar across pale skin. He had never noticed it before. Or perhaps he had, once, and simply forgotten. Either way, he was noticing it now lying flat on his back with his shoes still on, his jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor. He stared at the crack as if it owed him answers, as if tracing its path might somehow make sense of the chaos still echoing inside his chest.
The house was quiet in that particular way it always became at this hour not the hollow silence of emptiness, but a settled, lived-in quiet that carried its own gentle presence. Downstairs, faint sounds drifted upward: the soft click of a cabinet closing, the brief rush of water from the tap, and the steady rhythm of someone who had moved through the same kitchen for decades. Every motion was precise, unhurried, born of muscle memory and long familiarity.
The air carried the comforting aroma of sautéed onions mingled with something warm and savory he couldn't quite name, perhaps herbs from the garden or the rich broth Edith always seemed to coax from simple ingredients. Ashen pushed himself up and made his way downstairs. Edith stood at the stove with her back to him, stirring the pot in her characteristic slow, deliberate circles, as though time itself bent to her pace and there was nowhere else she needed to be.
She didn't turn around when he entered.
"Sit," she said, her voice calm and steady.
He sat.
She still didn't look at him. The wooden spoon continued its patient journey around the pot. Warm yellow light from the overhead lamp bathed the kitchen, while outside the window the sky had deepened into the rich indigo of early evening. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak tree just beyond the glass.
After a long moment, she spoke again.
"How bad is the eye?"
"It's fine," Ashen replied.
"That's not what I asked," she said, her tone gentle but firm.
Ashen lifted two fingers and touched the tender skin around his eye lightly. "Swollen. Doesn't really hurt anymore."
Edith made a small sound in her throat something between acknowledgment and disapproval. She set the spoon down on the rest, turned around, and looked at him properly for the first time that evening. Her gaze was steady and unhurried, the kind of look that seemed to read everything written just beneath the surface of his face. For a few heartbeats, the kitchen felt smaller, warmer, heavier with unspoken concern.
Then she turned back to the stove.
"Three days is not so bad," she said. "You can help me with the garden."
Ashen opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words he wanted to say tangled on his tongue.
"Okay," he finally managed.
She nodded once, as if that single word had settled everything between them, and returned to her stirring. Ashen sat at the old wooden table, the surface worn smooth by years of family meals. He listened to the quiet rhythm of her cooking the soft scrape of the spoon, the faint bubble of the pot, the occasional creak of the floorboards as she shifted her weight. Outside, the last traces of daylight slowly bled away, painting the sky in deepening shades of purple and navy.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that this house felt completely different when she was in it. Without her, the rooms felt too large, too empty, haunted by echoes. With her, they felt anchored safe, even when the world outside tried to prove otherwise.
He looked down at his plate as she served dinner. A sudden wave of emotion rose in his chest gratitude mixed with a deep, aching sadness. His eyes stung, tears threatening to spill over. He blinked them back quickly, composing himself before she could notice. They ate together in comfortable silence, the clink of cutlery and the occasional creak of chairs the only sounds breaking the quiet.
After some time, Ashen stood up. "I'm going to watch some TV, but first, do you need any help with the kitchen?"
Edith gave him a small smile. "That would be nice, dear."
He helped her clear the table, wash the dishes, and rearrange the groceries she had brought in earlier. The warm soapy water, the familiar scent of the dish detergent, and the quiet companionship between them eased something tight in his chest. Once everything was tidy, Ashen headed to the living room while Edith remained in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she wiped down the counters.
As he stepped into the living room, the familiar scent of air freshener greeted him lavender and something faintly citrus. The room held a gentle warmth from the heater, wrapping around him like an old blanket. He paused for a moment, looking around at the well-worn furniture, the faded photographs on the mantelpiece, and the soft glow of the lamp in the corner. His chest grew a little heavy.
How would it be if they were still alive? he thought, the image of his parents flickering unbidden in his mind. For a brief second, he could almost hear their laughter filling these same walls.
He looked down at the carpet, swallowing hard, and forced himself back together. Not tonight. Not now.
The next morning, Ashen woke early, the soft light filtering through the curtains. He got himself ready, pulling on comfortable clothes and tying his shoes with careful fingers. Deciding a walk to the park might clear his head, he headed downstairs.
Edith heard the faint rumbling of his movements and called out, "What are you doing up so early? And where are you heading off to?"
"To the park," Ashen replied, still tying his laces. "I'll be back home by eleven, so don't worry."
"How's your eye now?" she asked, stepping into the hallway with a cup of tea in her hands.
"It's way better than yesterday, but the swelling is still there. I'll get well soon. If you insist, I can stop by the doctor on my way back home," Ashen said.
Edith studied him for a moment, her expression softening with quiet worry. "Okay. Take care of yourself and be careful. I don't want to see you hurt again." She paused, her voice growing heavier with emotion. "You are the only thing I have left."
Ashen looked at her, the weight of her words settling over him. "Don't worry, Grandma. I promise this will never happen again. I promise you'll never have to burden yourself with my worries."
"It's not that, my child," she replied gently, reaching out to adjust the collar of his jacket with careful fingers. "It's that too many crimes are happening in town these days even in broad daylight. So be careful, in every sense."
"Oh, okay. Got it. Don't worry," Ashen said, offering her a reassuring smile. "Bye."
"Bye, and come home early," Edith reminded him. "You need to help me with the garden. Do you remember?"
"Yes, Grandma, I do," Ashen replied, giving her a small nod before stepping out the door.
The morning air felt crisp against his skin as Ashen walked toward the park. He watched the familiar streets pass by, the park slowly coming into view ahead. As he drew closer, he spotted a familiar face lingering near the entrance.
"Arnold?" he asked, confusion threading through his voice.
"What are you doing here?" he added.
"What do you mean, what am I doing here? Can't I be here?" Arnold asked, a playful grin spreading across his face.
"No, that's not what I meant," Ashen said, shaking his head.
"Anyway, how's your blueberry?" Arnold asked with a mischievous smirk.
"Blueberry?" Ashen looked at him, utterly confused.
"Your eye?" Arnold clarified, looking at Ashen as though he had just delivered the greatest roast of all time.
Ashen stared at him for a second, then reached out and started pulling Arnold's hair in mock frustration.
"Ah, sorry! Sorry! I was just joking!" Arnold yelped, covering his head with both hands and laughing.
"Joking? I'll be joking too after I pull every single strand of hair from your head," Ashen shot back, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.
They started their usual casual scuffle right there at the park gate light shoves, playful grabs, and exaggerated complaints until both of them were breathing heavily and laughing. After some time, they finally stopped and wandered inside the park together.
"I don't know how I'm going to pass these three days," Ashen admitted, kicking a small pebble along the path.
"Same, but hey we can come to the park every day," Arnold said excitedly, his eyes lighting up at the idea.
"I'm lazy as hell. I don't have the courage to wake up early and come here every day," Ashen replied with a tired sigh.
They chatted for a whole hour and a half, talking about everything and nothing school gossip, video games, dumb jokes, and the latest trouble they had somehow avoided. Then they started walking slowly around the park, simply enjoying the fresh air and each other's company. For a little while, the weight on Ashen's shoulders felt lighter.
"I need to go now," Arnold said eventually, glancing at his watch.
"This early?" Ashen asked, surprised.
"My mom asked me to buy some things from the store, and I also need to get some medicine for my cat. She hasn't been doing well since last night," Arnold explained, his voice softening with concern.
"Take her to the vet instead of just giving her medicine," Ashen replied, genuine worry showing in his tone.
Arnold nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that. Fine then bye. We'll meet tomorrow. We can talk on the phone though."
"Ah yes, phone… about that… uhmm," Arnold looked around awkwardly, suddenly avoiding eye contact.
"What? Say it directly," Ashen pressed.
"My parents took my phone, so I can't talk to you. Hell, I can't talk to anyone right now," Arnold said, pulling a dramatically depressed face.
"Okay then… bye. See you tomorrow," Ashen said.
"Bye," Arnold replied, waving as he started walking toward his home.
"What should I do now?" Ashen muttered to himself once he was alone again. The sudden silence felt louder than any noise. For a brief moment, the playful scuffle and laughter with Arnold had made everything feel almost normal like he was just another teenager killing time at the park. But as Arnold's figure disappeared down the path, that fragile normalcy slipped away. Ashen stood there for a few seconds, hands in his pockets, staring at the empty space where his friend had been. The weight that had briefly lifted settled back onto his shoulders, heavier than before.
He turned and entered the park once more.
He turned and entered the park once more, finding an empty bench under the shade of an old maple tree. He sat there for nearly an hour, watching people come and go. Children laughed as they played with their fathers and mothers chasing balls, swinging high into the air, sharing ice creams. The joyful scenes unfolded in front of him like a movie he could never join. A deep, empty feeling settled in his chest, growing heavier with every passing minute. It felt as if cold water was being poured over his heart without stopping, chilling him from the inside out. He tilted his head back against the bench, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the hollow ache refused to leave. Memories of his own parents surfaced unbidden weekend picnics, his father's strong hands pushing him on the swings, his mother's laughter ringing through the same park years ago. The contrast between those warm memories and the present emptiness made his throat tighten.
"Let's go back home," he whispered to himself. "Grandma might be waiting."
When he reached home, Ashen immediately joined Edith in the garden. They worked together in comfortable silence pulling weeds, watering plants, and tending to the tomato vines. Later, he helped with kitchen chores, washing dishes and wiping counters. When he finally had free time, he retreated to his room and buried himself in his studies for the rest of the day.
For the next two days, Ashen barely left the house. The hours stretched long and quiet, each one blending into the next until time itself felt sluggish. On the second day, he spent the morning in the garden with Edith, his hands deep in the cool soil as he carefully tied up the tomato vines that had begun to droop. The repetitive motion was soothing at first, but soon his mind wandered. Every pull of a weed reminded him of how easily things could fall apart if left untended just like the fight that had landed him here. Guilt sat heavy in his stomach. He kept glancing at Edith's bent figure, noticing the slight slowness in her movements, the way she sometimes paused to catch her breath. He had added to her worries, and that knowledge gnawed at him more than any boredom.
In the afternoons he retreated to his room, surrounded by textbooks and notebooks that offered little distraction. He tried to study, but his thoughts kept drifting to his parents wondering what they would say if they saw him now, grounded and bruised. Would his father be disappointed? Would his mother pull him into a hug and tell him it was okay? The questions had no answers, only an aching silence. At night, lying in bed and staring at the small crack on the ceiling that had become strangely familiar, the house felt both comforting and suffocating. It was a reminder of everything he had lost and everything he still had left to protect. Sleep came in uneasy fragments, interrupted by half-remembered dreams where his parents' voices called his name from somewhere just out of reach.
The morning of the fourth day finally arrived the day he could return to school. Ashen still made a quick call to confirm he was allowed back, and relief washed over him when he received the confirmation.
"I feel excited and sad at the same time," Ashen mumbled while still half-asleep, rubbing his eyes.
"Haha, don't worry, it will be fine," Edith said warmly. She stepped closer, looked deeply into his eyes, and gently kissed his forehead. "But listen to me, Ashen… don't hurt yourself ever again, okay?"
Ashen looked up at her, a soft smile breaking across his face. "I'm sorry for whatever happened then. It will not happen again."
"Don't worry, my little boy. I'm not angry at you. I just want you to be careful," Edith replied, her voice full of quiet affection and lingering concern.
Chapter 5: End