The boy was eleven, and all he wanted was to make his toy plane fly again.
A dented tin thing with one missing wheel, its silver paint faded to dull gray. But to Elijah, it was freedom in his hand.
He darted down the marble corridor of the Halvern mansion, the sound of his feet echoing like little bursts of laughter. The grand house was empty today—or so he believed. Every holiday, when the family left for their city estate, his mother, Serena, would sneak him in.
She was one of the servants, the kind no one remembered unless they needed something scrubbed or folded. But she wanted her son to see beauty, even if borrowed.
"She just wanted me to believe the world could be kind," Elijah would later say. "But that lie didn't last."
He swooped the tin plane through the air, humming engine sounds as he landed it on the oak desk in the study. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, painting gold over shelves of untouched books. He climbed onto the large chair behind the desk, spinning once before pretending to steer a ship.
That's when he heard it—footsteps. Two sets. One slow and heavy. One quick and anxious.
He froze.
His mother's warnings came back to him: If someone returns early, hide.
He looked around wildly. Behind the bookcase, near the curtains, was a narrow hollow—barely wide enough for a boy. He slid into it, clutching the plane to his chest. Through the sliver of space, he watched the study door open.
An old man stepped in—Theodore Halvern, the master of the house. Age had carved deep lines into his face, but his eyes still carried that cold, ruling light. Beside him came a young woman. Barely sixteen, trembling, eyes wide with desperation.
"Please, Mr. Halvern," she said, voice shaking. "I just want a chance. William loves me. We were going to—"
"You?" Theodore's voice cracked like a whip. "My son will not marry a servant girl who throws herself at anything with a pulse."
The girl's face went red, part shame, part fury. "You have no right to talk like that—you—"
Theodore's hand shot out and slapped her hard across the face. The sound made Elijah flinch.
"Quiet," the old man hissed. "I've tolerated your games long enough. Take the money and disappear."
He pulled a stack of bills from his coat and flung it at her feet. They scattered across the carpet like wilted leaves.
The girl—Viola—shook, eyes wet. "And what about my child? The baby I told William was his?"
Theodore's jaw clenched. "Then it's just another mistake. Leave it at an orphanage. That's the best mercy you can give."
Elijah didn't understand everything, but he knew cruelty when he heard it. His stomach twisted.
Viola's breath came fast. Her gaze flicked toward the desk—toward the letter opener resting beside a stack of papers. Her hand trembled as she picked it up.
"You ruined me," she whispered. "And you'll never ruin my child."
Theodore barely had time to move before she drove the blade into his chest. The old man gasped—a dry, horrible sound—and fell backward, knocking over a chair as blood soaked through his shirt.
Elijah clamped a hand over his mouth, but a small gasp escaped him. Viola's head jerked toward the curtain. For one second, her eyes met his.
Then she ran.
"That was the moment everything started collapsing," Elijah's voice would say years later. "The day I stopped being a boy."
He stayed frozen for what felt like forever before crawling out from his hiding place. His legs shook. The plane dropped from his hand.
He stumbled toward the door—straight into his mother.
"Elijah! What are you doing here?" Serena's eyes widened. She saw the blood on his sleeve, followed his trembling finger toward the study. "Stay here," she whispered.
She ran up the stairs.
A scream tore through the mansion seconds later. Serena's voice.
Elijah started up the steps—but someone else entered the house. Viola had returned, and with her came someone new: a man in a fedora and long coat. His name, Elijah would learn much later, was Caleb.
They reached the study where Serena was still crying over the fallen Theodore.
Serena's sobs shook the walls. "Father! What happened—who—"
"Father?" Viola echoed, eyes wide.
Serena looked up. "He gave me this job. He helped me raise Elijah. You—what have you done?"
Viola's expression hardened. "You were his maid? So you're another one of his bastards."
Serena stood, fury cutting through her grief. "You killed him!"
Caleb moved quickly. His fist cracked against Serena's temple. She fell beside Theodore's corpse.
Viola's hands trembled. "Caleb—what did you—"
"Think," Caleb said calmly. "We make this look like her doing. Jealousy. Money. Perfect motive."
Elijah, hidden by the doorframe, felt his throat close. He wanted to scream. Wanted to run to his mother. But his body refused.
Viola hesitated. "And the boy?"
Caleb turned toward the hall. "Where is he?"
Elijah ran. Down the stairs, through the grand foyer, out into the cold air. His lungs burned, his feet bare against the gravel. He didn't stop until he reached the stone bridge by the lake. He crawled into the hollow beneath it, clutching the tin plane, heart thudding in his throat.
Caleb's voice carried faintly outside. "He's here somewhere."
"Forget him," Viola said, voice cracking. "Help me with the body first."
Their footsteps faded. Elijah didn't move until the sky turned gray.
"That night, they said my mother killed him. They said she was jealous, desperate, insane. And everyone believed it."
He remembered the next morning—the crowd at the gates. The flash of cameras. His mother in handcuffs, tears streaking her cheeks, still trying to smile at him through the chaos.
He remembered Viola, dressed in black, standing beside William Halvern, holding a baby in her arms. She looked like a grieving widow. The crowd pitied her. No one looked twice at the servant being dragged away.
"I lost her that day," Elijah would whisper. "And whatever good was left in me went with her."
But the world wasn't finished with him.
Weeks later, Elijah came home to silence. The air smelled of iron. He found his father on the floor, throat cut, eyes open. Caleb was there again—calm, collected, wiping his hands with a cloth.
Elijah didn't scream this time. He only ran.
He stowed away on the back of a cargo truck that night, curling between crates, gripping the broken plane. He didn't know where he was going—only that it had to be far.
When the truck stopped, a kind-faced driver found him and handed him a sandwich. "You lost, kid?"
Elijah nodded, voice small. "I don't have a home."
The driver sighed. "Then you do now."
He took him to Delvin Orphanage—a crumbling building with warm lights and a woman named Jessica at its door. She knelt to Elijah's height and smiled softly.
"You're safe here," she said.
And though Elijah nodded, he didn't believe her. Because somewhere deep inside, he knew the world had already fallen.
"That was the day the sky fell," he'd whisper years later. "And I never stopped falling with it."