Three Years Later
The final bell rang.
Yuri waited until the classroom emptied before standing. He always waited. It meant fewer eyes, fewer chances for attention to land where it shouldn't.
He slipped his notebooks into his bag and headed for the door.
Someone blocked his path.
"Hey," a voice said. "Where're you rushing off to?"
Yuri lowered his gaze. "Sorry."
A shove caught him in the chest. He stumbled back, hit a desk, pain flashing sharp and bright.
Laughter followed him down to the floor.
"Careful," another voice said. "Wouldn't want you getting hurt."
They left after that. They always did.
Yuri stayed down until the room was empty again.
By the time he reached his street, the sun was gone.
Lights flashed at the end of the block. Red and blue painted the houses in unfamiliar colors. People stood in clusters, murmuring, pointing.
Yuri slowed.
Then he ran.
Someone tried to stop him. A hand closed around his shoulder, but he twisted free and kept going, heart slamming hard enough to hurt.
The front door was open.
Inside, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
"Mom?" he called.
The smell reached him first.
Iron. Smoke. Something wrong.
The living room was destroyed. Furniture overturned. Dark stains soaked into the floor, climbed the walls in uneven streaks. His breath came fast and shallow as he stepped forward, each movement unreal, distant.
Then he saw her.
Lilly lay crumpled near the far wall, eyes open, staring at nothing. Her hair was matted dark against her face, one arm bent at an angle it shouldn't bend.
Yuri stopped.
The world narrowed to a single point inside his chest.
He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering, afraid to touch, afraid not to. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
She didn't move.
She didn't breathe.
Yuri pressed his forehead against the floor.
His body shook, silent and violent all at once. His stomach clenched, rebelled, but even that felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
The house watched him grieve.
Outside, sirens wailed.
Inside, something closed.
Yuri did not scream.
He did not cry out.
He stayed there, small and folded beside the only reason he had ever learned how to endure—until even that was gone.