Oliver did not return to school.
He also did not return to work.
Days passed, but they felt like one long night that refused to end. The world outside kept moving—cars passed, voices rose and fell, the sun appeared and disappeared—but inside the small house, time stood still.
After his father's death, Oliver stayed indoors. He was both ashamed and aggravated.He rarely spoke. He rarely slept. When he did close his eyes, the image came back—the rope, the still body, the way the air smelled that night. He would wake up sweating, his heart beating too fast, his chest tight as if he was drowning.
Mrs. Montero noticed everything.
At first, she tried to be strong. She cooked even when her hands shook. She smiled even when her eyes were red and swollen.
"We will be fine,"she told Oliver. "Once again." even when her voice was weak.
But grief does not leave quietly.
After a few days, Mrs. Montero fell sick.
It started with a cough. Then fever. Then pain in her chest that made it hard for her to breathe. She was all too familiar with all these symptoms. But Oliver never knew.
"I'm sorry," she whispered one night, her voice thin. "I can't go to work like this."
Oliver sat beside her bed, holding her hand carefully, afraid that something might happen to her too.
"It's okay, Mom," he said softly. "Please rest."
But inside, fear wrapped around his heart.
Mrs. Montero had always worked as a live-in nurse at Mrs. Gracie's mansion. That job paid for their food, Oliver's school needs, everything. Without it, there was nothing.
When the Adriens were informed of Mrs. Montero's condition, they made arrangements quickly. A temporary nurse was hired to take care of Mrs. Gracie until Mrs. Montero recovered.
Oliver learned this through a short phone call.
"She'll take your mother's place for now," the housekeeper said kindly. "Tell her to get well."
Oliver thanked her and ended the call. He sat there for a long time afterward, the phone resting on his lap, feeling both relieved and ashamed. Relieved that Mrs. Gracie would not be left alone. Ashamed that his mother could no longer do what she had always done—endure.
The house grew quieter each day.
Oliver cooked simple meals when he remembered to eat. Sometimes, the food burned. Sometimes, he forgot it completely. He spent most of his time sitting by the window, staring outside without really seeing anything.
At night, he listened to his mother's breathing, counting each rise and fall of her chest, afraid of what might happen if the sound stopped.
School messages piled up. Missed calls. A message from his workplace asking when he would return. He ignored them all.
The world felt too loud.
And somewhere far away, in a place Oliver could not bring himself to think about, life went on without him.
Liam noticed it the moment he walked into the classroom.
Oliver's seat was empty.
At first, Liam told himself it was nothing. Oliver was often late. Sometimes he slipped in quietly after the bell, head down, trying not to draw attention. Liam waited, pretending not to look, his eyes drifting back to that seat again and again.
The bell rang.
Oliver did not come.
Something heavy settled in Liam's chest.
By the second day, the whispers started.
"Did you hear?"
"About that quiet boy?"
"His father died."
"I heard he was beaten like a dog."
Liam's pen froze in his hand.
"What do you mean, died?" someone asked.
A boy from the back laughed. "Owed money. Couldn't pay. Serves him right."
Another voice added, "That family was trash anyway. Always poor."
Liam stood up so suddenly his chair screeched across the floor.
"Shut up."
The room went quiet.
The boy who had spoken first scoffed. "Why do you care?"
Liam's jaw tightened. "You don't get to talk about someone's father like that. You don't know anything."
"Everyone knows," another student said. "The man was useless. Drunk. Violent."
Liam's hands curled into fists. His heart was pounding, not with anger alone, but with something sharper—fear.
"Even if that were true," Liam said, his voice shaking, "it doesn't give you the right to mock the dead. Or his son."
A few students looked away. Others laughed uncomfortably.
"Relax, rich boy," someone muttered. "Why defend a poor kid?"
That word—poor—made something snap inside Liam.
"He's smarter than all of you," Liam said. "And braver too. You hide behind rumors because you're empty."
The teacher entered then, ending the argument, but the damage was already done.
Liam sat back down slowly. His heart would not calm.
Where are you, Oliver? he thought.
Each day Oliver remained absent, the rumors grew worse. People talked as if Oliver wasn't human—only a story, something to judge and tear apart. Liam hated it. Hated himself for every second he had once looked down on Oliver too.
At lunch, Liam barely ate. He stared at his phone, wondering if he should call, if he even had the right to.
We fought, he reminded himself.
I hurt him.
But the thought of Oliver sitting alone somewhere, hearing these words, broke him.
That evening, Liam made a decision.
If Oliver wasn't coming back to school yet, then Liam would go to him.
Because silence, Liam had learned too late, could be just as cruel as cruelty itself.
At home, Liam barely spoke. He moved through the house like a shadow, letting his mother's sharp eyes follow him without meeting them.
"Liam! Where have you been all day?" Mrs. Adrien's voice sliced through the quiet as he entered the living room. "I've been calling you. And for what? Worrying about that… lowly boy?!"
Liam's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Answer me!" she demanded, stepping closer, her face red with anger. "You spend more time thinking about Oliver Montero than your studies, your responsibilities! Do you even understand what it means to associate with someone like him?"
Liam's hands curled into fists at his sides. The anger and frustration he'd swallowed all day boiled over. "Why does it matter to you who I care about? He's not asking for your permission!"
His mother froze, eyes wide. "Do not speak to me like that!"
"I'm not doing anything wrong!" Liam shouted, his voice echoing through the hall. "Why should I stay away from him just because you say so?!"
Mrs. Adrien's lips pressed into a thin line. "You've already been warned, Liam. Stay away from him, or you'll regret it. I am serious!"
Liam turned abruptly, retreating to his room. He slammed the door behind him, the sound like thunder in the quiet house. He pressed his back against the door and sank to the floor, breathing hard.
His chest ached—not just from the fight, but from a weight he could not name. He didn't want to stay away from Oliver. He didn't want to ignore the boy who had come to mean more to him than he could admit.
But how could he fight against the world—and his own family?
He clenched his eyes shut. The silence of his room swallowed him, but it could not erase the memory of Oliver's absence, of the empty chair at school, of the cruel whispers.
And deep down, Liam knew one thing: he would not let Oliver face that world alone...