"Wow!" Nolan exclaimed, tilting his face to the ceiling as he spun around. Light from the chandelier shimmered in his eyes, as if the ceiling itself had caught fire with tiny suns.
He wandered over to the bone-white chairs, trailing his fingers along the sleek armrest. Then his gaze landed on a shelf brimming with neatly arranged books—and his eyes lit up. With a sudden burst of energy, he dashed to the shelf, each step a beat in the hush.
"You have so many books, Uncle!"
Chris squinted, his gaze lingering on the small boy. The moment Nolan pulled out one of his books, Chris parted his lips to protest—but stopped when the boy turned to him, eyes sparkling and a smile stretching wide across his face.
Chris shut his mouth. A strange flutter danced in his chest—like wings brushing against something long buried. His shoulders sagged, and he slipped a hand into his pocket, trying to ground himself.
"Uncle!"
Nolan's voice rang out as bolted toward the dining room, the floor creaking under his light sprint.
"You have a beautiful house!"
Chris's eyes tracked the boy like a hawk, sharp and unblinking. That smile, those bright eyes—they held a strange pull, magnetic and warm.
The scraping of the dining chair against the floor, the clinking of glasses as Nolan poked around—it all made Chris's brow twitch.
He's so noisy, Chris thought, but something in his chest trembled. He wanted to shut the feeling out—to push the boy away, like he'd pushed everything else. But it was too late. The warmth had already seeped beneath his skin, clinging like something he hadn't asked for but desperately missed.
He glanced down at the boy again—and paused.
Nolan didn't look like a stain in his pristine space. No... more like a flicker of light. A tiny glow that gently illuminated this lifeless room that had stood untouched for seven years.
Chris exhaled heavily. He'd been staring too long.
Moments ago, the boy had looked heartbroken. Now—he looked like nothing in the world could weigh him down.
Chris curled his fingers into fists to stop the tremble. Nolan's laughter echoed like a melody—yet, in Chris's mind, it blurred into something else. Rain. Cold. A younger version of himself trudging through a storm, head bowed, tears lost to the downpour.
His throat tightened.
"Why… why are you happy?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Huh? What did you say?" Nolan asked, tilting his head. Then, noticing the frown, he hugged the book to his chest and mumbled, "Sorry... I didn't hear you."
Chris turned away and drew in a sharp breath. He walked toward the stairs, but paused at the first step.
"Come with me," he said without looking back, then started climbing.
He heard the boy's pattering steps catch up behind him. Chris stiffened when a small hand grabbed his own—tight, almost desperate.
A jolt of warmth surged through his veins, raising goosebumps on his arms.
Chris quickly yanked his hand away and stared at his palm in disbelief.
No one had held my hand like that in seven years.
His heart pounded, the warmth still pulsing beneath his skin like a quiet flame.
"I... I'm sorry," Nolan murmured, lowering his head.
Chris looked at the boy, his hands still trembling.
"Don't. Do. That. Ever. Again." The words came out too harsh. He knew it. But he couldn't take them back.
He turned away and continued up the stairs.
I made a mistake.
His heart thudded louder, and when he glanced at his palm, it still looked flushed—almost as if the warmth hadn't left.
I never realized.
Chris smirked bitterly at the thought. Behind him, he could hear the boy's soft footsteps following.
He frowned.
"What a brat," Chris muttered, but his steps slowed—just a little. He didn't know why. Maybe because, for the first time in seven years, someone had followed him without being asked.
7:00 p.m.
Chris pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was spacious, with a two-seater bed at the centre and a lamp glowing warmly on the bedside table. Through the floor-to-ceiling window, the moon hung high, and the lights of clustered buildings shimmered below like fireflies. Cars drifted along the streets, their headlights blinking like distant stars.
Chris leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.
"Go to bed," he muttered, a frown etched across his face.
His brows pulled tighter when Nolan wrapped his small arms around his legs. Chris shot him a sharp glare, but Nolan only shook his head, his eyes already brimming with tears.
"I… I can't sleep alone, Uncle," Nolan said in a trembling voice. "I see scary things when I'm by myself."
Chris scoffed, gently prying the boy's hands away. He still couldn't believe it. He had brought a complete stranger into his house. Watched him run around, touch his books, make noise—shattering the peace and silence that once filled his space. The worst part? He'd ordered clothes and food for the boy.
He never wanted anyone in his house. He kept telling himself he needed to get rid of the boy soon. He had only picked him up because he thought the child might hurt himself—but maybe that was a lie. The boy laughed. Played. Smiled. Like nothing had happened.
He would survive, Chris had told himself.
"Listen, kid," Chris said, turning to him. "I'm not your mum or dad. Don't expect me to pamper you, okay?"
Nolan blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and looked down at his fingers, twisting them slowly.
Chris's squint deepened when he heard Nolan's quiet sobs and saw his shoulders tremble.
"What…?"
"My aunty said the same thing to me three days after my mum died," Nolan whispered, looking up. His voice cracked. "I miss my mum." He sniffled and wiped his tears with the back of his hand. "She always slept beside me… or gave me a doll when she couldn't. She said it would chase away the nightmares."
Chris's arms dropped to his sides.
"But my aunty tore the doll… and made me sleep in a dark storeroom." Nolan glanced up again. "But you… you treated me differently. And I thought… I thought maybe I could find someone who cared about me again."
Chris felt a deep, aching tightness in his chest. His eyes locked with Nolan's. The corners of his eyes burned, and a lump rose in his throat. He looked away, sniffled, and rubbed his nose roughly.
An image from the hospital flashed in his mind—a mother gently cradling her son, whispering soothing words to ease his fears. It was then that the question he had asked himself that day resurfaced: Would my mother have done the same for me now?
He remembered her smile, the warmth of her hugs, the soft scent of her skin.
And I thought… maybe I could find someone to care about me again. Nolan's words echoed in his head.
Then another memory came crashing through—the screaming, the stairs.
"You're cursed! Cursed! Get out of my house!"
Chris shuddered and let out a shaky breath. He looked at Nolan again and slowly crouched in front of him. With a trembling hand, he ruffled the boy's hair, forcing a weak smile.
"You're right," he whispered, his voice unsteady. His eyes were red. "No one can replace your mum."
A harsh voice echoed in his mind. It's your fault, Steven. My sister was warned. You killed her—just like you killed your parents and Uncle's daughter.
Chris's hands dropped to Nolan's shoulders, his grip tightening as he lowered his head, eyes shut, trying to steady his breath.
"Are… are you okay?" Nolan asked, voice small.
"I'm fine," Chris said quickly, wiping the corners of his eyes. He sniffled and looked up. His lips parted before he could stop them. "Should I… read you a story?"
The words surprised even him. But when Nolan's face lit up with joy, something warm flickered in Chris's chest, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Do you know how to read stories?" Nolan asked, his eyes wide.
Chris chuckled softly. "I heard stories work like your mum's doll. They help keep nightmares away."
Nolan beamed, his face glowing.
"Come on," Chris said, scooping the boy into his arms. Nolan's giggles filled the room as he wrapped his arms around Chris's neck.
Chris placed him gently on the bed and tucked the blanket around him. Then he sat beside him, pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through it, but his brows furrowed as if he suddenly forgot what he was looking for.
Nolan watched him rub his neck, concern flickering across the boy's face.
"I'm fine without a story, Uncle," Nolan said softly. He squeezed the blanket to his chest and shut his eyes. "As long as you stay with me, I'll fall asleep."
Chris stared at him for a long moment, then quietly slipped his phone back into his pocket.
"You asked why I'm happy, Uncle?" Nolan's voice broke the silence.
Chris's spine stiffened. His stomach twisted at the memory of his own question in the sitting room.
A faint smile tugged at Nolan's lips. "When I watched my mum dying in the hospital, I wanted to blame myself. I couldn't help her. But… she told me worrying turns into blame, and blame becomes self-hate… and self-hate takes away happiness. She said I shouldn't be scared or sad."
The boy paused, his voice softer now.
"She always reminded me—we can't control what life throws at us, but we can control how we respond. So," he smiled brighter, "I choose to be happy, even when life is hard."
Chris's hands curled into fists as he stared at Nolan's smiling face. His chest tightened, breath shaky, and a cold shiver ran through him. "Your mum told you all that?" he asked, shaking his head with a bitter smirk. "Don't you feel guilty… about your cousin?"
Nolan sighed, then shook his head.
"I would've saved her if I could. And I won't blame myself. My mum wouldn't want that. But…" he whispered, rolling onto his side, "I still feel sorry for my aunty and her daughter."
His voice grew faint. "She'll be okay too… she…"
His eyes fluttered shut, and sleep took him.
Chris's lips quivered. His eyes burned, throat tight with tears he refused to shed. Slowly, he stood, dragging his feet toward the door. He looked back at the sleeping boy as he turned the knob.
We're different, he thought, his nails digging into his palms.
He had brought the boy home, afraid he might hurt himself.
But now he saw it—
The boy could survive.
And that scared him. I need to get rid of him, he told himself, gripping the doorknob like it might hold him back.