Chapter 2 : The Silent One
"Why are you late, you fool? I've been waiting forever!"
The man's voice crashed through the shack like thunder, rattling its fragile walls. The air was heavy and close, thick with the scent of damp wood and the faint smoke curling from a dying stove.
The boy stood in the doorway—thin, barefoot, his ragged gray clothes hanging loose. In his hands, wrapped in a torn scrap of cloth, was a book. His eyes stayed down as he murmured,
"I was looking for food."
The man gave a sharp, bitter laugh and swept his arm in a violent arc.
"Looking for food?"
He advanced, each step making the cracked floor groan, his hand rising the way one might strike a beaten animal.
The boy didn't move.
Didn't shield himself.
Didn't even blink.
The blow sent him sprawling onto the old table, which shuddered under his weight. In one swift motion, he slipped the book beneath a pile of straw by the broken water trough.
"You useless waste!" the man roared. "I send you for food, and you come back with this?"
His boot drove into the boy's stomach. The boy crumpled to the muddy floor, the air punched from his lungs. A heavy foot pressed down on his back until breathing was a struggle—yet still, he made no sound.
A strike to the shoulder.
A blow to the head.
Kicks to the ribs, over and over.
Each new pain peeled open an old scar in his memory.
Each strike reminded him he was nothing.
But he never let go of the book.
At the doorway, the man paused. A faint whisper reached him:
"Weren't you the one who made the monster?"
His back stiffened as if the words had cut him, but he didn't turn. Without a word, he left, the door banging shut behind him.
When the shack was silent again, the boy dragged himself to a corner. Groaning softly, he pulled the book from under the straw. Something close to hope flickered in his eyes. With trembling, bloodied fingers, he opened it.
Inside were strange illustrations, crumbling maps, and words in languages he'd never seen.
The Dwellers Beyond the Shadows spoke of creatures living in the cracks between worlds, feeding on fear, shaping human hearts at will.
The Great Choice told of a single moment in every life that could alter its fate forever.
He didn't understand it all. But the words told him one thing—he was not alone.
---
The next day, an old man sat on a rock near the junkyard, waiting. Just as he was about to leave, the boy appeared over the hill—his face bruised, one eye swollen, his arm bound with a strip of cloth.
"Who did this to you?" the old man asked, his voice tight with concern. "Was it those boys again?"
The boy shook his head.
"No… my master."
The old man's eyes flashed.
"A heartless brute! I'll speak to him myself—"
But the boy stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest.
"No. If he knows you interfered, he'll only be worse."
The old man fell silent, then asked quietly,
"Is that truly what you want? To keep taking this?"
The boy opened his tattered cloak and took out the book. His voice was almost a whisper.
"Monsters aren't allowed to speak."
The old man froze, then gripped the boy's shoulders, locking eyes with him.
"You're not a monster… You're human."
The word struck something deep inside him. Human. It felt like a key turning in a lock that had been sealed his whole life.
---
They sat under the shadow of a dead tree, its trunk split and hollow. The old man stared at the gray horizon.
"I've seen more of this world than I ever wanted," he said. "Walked roads where only the wind followed me. Slept in houses filled with nothing but silence. Met people with kindness in their hearts… and others with something in their eyes you can't wash away."
He traced circles in the dirt.
"I used to think the world was simple: you take or you're taken from, you hit or get hit. But it's not that clean. The world doesn't care if you're good or cruel. It doesn't reward the pure or punish the wicked."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"One day, I helped a little girl fix her cart wheel. She didn't say a word—just smiled and went on her way. No payment, no thanks. Just a smile. From that day, I began looking for the light instead of the shadows."
He breathed in deeply.
"The world is cruel, yes… but not without mercy. There are small moments, like sunlight slipping through a crack in the wall. It doesn't change the wall, but it reminds you you can still see. No one's born a monster—some of us are just forced to wear its skin for a while. The real journey? It's not the roads we take, but the person we return to in the end."
The boy looked down, then at the darkening sky.
"And me? Where do I return?"
"To yourself," the old man said softly. "When you know who you are, it won't matter who calls you a monster… because you'll know you're not."
---
On the way back, the boy walked steadily despite the ache in his body. A voice called behind him:
"Hey, monster."
He turned slowly. One of the local bullies stood there, smirking.
"Is there no one else?" the boy asked.
The bully frowned.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm glad there's someone other than you."
The bully lunged, but this time the boy moved. His kick swept the bully's leg, dropping him to the dirt. The boy was on him in an instant.
The blows were not wild—they were deliberate, sharp, punishing.
Each one carried the same message: I won't allow this anymore.
Blood ran from the bully's nose and mouth as he crawled backward. The boy stood over him, chest heaving, eyes bright.
And in a voice calm enough to still the air, he said,
"I… am human."
Then he walked away.