I was five years old when I learned that death had a smell.
Not the concept of death—I understood that already. The cessation of biological function. The transformation of living tissue into inert matter. Simple cause and effect.
But the actual smell was data I hadn't collected yet.
It started with my mother.
She woke one morning with a fever. I was sitting at the small table, eating bread. She moved slower than her usual pattern—approximately 40% reduction in movement efficiency. Her face was flushed. Skin temperature elevated by visual assessment.
"Elias, sweetheart, I'm not feeling well," she said. Her voice had changed frequency. Rougher. Obstruction in throat, probably.
I observed her. Catalogued the symptoms. "Your temperature is elevated. Respiratory function appears compromised. You should remain in bed."
She smiled. It looked wrong—corners of mouth lifted but eyes weren't doing the crinkling thing they usually did. "You're so smart. Just like a little doctor."
Smart. A word people used when pattern recognition exceeded their expectations.
"I'm going back to bed for a bit," she said. "Can you be good?"
Good. Behavioral compliance with expected norms.
"Yes," I said.
She went back to their room. I finished my bread. Cleaned my plate. Sat at the table.
Waited.
My father came home at sunset. His usual time. Still smelling of sawdust.
He noticed immediately. "Where's your mother?"
"In bed. Elevated temperature. Respiratory compromise. Fever likely."
He went to their room quickly. I heard low voices. His tone had changed—higher pitch, faster cadence. Stress indicators.
He emerged ten minutes later. "Elias, I need to get the doctor. Stay here. Don't go in that room."
"Understood."
He left.
I sat at the table. Counted the cracks in the floor stones. Forty-three visible fractures from my position. The light from the window moved across them as the sun set. I tracked the shadow progression.
My father returned with an old man. Grey hair. Deep facial lines. Carrying a leather bag. The doctor.
They went into the room. Closed the door.
I remained at the table. Listened to muffled sounds. Low conversation. My mother's voice, weaker than before. The doctor's professional tone. My father's stress indicators increasing.
After maybe twenty minutes, the doctor emerged. He looked at my father. Shook his head slightly.
"I'm sorry, Thomas. The infection is too advanced. Without proper medicine—and we don't have any left, not since the shortages—there's nothing I can do."
My father made a sound. Not words. Just air being forced from his lungs in an irregular pattern.
"How long?" he asked.
"Hours. Maybe a day if she's strong." The doctor put his hand on my father's shoulder. "I'm truly sorry."
He left.
My father stood in the main room. Staring at nothing. His hands were shaking. Tremor response to extreme stress.
I watched him. Waited for instructions.
He looked at me. His eyes were wet. That glass-shine thing I'd seen before.
"Elias," he said. His voice barely worked. "Your mother is... she's very sick. She's not going to get better."
I processed this information. Cross-referenced with previous data. "She's going to die."
He flinched. "Yes."
"When?"
"Soon. Maybe tonight."
I nodded. Acknowledged the data.
My father was staring at me. His expression was complicated. Multiple emotions layered. I couldn't identify them all.
"Do you... do you understand what that means?" he asked.
"Yes. Her biological functions will cease. She will stop existing as a living organism."
"That's not..." He stopped. Sat down heavily in the chair across from me. "Elias, she's your mother. Don't you feel anything?"
Feel. That word again.
I conducted internal assessment. Checked for responses. Found none.
"No," I said.
His face did something. Collapsed inward somehow. "Nothing at all?"
"No."
He covered his face with his hands. Stayed like that for several minutes. His shoulders moved irregularly. The crying pattern I'd observed in others.
I sat quietly. Waited.
Eventually he lowered his hands. Looked at me with an expression I couldn't categorize.
"You can go in and see her," he said quietly. "Say goodbye."
Goodbye. Verbal acknowledgment of permanent separation.
I stood. Walked to the door of their room. Opened it.
The smell hit me first.
Sharp. Acidic. Biological compounds breaking down. Sweat. Sickness. Something else underneath—decay starting its process.
I catalogued it. Added it to my database: This is what death smells like.
My mother was in bed. Her skin color had changed—grey undertones, pallor. Her breathing was shallow, irregular. Approximately 8-second intervals between breaths. Her eyes were closed.
I walked closer. Stood beside the bed.
Studied her.
Her face was the same face I'd observed thousands of times. Same facial structure. Same features. But something was different. The animation was gone. She wasn't processing information anymore. Just existing in minimal capacity.
Her eyes opened. Focused on me with difficulty.
"Elias," she whispered. Her voice was almost gone.
"Yes."
"Come... closer."
I moved closer. She reached for my hand. Her fingers were cold. Temperature significantly below normal.
She held my hand. Squeezed weakly.
"I love you," she said. "So much. You know that... right?"
Love. A concept I'd catalogued but never understood.
"You've expressed that sentiment frequently," I said.
She almost smiled. "You're so strange... my sweet boy. But you're mine."
"Genetically, yes."
"I wish..." She coughed. Wet. Painful sound. "I wish I could've... taught you... how to feel."
"You taught me to mimic emotional responses," I said. "That was useful."
"That's not... the same."
"I know."
She was quiet for a moment. Her breathing got worse. Each breath seemed to require more effort.
"Will you be... okay?" she asked.
"My survival probability decreases with just singular parental support. I will adapt."
"So practical." Her voice was almost gone now. "Just like... your father."
"He's exhibiting grief responses. Elevated stress. Emotional distress."
"He loves me."
"Yes. His behavior patterns indicate strong attachment."
"And you don't... feel anything?"
I checked again. Searched for responses. Found nothing.
"No," I said.
She closed her eyes. A tear ran down her cheek. "I'm sorry... I couldn't... teach you..."
Her breathing changed. Became more irregular. Longer pauses between breaths.
I stood there. Watched the process.
Her chest rose. Fell. Rose. Fell.
Each cycle taking longer.
Rose.
Fell.
Pause.
Rose.
Fell.
Longer pause.
Then nothing.
I waited. Counted to sixty. No further respiratory function.
I reached out. Checked her wrist. No pulse.
Biological function: terminated.
I stood there for another minute. Observed the stillness. The complete absence of life processes.
Then I walked out.
My father was sitting at the table. He looked up when I emerged.
"She's dead," I said.
He made that sound again. Louder. His whole body shook with it. He bent forward, arms wrapped around himself.
I watched. Catalogued the grief response. The way his body moved. The sounds he made. The complete loss of normal functioning.
Interesting how emotion could override all other processes.
After several minutes, he straightened. His face was wet. Eyes red.
"Are you..." He stopped. Started again. "Do you need anything?"
"No."
"Do you want to... I don't know... talk?"
"About what?"
He stared at me. "Your mother just died, Elias."
"I know. I was present when biological function ceased."
He covered his face again. "Oh god. What's wrong with you?"
Wrong. That word again. The same word my mother had used in whispered conversations she thought I couldn't hear.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But I appear to be neurologically divergent from standard human emotional responses."
He lowered his hands. Looked at me with something like desperation. "You really don't feel anything? At all?"
"No."
"Not even... sad? Or scared? Or..."
"No."
He was quiet for a long time. Just looking at me.
"I don't know what to do with you," he finally said. Very quietly.
"Maintain current caregiving patterns," I suggested. "Until I'm old enough for self-sufficiency."
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
"Nothing." He stood. Moved slowly, like his body was too heavy. "I need to... arrange things. For the funeral. You should... just stay here."
"Understood."
He left.
I sat at the table. Resumed counting floor cracks.
My mother was dead. This changed my environmental variables. Food preparation would now fall to my father. Emotional support protocols would be absent. My father's work hours wouldn't change, so I'd be alone more frequently.
Adaptation would be required.
I could do that.
My father got sick three days later.
Same pattern. Fever. Respiratory compromise. Deterioration.
I watched it happen with the same clinical detachment.
He tried to fight it. Tried to keep working. Collapsed on the second day.
I brought him water. Tried to cool his fever. He was too weak to go get the doctor himself and I was too young to go alone that distance—he'd made me promise not to leave the house.
So I stayed. Observed. Waited.
He died on the third night.
I was sitting beside his bed when it happened. Watching the same process. The slowing breaths. The lengthening pauses. The final stillness.
When it was over, I stood. Walked to the window. Looked out at the dark street.
Both parents dead. I was an orphan now. Age five. No relatives. No support structure.
I should feel something about this.
Other children would be crying. Screaming. Breaking down.
I felt nothing.
Just the same emptiness I'd always felt. The same absence where emotions should be.
I pressed my palm against my chest. Checking. Searching for something.
Nothing.
Just my heartbeat. Steady. 68 bpm. Normal resting rate.
I was broken. That much was clear now. Whatever mechanism produced emotion in others—I didn't have it. Or it didn't work. Or something was missing.
The thought carried no weight. No sadness. No fear.
Just data.
I was broken. And I was alone. And I had approximately 12 hours before someone would check on us and find the bodies.
I should sleep. Maintain optimal function. Tomorrow would require dealing with authorities. Probably relocation. Definitely significant environmental changes.
I needed to be prepared.
I walked to my small bed. Lay down. Closed my eyes.
My parents were dead. I was an orphan. My entire life had just changed.
And I felt nothing.
Nothing at all.