The Right Option
Kaien had observed the people around him enough to realize how they may see Maren's death.
They wouldn't see the impossibility of her stillness, the perfect arrangement of the room, the absence of any struggle. They wouldn't hear the silence wrong. They wouldn't feel the pressure in the air, or the presence that had fled the moment he stepped through the door.
They would see him — alone, unshaken, standing too long beside a body that had already grown cold. No tears. No shock. Just stillness.
It wouldn't matter what he said. It would matter how he said it.
And Kaien knew — he always knew — that he didn't say things the right way. His pauses were too long. His answers too precise. His grief too quiet.
He imagined the scene: uniformed officials arriving, asking questions in soft voices they thought sounded kind. Taking notes with pens that scratched too loud against cheap paper.
"How long had she been sick?"
"Was there a fight?"
"Did you touch the body?"
"Are there others who can confirm your whereabouts?"
And what could he say?
That she smiled at him yesterday. That her laugh still echoed in his mind like it had been carved there. That he felt a presence in the room after she died, not imagined but real. That a candle lit itself. That the air moved wrong.
He could almost hear them already:
"Maybe you're confused. Maybe you were in shock."
"Are you under stress, Kaien?"
Tone: patronizing. Gait: forward-leaning. Breath: rehearsed.
He could explain it all, and still be seen as the cause — not the witness.
Kaien stepped slowly around the table, eyes scanning every inch of the space again. He crouched beside her body, his hands not quite touching her.
No signs of trauma. No disarray. Nothing had been taken. Nothing disturbed.
He stood up again, back stiff from staying still too long. His eyes lingered on the cup — the faint ring it left on the wood — before turning toward the hallway. There was one last thing he hadn't checked.
Kaien moved through the house on instinct, retracing his steps from earlier. He wasn't looking for something specific — he never was — but his mind caught inconsistencies like thread snags.
A corner of the rug slightly curled. A speck of something on the wall near the door frame. He pressed two fingers to it, then rubbed them together.
Dust. No — residue. Like oil, but faint. Subtle. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
He took a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled slow.
She didn't die because she was old.
She didn't die because she was sick.
She didn't die because life decided it was time.
She died because someone came here and ended her.
And that was the truth he couldn't share.
His knees trembled — just slightly.
Out of fear? Anxiety?
Probably both.
Kaien didn't show it often, but he was still very much a child. His body knew it, even when his mind ran faster than it should. And here, in the wake of something too large and too quiet, that truth pressed in from all sides.
His adoptive mother was gone, killed, by something he couldn't name, using a power he didn't understand.
And he himself?
He was at risk. A scapegoat at best. At worst… a subject. An experiment. A story no one would hear again.
Kaien's eyes drifted to the window. The town beyond it moved with unconscious rhythm — people walking to market, hanging laundry, arguing quietly over small things.
He didn't belong to that rhythm. He never had.
And now?
He was sure of it.
He could already feel it: the eyes, the questions, the way his name would float between half-familiar strangers.
That boy always kept to himself.
Didn't he live with that old woman?
He didn't even cry.
Kaien didn't fear being seen as cold. He feared being mistranslated.
He knew they would most likely conclude that he must be hiding something.
He sighed and moved into his room. The act of packing felt detached — mechanical. A pair of shirts, a weatherproof coat, a wrapped bundle of bread and dried fruit. He paused, eyes scanning the shelf beside his bed.
The book — The Labyrinth of Time and Sorrow. He slid it into the bag without thinking.
And then his hand hovered above something else.
A photo.
It wasn't framed. Just tucked into the corner of the shelf. An old one — grainy, but clear. Him, younger. Eyes wide in a way they never were now. Maren behind him, one hand on his shoulder, her smile unguarded.
Kaien stared at it for a long time.
Then folded it neatly, and placed it between the pages of the book.
He fastened the bag shut, but didn't move to leave just yet. He stood in the center of his room, still and focused, letting the patterns in his mind unfold.
I can't leave as I am. I'm too memorable.
People didn't remember his name. But they remembered his presence. The way he made them uncomfortable. The way his silence didn't quite match his age. The way his words came out too fast, too calm, too detached.
I don't scare them because I'm dangerous.
I scare them because I remind them of something they don't understand.
He'd seen the looks before — on shopkeepers, on neighbors, on teachers who didn't know how to grade someone like him.
He's too quiet. Too observant. Too strange.
That kind of attention? It was dangerous now.
If he wanted to leave this town without consequence, he couldn't afford to be unusual. Not yet. Not here.
So he would perform.
He didn't have the full shape of the mask yet — no voice, no mannerisms, no script — but he'd begin to build it. Piece by piece. Something digestible. Something that wouldn't make people ask questions. Not right away.
Let them think I'm grieving in the usual way. Let them forget the way I speak. Let them replace what they saw with something that makes sense to them.
He touched his face, almost curious.
What does normal grief look like? Slouched shoulders? Red-rimmed eyes? Hesitation in the voice?
He practiced it once. Just a breath. Just an expression.
Not to trick anyone.
To survive.
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Kaien moved through the house like a shadow, trailing the outline of memory. Each room felt smaller now. Not because the walls had changed — but because the person who filled them had been removed. The absence made the space collapse inward.
He passed through the kitchen first. The kettle still sat on the stove, untouched since yesterday. A faint ring of dried tea at the base of the cup on the table. The chair where she always sat.
He didn't touch anything.
He didn't need to. Everything had already pressed itself into his memory — every object, every arrangement, every piece of her routine. He could reconstruct her habits in sequence: two sugars in her tea, always counter-clockwise when she stirred, the way she tapped the side of the cup exactly twice before taking her first sip.
Kaien's chest tightened.
Not from sorrow. Not immediately.
From the sudden vacancy of it all.
He moved to her bedroom next. The door creaked as he pushed it open. The scent hit him before anything else — the faintest traces of lavender oil, old paper, and sun-dried sheets.
His steps were slow here. Careful. Not out of reverence. Out of something heavier.
He hadn't been in this room in a long time. She'd always kept it private, not secret — just hers. Now it felt like walking through a museum that hadn't realized the curator was gone.
He scanned the room instinctively:
Window: Locked. Drawers: Undisturbed. Shelves: Orderly, too orderly. Bed: Made. Of course it was.
Kaien opened the drawer beside her bed. He didn't know what he was looking for — not exactly. But something drew his eye to a thin envelope, yellowed at the edges, tucked beneath an old book of pressed flowers.
There was no name on the front. But the seal had been opened before. Not recently — just once, long ago. Like it had been written, and read, and put away to wait.
Inside was a single page. He could hear her voice in his head as he read.
"Kaien — if I'm gone, and you find this, then maybe the world has done what I always feared it would. I don't know why you were brought to me. I don't know where you came from. But from the moment I saw you, I believed it was something close to a miracle. I watched you grow into someone I never truly understood. And I didn't need to. You don't have to make sense to be loved."
His hands were still, but his throat tightened.
"I never wanted to burden you with my fears. But I want you to remember one thing — you are not wrong for being different. Even if the world says otherwise. If you leave, I hope you find peace. If you stay, I hope you find strength. You owe this world nothing. But if you choose to give it something… let it be what makes you feel real."
At the bottom, barely legible:
"You are enough just as you are."
Kaien folded the note silently.
No prophecy. No hidden truth. Just her voice — soft and final, like she'd tucked herself into the page.
She'd known he was different.
And she'd stayed.
Not to control him and not to prepare him. Just to love him while she could.
His hands trembled, and he hated how much that meant.
His breath caught.
Not because of logic.
Because she was really gone.
The thought struck like a wave, slow and heavy. It didn't crush him. But it didn't miss him either.
She'll never be in this room again.
No voice. No presence. Just… memory.
And it wasn't enough.
He stood still, head bowed, jaw locked against the feeling rising in his throat.
I can't stop now. If I stop, I won't move again.
Kaien tucked the letter into his coat.
He turned to leave the room — and paused.
One of the floorboards near the bedframe was misaligned. Barely. But enough for him to notice.
He crouched, pressed his fingers against the edge, and lifted.
A shallow compartment. Empty, except for a small wooden box.
Inside was a pendant.
Not silver. Not gold. Something darker — smooth and cold to the touch. Black metal, etched with a circular insignia he didn't recognize.
A thin thread of twine still clung to the broken loop at the top, frayed from time.
He felt it immediately — the same pressure in the air he'd felt when the candle lit itself. Faint now, but there. Like the pendant had been around a presence too strong to forget.
There was no name. No date. No note.
Just the weight of something deliberately hidden.
Kaien stared at the symbol for a long moment. He didn't understand it. Not yet.
But he knew this: whatever killed Maren had something to do with this.
He traced the edge of the insignia once with his thumb, then closed the box and slipped it into his bag.
No answers. Just a direction.
And for now… that would be enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The house had gone still again. Not empty — it hadn't been empty since the moment she died — but quiet in a way that made Kaien feel like the world had pulled its attention elsewhere.
He stepped back into the living room. The sun had shifted across the floor, spilling longer shadows from the furniture. Maren's body remained where she had been, seated at the table, head tilted slightly, the soft echo of a smile still caught on her lips.
Kaien approached slowly.
Not as a child to a parent. Not as a mourner to the dead. But as someone taking in the full shape of an ending.
He stood beside her for a while. Not timing it. Just being there.
You were the only person who ever saw me without asking me to explain myself.
He wanted to say it aloud. But his throat wouldn't allow it.
You saw me before I saw myself.
Still nothing.
He knelt beside her, gaze level with her hands resting in her lap. Gently, he reached forward and placed his fingers over hers.
Cold, yes. But not lifeless.
He was seven. Maybe eight. The line between birthdays blurred when you didn't know the day you were born.
But he'd been here since the beginning — since the sea carried him in, wrapped in old blankets, barely more than breath and skin. Maren had been the first face he saw. The first voice. The first warmth.
He didn't remember a time before her.
And now — there would be a time after.
I need to know what did this. Not just for you. For me. Because if it can reach you—quiet, good, ordinary you—then I'm not ready. Not yet.
He breathed in, slow and deliberate.
I have to learn what this power is. I have to know how to shape it. To shield with it. To strike, if I must. But not for revenge. Revenge is irrational. For understanding.
He let the moment settle before rising again.
From the cupboard, he took a blanket — soft, worn, pale blue with faint floral embroidery. The one she always folded at the edge of the sofa. He brought it back and, with care, draped it over her shoulders and hands.
Not a ritual.
Just care.
He moved next to the player by the corner — an old device she never replaced. Her favorite song was still loaded in. He turned the dial.
A soft melody began to hum through the speakers — violin, low piano, a gentle ache of notes she used to hum without realizing.
Kaien opened the window beside the table. The wind caught the lace curtain and drew it into the room like a breath.
I'll leave her with wind and music. That feels like the right kind of goodbye.
He stepped back.
There was more to be done — but not here.
He knew now, with full certainty, that the strange presence, the candle, the pressure in his chest… it wasn't coincidence. It was power. And it was his.
Unshaped. Dangerous. Alive.
If I don't understand it, I'll lose control. If I try to act without knowledge, I'll break everything. The answer isn't to run faster. It's to study the map.
His fingers brushed the book in his bag — The Labyrinth of Time and Sorrow. Not a manual. But maybe a mirror. Maybe a clue.
Kaien turned one last time toward the woman who raised him.
He didn't speak.
He bowed — low, sharp, and with intent.
Then he turned, walked to the back door, and left the house behind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He left through the back door.
The house didn't protest. It simply let him go — the way a place does when it knows you don't belong to it anymore.
Kaien stepped into the narrow garden path behind the shed, brushing past overgrown herbs and brittle leaves. No one saw him. No one would.
He kept to the edges of the village — moving beneath trellises, through tight alleys where the stone still held heat from the day. The silence was natural. No goodbyes were owed, and none would be offered.
The town would notice her absence eventually. But not now. Not before he was long gone.
They wouldn't understand what happened to her. They'd build their own answers. And I wouldn't fit in any of them.
He didn't leave out of fear. He left because he needed room to become something the town could never hold. Because if he stayed, he'd be questioned. Studied. Contained.
And he wasn't ready to explain something he didn't yet understand.
At the edge of the village, Kaien paused.
He could feel the threads already stretching in front of him — possibilities, choices, weight. His steps would start to matter more now. The world outside didn't forgive oddity. It studied it. It targeted it. People didn't fear what they didn't know — they feared what didn't behave the way they expected.
And I've never behaved the way they expect.
He touched the side of his coat, smoothing the fabric. Adjusting the collar. His hands were steady now.
I'll need a face for them. Not a disguise. A shape. Something clean. Something clever. Something they can define — even if they define it wrong.
Something to keep their eyes off what matters.
It wasn't deception. It was survival. The performance of normalcy — composed, articulate, unshakable — would be his shield. The real thoughts, the real calculations, the pain? Those would stay buried. Where they belonged.
He adjusted the strap on his bag and stepped onto the gravel path.
The pendant was still tucked away. The letter still folded in his coat. The pressure in his chest — the aura, the thing without a name — still pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat he hadn't earned yet.
He didn't know where the road ahead led.
But he knew this:
I can't find answers if I stay still. And I can't wield power I don't understand.
So he walked.
Not fast. Not frantic.
Just forward.
At the top of the hill, he paused.
The village sat small behind him, tucked into the land like it had never moved. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. A dog barked faintly in the distance. Somewhere, someone was laughing.
And yet — the sky above it all felt too wide now. Too open.
Kaien turned away from it.
Ahead, the road dipped into a valley of soft green, the path lined with dry branches that swayed gently in the rising wind.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and kept moving.
Behind him, a single leaf tore loose from a tree and drifted into the air — caught, for a moment, in a still current.
Then it spun forward.
And vanished into the breeze.
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Hi everyone! Author here, hope you're all enjoying the story so far! Kaien is an interesting character, and I think there's a lot I can do with him. I know he may have seemed like a bit of a lifeless husk before, but I'm an author who believes in character development, haha! I figured a kid who has sensory issues would definitely be overwhelmed by most things, and so I wrote him that way. However, due to the many nuances I have planned for the story, Kaien will definitely be prone to some change. He's not perfect, after all. Everyone changes over time.
Anyway, I just wanted to give a little reminder to add this to your collection (if you're enjoying the story so far of course), and to vote if you think I'm doing okay! I spend a good amount of time writing, but I'm in school so I'm a little limited of course. It would mean a lot if you have any comments, review the story, or even comment with some criticism. I honestly just want to know if I'm doing a good job so far, so please reach out! Again, thanks so much for all the support, new chapters soon!