The Day After

The day after my birthday starts with silence.

Not the gentle kind, the hush of early morning, the soft quiet before a kettle sings, but the kind that follows something breaking. A hollow, brittle sort of silence. The type that crawls into the corners of the house and settles like dust.

Everything feels slightly off. The air feels stretched like it doesn't quite fit the walls anymore. My steps sound wrong. The paint on the bannister looks duller. Even the light through the windows feels paler like the sun forgot how to warm.

I step softly down the hallway. The wooden floor is cold under my feet, and every creak feels too loud.

I stopped just outside the sitting room.

From where I stand, I can see the chair. His chair.

The blanket folded on its arm is too neat, too deliberate. Its stillness doesn't belong to someone who'll be back. Some of me still hopes it was a dream, that I'll walk in and see Grandad grumbling about the chill or nodding off with his mouth open like he always did.

But the chair is empty. Too empty. That kind of emptiness you feel more than you see.

And that's how I know it wasn't a dream.

I look away. My chest tightens. I don't go in. Not yet.

I turn away and go into the kitchen.

Nan is already there. She's slicing bread with slow, methodical movements, but she hasn't turned on the wireless, and the kettle is only starting to warm. 

The kitchen is cold, but not from the air. It's colder in how a place feels when something important is missing. The kind of cold that sits in your bones.

She glances up and gives me a quiet, tired smile.

"Morning, love."

"Morning, Nan."

Her hands don't stop moving, but I can tell she's not really seeing the bread. She's somewhere else, trapped in yesterday, the day before, or maybe even twenty years ago, when things made more sense.

Mum and Babbo came down together. Neither of them looked like they had slept. Babbo's shirt was buttoned wrong, and Mum's braid was looser than usual.

They both smile when they see me, but it's like their faces are borrowing the expression from someone else's mouth. Hollow smiles, the kind that exist just to keep others from breaking.

No one says it, but we're all waiting to hear something. Waiting to adjust to the size of the house without him in it.

The absence feels like a door left open somewhere.

"I'll take the cap to the tailor," Mum says too quietly. "See if they can stitch it into something for you. A keepsake."

I shake my head. "I want to wear it."

They all look at me.

"It's too big," Babbo says gently, not unkindly.

"I don't care."

Nan clears her throat. "Let him. If that's what he wants."

So I do. I go upstairs and find the cap sitting quietly beside my pillow, right where I left it last night. I place it on my head. 

It slides low over my forehead, covering the top of my ears. The fabric is scratchy, the brim too wide, but it smells like him. Like wool, tobacco, rosemary, and time. And that makes it feel like armour. Maybe I can be a little stronger if I carry a piece of him with me.

The morning creeps on. The sun rises, but nothing really feels lighter.

Nonna and Nonno arrive mid-morning.

Nonna cries when she sees me. She kneels down, pulls me into her arms, and strokes my back. Like I'm two again. I don't mind. Her hands are soft, and she smells like rosewater and flour.

"My poor boy," she whispers.

I don't say anything. I just let her hold me.

Nonno stays quiet longer. His face is carved deep with lines, and his eyes don't blink as much as they should. When he finally kneels beside me, he puts a hand on my shoulder.

"He was a good man," he says.

I nod.

"He was a good man," he says. "I didn't know him well, but I respected him. That matters."

I nod.

He pauses, then says, "And you did right by him. Being the one to find him… that's something. He wasn't alone."

I nod again because I think I'll cry again if I speak.

The rest of the day moves in fragments.

Neighbours bring food. People speak in low voices by the gate. Some women come inside and sit in the kitchen with Nan and Mum. Babbo answers the door five times. Each time, he looks smaller when he returns.

The house feels like it's trying to breathe around a missing lung. We walk slower and speak softer, afraid to bump into the grief in the hallway.

I sit in Grandad's chair, the cap still pulled low over my eyes. It makes the world feel a little further away.

Luca comes by in the afternoon. At first, he doesn't say anything; he sits cross-legged on the floor across from me and pulls little twigs from his shirt.

"I brought some mini-swords," he says after a while. "Figured you might want to hit something."

I shake my head. "Not today."

He nods. Doesn't push. Just stays with me. That's the best kind of friend there is.

Even though he's only 7, I find a warm comfort in his presence. 

Dinner is quiet. Nan makes soup, even though none of us are really hungry. Babbo forces down spoonfuls. Mum only picks at hers.

Afterwards, we gather in the sitting room.

It happens slowly, one by one, like we're unsure what to do with ourselves. But it feels like what Grandad would've wanted: all of us together, sitting, sharing the space.

I sit in his chair again.

No one stops me.

I pull the cap lower and rest my hands on the arms of the chair like he used to. I wonder if I look small or old. Or both.

The wireless clicks on.

The room hums faintly with static. Then the voice begins, low, steady, clipped.

It's the news.

More talk about war. About Germany and Poland. Words like "mobilisation" and "reserves" flood the ears of the room. Words are talked about more now than the weather is.

And then I hear it.

"Conscription," the voice says.

Nan stiffens. Mum's hand closes around Babbo's wrist.

"…following the National Service Act, passed by Parliament…"

I look at Babbo.

His face is still. Too still.

He knows. We all know.

He's a healthy man. Young enough. Strong enough. The kind they'll want.

The voice on the radio keeps talking.

"…all men aged 18 to 41…"

And Babbo looks like he's been punched in the stomach. Mum doesn't cry, but her jaw tightens, and her other hand joins the first.

"Does that mean, " I start.

"Yes," Babbo says quietly. "It means I might have to go."

Nan wipes at her face with a shaking hand. "They'll take too many. That's what happens in wars. Too many."

Nonno mutters something in Italian, which is sharper this time, like he's cursing the whole idea.

Nonna bows her head.

"I don't want you to go," I say, barely audible.

Babbo moves to me and kneels by the chair. "Neither do I."

His eyes are red-rimmed, but he doesn't let the tears fall. He presses his forehead gently to mine. "We'll hold tight. We'll hope. That's what we can do."

No one has said anything else for a long time.

The fire crackles in the grate, but no one moves to feed it.

I sink deeper into the chair.

The cap slips a little over one eye. I don't fix it.

Because the world is shifting again.

We lost one yesterday.

And we might lose another soon.

But I'm still here.

Wearing his cap.

Sitting in his chair.

Listening to the voice that changes everything.

And I think, somewhere deep down, Grandad knew.

He knew what was coming.

He prepared me in the only way he could.

By sitting with me.

By speaking softly.

By teaching me how to hold things gently, even when they hurt.

We all know: Grandad isn't going to sit there again. But part of him never left.

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