Responsibility

Morning comes cold.

The cold that finds you before you're out of bed. The kind that settles under your fingernails and inside your chest. I wake to the sound of the wind slipping through the cracks in the window frame. It makes the glass hum.

The days start early now. They have to. There's too much to do and not enough people to do it. And so I get up before the sun has made up its mind.

I dress in silence, careful not to wake Mum.

I pad through the frost-stung house barefoot and start the tea. The floor is always cold, but I like it. It wakes me up.

Downstairs, the house smells like soot and damp wool. Nan is already in the kitchen, hunched at the table, a cup of cold tea in her hands. Nonna's by the stove, stirring something that might have started as porridge.

"Sit down," I say gently.

She blinks at me like I've said something strange.

"I'm fine, love."

"Sit. I'll whip up some toast and get the kettle going. You've been on your feet too long."

Nonna starts to protest, muttering something soft in Italian, but I take the spoon from her and nudge her toward the table with a look. She grumbles, but she sits.

Nan, yawning into her palm, eyes still half-shut. "You shouldn't be doing everything," she mumbles.

I pour her tea and push a slice of bread her way.

"You're always saying I'm too grown-up," I say. "Might as well prove it."

She gives me a look, half proud, half weary, but she doesn't stop me.

That's how most mornings begin now.

I stir, I pour, I set the table. I butter the bread: not too thick, right to the corners. I fold laundry before it gets wrinkled. I wipe the condensation from the windows and check if the coal bucket needs refilling. If it does, I haul it in. I hum quietly, not because I'm happy but because it helps the morning move.

Outside, the sky stays grey. It's always grey now, like the whole world is stuck under a wet wool blanket. Even the sparrows sound tired.

I walk to school with my hands buried deep in my coat pockets. My boots are too tight, and my socks are mismatched. The cap on my head sags a little now, it's worn soft around the brim, but I still wear it daily.

The streets are busy in that quiet, resigned way. Women hauling buckets. Boys are pulling carts. Shopfronts are shuttered half the time. There's ash on everything, from the coal, sky, and city, still trying to hold itself together. We've had bombings again, more last week. Mum made us sleep in the shelter for three nights straight.

At the corner near the station, I spot a man with a limp fumbling for a cigarette. A handful of coins spills from his coat. I hesitate. Watch them scatter across the cobbles.

He doesn't see.

I glance left. Then right. Making sure no one's looking.

And then I move.

Three pennies and a shilling. I pocket them fast. Guilt prickles at my throat, but it passes quickly. There's no pride in an empty stomach.

But we need flour.

We haven't had sugar in a week.

Yes, he might have a family that needs that money, but I have one that needs it, too. 

I will always choose my family.

School is warm, at least. Dry, mostly. But the lessons drag. Words I knew last year, numbers I solved months ago. I answer too quickly, too often. Miss Doyle says, "Wait, let the others try," but it's hard to hold back when your mind's already on the next page.

I try. I do. But sometimes, I just stare at the blackboard and let my thoughts run ahead of me, to maps, timelines, dead languages. I like Latin. It feels orderly. Safe. Like no one's rewriting it halfway through.

Mrs. Walsh from the library saves me. She keeps a little pile of "too advanced" books behind the counter for me. History, philosophy, and Latin readers with faded covers. She says I'm the only one who brings them back clean.

At lunch, I sit alone. I'm used to it now. I eat my sandwich, two thin slices of bread, nothing in between, and read a novel under the table. Dickens this week. I like the way he sees people. Ugly and kind at the same time.

After school, I helped Mrs. Kemp carry her bags from the grocery store. She says I'm a blessing and presses a soft tangerine into my hand.

Back on the street, the smell of coal smoke makes me cough. A siren wails faintly in the distance, drill or real, I don't know anymore. People don't run when they hear it now. They just walk faster.

Last week, a factory in the East End was hit. Half a school roof came down. They talked about it in whispers in the market queue.

At home, Mum is scrubbing the floor. Her sleeves are soaked. Her jaw is tight.

"Stop," I say, gently but firmly, taking the rag from her and handing her the tangerine. "Eat this. I'll finish."

She looks at me for a long moment.

Then she nods. Just once. And sits back on her heels.

Papa hasn't written in two months. Mum checks the post every morning and pretends she isn't disappointed when there's nothing.

Nonno's last letter came in November. He said he's stationed near Dover but can't say more. He said the food's terrible, and the boots are too tight, but he's all right. "Still kicking," he wrote.

Dinner is quiet. It's root stew again. There is more salt than usual, which means Nan traded something at the market.

The wireless crackles during supper. Another announcement. More bombs in Coventry. More ration cuts in the new year. Mum stares at the fire. Nonna crosses herself. Nan just sighs.

After dinner, I sweep. I wash. I tuck Nan's blanket tighter around her feet. I help Mum patch the corner of her coat. I write out new sums in my notebook before bed.

And when the house is truly quiet, I slip into the sitting room.

Grandad's chair is still there.

I sit.

The fire is just embers now, faint red and orange, like the last flickers of warmth in the world. I pull the cap low over my eyes and let the day settle into me.

Taking a second to review my progress, I thought.

'Status.'

 [FAMILY SYSTEM] 

________________________________

Name: Richard Russo 

Age: 6

Race: Homo Magi

House: N/A

Position: Scion 

Allegiance: N/A

Alliance: N/A

Family Tree: -><-

Total Family Members: 6

________________________________

Wives: 0

Concubines: 0

Main line descendants: 0 

Branch line descendants: 0

________________________________

Bloodline: N/A

Traits: N/A

________________________________

Talents: -><-

Affinities: -><- 

________________________________

[House Structure: -><-]

[House Wealth: -><-]

________________________________

[Recognition: N/A]

[Reputation: N/A]

________________________________

Compatibility Index: -><- 

________________________________

Tasks: -><-

________________________________

Body: 12.67

Mind: 31

Soul: 21.33

Mana: 5755

________________________________

Strength- 12

Dexterity- 13

Constitution- 13

Intelligence- 31

Wisdom- 32

Spirit- 30

Charisma- 18 

Charm- 16

________________________________

SI: -><- 

________________________________

Looking at my stats, my lips raise into a small smile.

A warm comfort spreads through my chest. I'm growing every day. Even though my magic is minimal, I trust myself to develop it further.

My eyes drift towards the Compatibility Index.

I open it with a thought. 

A list appears.

[Mary Russo]

[Dorothy Smith]

[Isabella Russo]

[Cecilia Marino]

[Betty Pritchard]

[Nancy Everleigh]

[Linda Brown]

[Barbara Taylor]

[Sharon Dyer]

[Carol Fisher]

[Sandra Wright]

[Maria Doyle]

[Patricia Walsh]

[...]

The list compiled every female I had ever looked at. It was still embarrassing to look at my family's entries, but it was very informative about their current health condition.

Nonna and Nan were getting weaker. Their scores were low, which was worrying.

The highest compatibility score I got was from Carol Fisher.

She was a girl at my school, 3 years older than me.

A child.

[Compatibility Index – Carol Fisher]

[Emotional Compatibility: 64] 

[Descendant Potential: 62] 

[Temperament: 45] 

[Health: 83] 

[Optimal Role: ]

[Compatibility Score: 56] 

[Summary: Subject demonstrates moderate emotional compatibility with the Host, with potential for future alignment contingent upon environmental shaping and psychological development. Current affective synchronisation is limited by age-related immaturity, though indicators suggest high malleability and responsiveness to familial conditioning. Reproductive viability is rated as acceptable. Primary strengths include a robust health profile and low hereditary risk markers. However, descendant potential is limited by baseline non-magical genetic classification (Homo Sapiens), resulting in low magical heritability projections. Temperament metrics reflect low current strategic utility; cognitive style is reactive rather than proactive, with limited evidence of complex planning capacity. Subject may develop strategic or logistical aptitude under structured mentorship, but presently does not meet criteria for intellectual partnership or decision-making roles. Subject's optimal projected function within the family structure is emotional grounding and future nurturing capacity. Early indicators support the potential for development into an Anchor or Nurturer archetype, with auxiliary value in internal cohesion and descendant rearing. Subject is viable as a long-term emotional investment with conditional utility contingent upon structured development and environment control.]

I blink at the screen hovering in the air, ghost-light blue and quietly humming with knowledge I didn't ask for but can't look away from.

"Emotional investment."

"Future nurturing capacity."

"Viable."

They're not cruel words. But they're not kind, either.

They're words are from somewhere that doesn't believe in small hands or scraped knees, somewhere that thinks in percentages and legacy, not in laughter or cold fingers wrapping around a teacup.

I close the window with a thought.

It disappears like breath on a windowpane.

Carol Fisher. Three years older. Laughs too loudly in the hall, chews the end of her pencil, and once asked if I was "an orphan or just weird."

I don't know what the System sees in her, but it doesn't matter right now.

She's a child. I'm a child. The world is broken in places no one knows how to name. The only thing I'm sure of is this: I don't want to become a ledger of people and purpose.

Not yet.

Not when Nan's coughing upstairs.

Not when Nonna's knees creak whenever she stands.

Not when Mum wipes her eyes before anyone else wakes.

Not when all I want, more than power, bloodlines, or responsibilities, is to keep everyone here. 

Alive. Warm. Breathing.

Still here.

But I guess that is a responsibility in itself.

I reached up and ran my thumb across the inside brim of my cap. The lining had a tear. I'll sew it in the morning.

And that's enough for tonight.

The fire's gone out. The chair creaks as I rise. The cap slips slightly over my brow, but I leave it there.

Let it shield me.

One more night.

Tomorrow, the cold will come again.

But so will I.

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Hey, dear reader! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider dropping a power stone to show your support; it helps keep the story going strong! Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment or write a review.

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Hey reader, for the Main Characters' first task, I have the main idea of what I want to do, but I wasn't sure if any of you have any suggestions. If you do, please comment on it right here, and I'll see if they align with my idea or if I can incorporate one of your good ideas.

The task is mentioned in Chapter 12-Foundations.