Holding the House Together

It's been a month and a half since my birthday.

Seven. That's what I'm supposed to be, just seven.

But there are moments I feel older than the walls of this house. Older than the cracked hearth that's held fires for three generations, older even than the paint peeling from the doorframe. Some days, I think I'm older than the city itself, weighed down by things no child should ever have to know.

This year has been cruel. Cruel in ways I didn't know life could be.

The System never lets me forget. It's always there, like breath, like pulse, like grief. Every morning when I wake up, I check my stats, half hoping something might have changed for the better, half dreading it might have changed at all.

It reminds me daily of how Nonna's health is slipping. The Compatibility Index shows her numbers creeping lower, subtle as dusk swallowing daylight. It's cruel that the same System that once soothed me now marks time by how close I am to losing someone else.

She tries so hard to hide it. Nonna kneads dough until her wrists go pink, stands up too quickly and wobbles with a little laugh, "Just dizzy from sitting too long." But I see the way she grips the table edge, fingers pale. The way her breath hitches, soft and frightened, before smoothing out again.

But even that wouldn't have hollowed me out like this.

No. That came the day after my birthday.

I'd done what I always do, opened up the System. Half out of habit, half because the neat rows and climbing numbers give me something to hold on to. They make sense when nothing else does.

But something was wrong.

[Total Family Members: 5]

I blinked at it, my stomach curdling. My hands shook as I opened the family tree.

Papa's name was there. Greyed out. Just like Grandad's.

A man who'd been warm and laughing in my memory only just over a year ago was reduced to a pale ghost on the chart. A line of text that read simply: Deceased.

I couldn't breathe. The tears hit so fast that I hardly had time to turn my face into the pillow. I sobbed, hard and ugly, until my ribs felt like they'd crack. My shoulders shook so violently I thought I might splinter apart.

It must have woken Mum and Nan. They rushed in, hair tangled, eyes wide with fear.

"What's wrong, love?" Mum whispered, brushing my cheek with cold fingers.

"Nightmare," I croaked. The word crumbled in my mouth. "Just a nightmare."

They both let out breaths like deflating bellows. Mum stroked my hair. Nan pressed her lips to my forehead.

"There now, it's over. Just a bad dream."

They stayed until I quieted, until my breath stopped hiccupping. Then they tiptoed out again, pulling the door softly behind them.

But it wasn't over. It would never just be a dream.

Because somewhere out there, slow and unstoppable, a letter or telegram was crawling its way to us. Ready to carve the truth into the world with ink the same cold grey as the System's words.

I live with it every day now. With the knowledge that Mum's life is about to shatter. That the tiny strand of hope she ties around herself each morning is going to snap.

I watch her by the front window. Her eyes spark every time the postman rounds the bend, then fade again when he passes us by. Her hand always drifts to her chest, like pressing down the fear. Then she smooths her dress, pretending she's unbothered. That little lie cracks something inside me every time.

London itself feels different now. Everything has this hollow echo. Posters peel from brick walls, shouting "Keep Calm and Carry On" or "Your Scrap Builds Spitfires." Old bedsteads and dented pots pile on corners, waiting to be carted off to feed the factories. Luca and I dragged a twisted old gate there last week, pretending it was a dragon's ribs. We tried to laugh, but it sounded thin.

Every evening, I double-check the blackout curtains. Last month, the warden fined the Rileys two houses over for a crack of candlelight. Their girl sobbed so loudly I heard it through the walls. I can't let that happen here. Mum would crumble under the shame.

Sometimes, we stand in the ration queue for ages, holding battered canvas bags close. People whisper to each other, "No bacon next month, mark me," or "They say tea's going altogether." Nan only presses her lips together, eyes dark with worry. Even the grocer's shelves seem tired, with more wood than stock.

Other times, I take odd jobs around the street. I help old Mr. Phelps stack coal by his cellar door. I carry baskets for Mrs. Kemp from the market to her stoop, her breathless thanks trailing behind me. Once, Mrs. Walsh from the library paid me with two fat apples just to fetch kindling from her shed. I brought them home and sliced them thin so everyone could have a bit.

There's a new rule that all iron gates must go. The government wants the metal. It means streets I've known my whole life look naked now, gardens exposed. It feels like we're all being slowly stripped down of fences, of dinners, of any illusions.

Even the bells at St. Anne's don't ring anymore. They've been silenced by order of the King, saved only to sound the alarm if Germany ever lands on our shores. The absence of their Sunday song is worse than any clang. It feels like waiting for a blow that never comes.

So I try, God, I try to hold us all together.

I smile. I tease Nan about her crooked knitting. "Might end up with a scarf so long it'll wrap the chimney thrice over," I say, and she swats my arm with her needles, trying not to grin. 

I hum while I wash dishes so Mum won't hear my breath catch. I sweep twice a day just to give my hands something to do. I set Nonna's slippers by the stove so they're warm when she slips her feet in. I check her breathing when she naps, watching the slow rise and fall with my lungs tight.

Sometimes, I even slip across to see Luca's mum, who's nearly as worn as Nonna, patch a hole in her apron or carry her water bucket from the pump. 

But when I'm alone, the smile falls off. It was never really mine, just borrowed, something I put on so everything wouldn't crack.

My magic is still so small. Pathetic, really. I spend hours cross-legged on the floor in my room, hands hovering over my own scrapes or bruises, whispering "Please heal, please heal." But nothing ever happens. The skin stays split, and the ache remains.

I've learned to keep the curtains pulled tight when I practice. Being different is already dangerous. No one needs to see books drifting inches above my bed, my mana trembling like a string pulled too tight. But it's something.

I run, too. I race Luca down the narrow lanes. He always beats me in the short burst to Mrs. Walsh's corner, but over long stretches, I pull ahead. I hang from the low branches behind the churchyard until my arms burn, daring the pain to become muscle.

Sometimes, we play at being soldiers. We march with sticks on our shoulders, calling each other "Captain" and "Major," pretending we're brave boys off to France. But there's a hollow edge to it because, somewhere, real boys are doing exactly that. And dying for it.

We heard last week that the East End was bombed again. A school lost half its roof. There was talk at the market of children pulled from the rubble, dusty but alive. Others weren't so lucky. I lay awake that night, staring at the dark, thinking about faces I'd never see.

At home, things blur together. Mum is scrubbing floors until her sleeves are soaked. Nan counts out dried beans with careful fingers. Nonna is dozing more than she used to. I sweep. I wipe. I fix the corner of Mum's coat with tiny stitches. I fetch water, haul coal, and double-check the windows for drafts.

Sometimes, I sneak away to the library. Mrs. Walsh still saves the "too advanced" books for me, philosophy, histories, Latin texts whose covers are so thin they flake at my touch. I read them at night by candle stub, mouth moving soundlessly over words.

Because I have to be strong, I have to hold all of this: Mum's fragile hope, Nan's determined hush, Nonna's breath that sometimes rattles in her sleep.

Sometimes, when the house is finally still late at night, I remember what life was like before all of this.

Before the System. Before mana. Before the war, outside this window.

Before ration books and blackout curtains and the sirens that make everyone freeze in place.

Before, my breath could fog on cracked glass because the coal was rationed too tightly.

I remember my life before, bright, crowded, noisy. Streetlights are always buzzing. Phones are always in their hands. Stores are open at every hour. Fridges with lights that came on when you opened the door.

A bed that didn't smell like damp. Clothes that didn't need mending three times over. Meals that came with choices, what would you like tonight? And we'd laugh because the world was full of things to want.

Sometimes, I remember the hum of a train, the way music came from tiny speakers that fit in your pocket. The taste of things I can't find here, Galaxy chocolate, the best chocolate ever made, Fanta that made me cough from the bubbles if I drank it too quickly.

Hot showers, running water that didn't complain in the pipes, and lights that didn't flicker if you tried to boil a kettle at the same time.

I was older there; in some ways, I was stronger, and in others, I was so much weaker. I hadn't known what it meant to carry someone else's breath in my hands. I didn't need to stand between my family and the dark.

That life is gone. Just like Papa. Just like the bells at St. Anne's.

So I square my shoulders. I tuck the blanket tighter around Nonna's knees. I double-check the window latches and promise myself I'll try to do better with my magic tomorrow.

Because this isn't just a war out there, it's right here, too, inside our walls. And I've promised myself, quietly, fiercely, that if it ever comes to it, I'll stand my ground for this house, these people, this life we've pieced together even if I have to do it alone.

================================================================

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.

================================================================

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.