No Big Victories

Morning comes grey and raw, the sort that seeps into your skin before you're even out of bed. It feels like it's been there all night, waiting, so when I open my eyes, it slips right in, cool and sharp.

I lie there for a moment, curled under the thin, scratchy blanket, feeling the way my breath clouds up toward the ceiling. The air smells of old wood and faint coal dust. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaks, settling into the cold.

I count my slow and steady heartbeats until the shivers push me to move. My feet find the floor and flinch. I stand there for a second, hugging myself tight, then pad across the boards as quietly as possible, careful not to wake Mum. She barely sleeps anymore. I like to let her have what little rest the world will give her.

The kitchen's worse, cold enough to bite. A lace of frost crawls up the inside of the windowpane. I breathe on my hands, rub them briskly, then kneel to poke at the stove. The coals are stubborn, sulky things. I coax them until they sigh back to life, then stand to fill the kettle.

As I wait, I lean my elbows on the counter, chin in my palms, and watch the window. Outside, the glass is fogged and rimmed white. 

Eventually, the kettle begins to sing, thin and weak. I pour two mugs. That's when Nonna shuffles in. Her shawl is wrapped twice around her shoulders, and her feet are in old house slippers that flap a little when she moves. Her eyes are puffy, and her skin is pale beneath the folds.

"You're up early," she croaks. It's less a question than an observation.

"Couldn't sleep," I say, shrugging one shoulder. "Tea?"

She nods, patting my arm with a papery hand. "Bless you."

She sits down by the stove, cradling her mug close. I watch the steam blur her face.

I cut the heel off yesterday's loaf, spread a whisper of dripping. The knife scrapes too loudly. 

A little while later, Nan comes in, tying her cardigan tight around her middle. She gives the bread a look that says it's barely worth the trouble, then eyes me with something between pride and worry.

"You fuss too much, Richie."

"That's what I'm good at," I tell her, flashing a grin. It wobbles, but holds.

She shakes her head, but sits. That's all I want.

When they're settled, I slip on my coat. The ration book and coins weigh down my pocket, heavy as stones. I tell them I'll look for flour, candles, if there's any. Mum had nightmares about the blackout warden last week, said in her sleep that he was pounding on the door with fists like hammers.

Outside, London feels restless. A man on the corner is shouting for scrap, his voice cracking as he waves a sign that reads, "YOUR PANS CAN BE PLANES — DONATE TODAY!" His breath plumes like a ghost. Further down, a woman sweeps her step with angry, quick strokes, like she's trying to scrub the war off her doorstep.

I joined the queue outside the grocer's. The woman ahead of me clutches two little boys, their coats threadbare. They argue in whispers over a soldier toy with only one arm. I stare at it, thinking it's still lucky to have most of itself left.

Someone farther up starts coughing, a deep, rattling sound. The line shifts just slightly, and everyone leans back like they can dodge sickness with a few inches.

When it's my turn, the grocer's eyes look sunken, like he hasn't slept in days.

"No flour today, lad," he says before I ask. "Try Friday."

I nod, but I hand him the ration book anyway. He flicks through it, sighs, and hands back two coupons. "Carrots?"

"Please."

They drop into my bag, heavy and awkward. I mumble thanks and step back into the street, which smells of damp stone and yesterday's coal fires. The sky is the colour of tin.

On the walk home, I spot a tiny glint by the curb. At first, it's just a bit of glass. But when I crouch down, I see it's a penny, dark with grime, but still whole. I glance around quickly. No one is watching. Into my pocket it goes. Maybe enough for a sweet for Nan if the shop's got anything by week's end.

Back home, I find Mum hunched over the wireless. It murmurs nonsense static back at her. She's twisting the dial with trembling fingers, thinking maybe there's good news waiting if she can find the right frequency.

"Any luck?" she asks when she sees me.

I hold up the carrots. "No flour. But these'll keep."

Her hand comes up and rests on my shoulder. Her skin feels so thin. "It's more than some have."

We peel them together. I watch her hands. I watch how her grip slips sometimes, how she shakes it off with a tight smile. Once, the knife nicks her. A bead of red stands out bright against the pale. She sucks it quick and shakes her head. "Clumsy."

After we've cleared the table, I slip away upstairs. The floor in my room is icy, and the rug barely provides any comfort. I sit cross-legged, palms on my knees, and let my mana pool in my chest. It stirs, slow and syrupy. Then I focus on the old arithmetic book balanced on the bed.

It flutters. Lifts. It hangs there, moving over the bed before dropping back down.

"Again," I whisper. My breath fogs.

This time, it rises smoother, wobbles, and drifts a few inches up. My temples sparkle with effort. It flops down, but I grin anyway. It's better.

I wipe sweat from my brow with my sleeve. Outside, a bell strikes. Just telling the hour, not the air-raid kind. The ordinary sort. It sounds almost shocking in its normalcy.

When I come back down, I find Nan in her chair, squinting at a stubborn tangle of yarn. "Help me, would you?" she mutters. Her hands aren't what they used to be.

I kneel and pick at the knot until it loosens. She pats my cheek with a watery smile. "Your Papa has clever hands, too."

I swallow, nod, and tuck the loose end through. Something in my chest twists tight.

Later, I set out again. Only down to the corner this time. Luca's waiting there, kicking at stones. He's got a half-peeled scab across his nose and a dirty handkerchief sticking out of his pocket.

"Took you long enough," he says.

I shrug. "Nan's knitting."

He snorts. "Bet it looks like a dead cat."

We race to the lamppost by the old smithy. He wins, but only just. Then we wander, hands in pockets, breath puffing in front of us. A milk cart rattles by, half-empty. Somewhere, a baby cries and doesn't stop.

"Think your dad'll be home by Christmas?" Luca asks suddenly. His eyes stay on the ground.

My stomach knots. "Doubt it."

"Yeah. Mine neither."

We stood there for a while. Then he jabs me in the arm. "Oi. Bet you can't hang from the churchyard tree longer than me."

"Bet I can."

We end up red-faced, arms burning, laughing breathlessly, even though there's not much funny about it. I climb down after nearly a minute, shoulders screaming. Luca thumps me on the back.

"You're getting weirdly strong," he says. "Like... farm strong."

I grin, surprised by how good it feels. "Maybe I'll lift you next."

He yelps, shoves me, and takes off down the lane. I chase him, pretending we're ordinary boys for one more block.

When I get home again, it's nearly supper. Mum's by the stove, stirring a pot. Carrot soup again. She whispers about the farms she used to run through as a girl, hay scratching her legs, the sun so hot you could taste it.

I try to see it, that bright, careless world. I want to believe it existed.

We eat and wash up. Nan sits by the stove, humming. Nonna sleeps with her feet tucked close to the warm bricks.

I head to my room and light the candle stub on my bedside table. Its flame wavers, painting jittery shadows across the wall. I pull Grandad's cap low over my eyes. The cloth smells faintly of pipe smoke and something green, rosemary, maybe. I close my eyes and let it cradle me.

Tomorrow, I'll do it all again. I'll stand at the grocer's, count out coins, coax the stove back to life, and hover books until sweat drips off my brow. I'll stitch together every hour I can, keeping these small moments safe like beads on a string.

Because that's what life is now. No big victories. Just this one day. Then the next.

And if I keep tying them together, tight and careful, we'll all still be here when spring comes. 

We'll see the sun dance off windows instead of blackout curtains. 

We'll breathe a little easier.

Maybe.

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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.