Too Much, Too Soon

Morning comes cold and damp, creeping under the door before I leave my bed. It wraps around me like a wet cloth, clinging close, whispering that the day will be hard before it's even begun.

I lay there a minute longer, staring at the cracked ceiling. Somewhere in the walls, the house sighs, old wood settling, pipes groaning. It sounds tired, like all of us.

I reach out and press my palm against the nearest wall. It's cold, almost damp.

I roll onto my side, pressing my cheek to the flat pillow. I close my eyes and breathe.

'Status.'

 [FAMILY SYSTEM] 

________________________________

Name: Richard Russo 

Age: 7

Race: Homo Magi

House: N/A

Position: Scion 

Allegiance: N/A

Alliance: N/A

Family Tree: -><-

Total Family Members: 5

________________________________

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: 13.67

Mind: 32

Soul: 23

Mana: 6869 

________________________________

Strength- 13

Dexterity- 14

Constitution- 14

Intelligence- 32

Wisdom- 33 

Spirit- 31

Charisma- 20 

Charm- 18

________________________________

SI: -><- 

________________________________

The numbers are steady. Still five. Not six. For a split second, part of me hoped maybe I imagined it, that maybe Papa's name wouldn't really grey out. But the System never lies.

I close it with a thought, take a breath that shakes, and get up.

Downstairs, I fall into my usual work. Stoke the coals. Set the kettle. Wipe last night's crumbs off the table.

The kettle finally begins to murmur on the stove. My stomach gives a sharp growl. I press a hand over it, willing it quiet. Breakfast will be thin again. 

I lean against the counter, rub my arms to chase off the chill. My reflection peers back at me from the dark window, thin, pale, eyes that look too knowing.

Soon enough, I hear the slow steps on the stairs, Nonna first, with her shawl tightly around her shoulders, then Nan. Both give me soft, tired greetings. I pour their tea without needing to ask.

"You're a good boy," Nonna sighs, brushing her knuckles against my cheek. "Troppo buono."

Nan tries to smile. "Doing everything again, Richie. I'll have nothing left to fuss over."

"That's the plan," I say, and it almost sounds like a joke.

When Mum finally comes down, eyes red-rimmed from poor sleep, I press a warm cup into her hands without a word. She kisses the top of my head. That's enough.

Today I stay closer to home. The Rileys next door need help stacking the bricks they've scavenged from bomb rubble to repair their back wall. I go over, sleeves rolled, muscles straining as I heave broken bits of stone.

Mrs. Riley pats my shoulder. "Strong lad. Your father'd be proud, you know that?"

It stings more than it should. I swallow, nod, and lift another brick.

When I'm done there, I check on old Mr. Abbott down the lane, he's been under the weather again. His windows are dark, curtains drawn. He opened the door a crack at my knock and gave me a raspy thanks when I handed him the loaf of bread Nan insisted we share.

"Take care of your ladies," he wheezes. "Times like these, a boy becomes a man quick."

"I know," I say softly.

The rest of the morning slips by. I sweep our stoop and patch a tear in the wood bin.

Somewhere outside, a pair of boys shout about new ration books. A dog chases them, yipping at their heels. For a moment, it almost sounds like any other street on any other year. Almost. 

Out on the street, a milk cart rattles by. The horse's breath puffs in little clouds, and a woman across the way calls her children inside, voice tight like she's afraid of something she can't quite see.

Further off, there's the steady knock of hammers. Someone rebuilding. It sounds almost cheerful, almost normal, and that makes it worse.

Voices drift over from next door, someone's uncle talking low about more bombings up in Liverpool, a cousin gone missing since June. I press my hands deeper into my pockets. Better not to listen too closely.

Luca runs by at one point, chasing his little brother, both laughing. He waves, but doesn't stop. I don't blame him. Who'd want to stand still long enough to feel everything heavy?

Before heading in I look down at my hands, see dirt still packed under my fingernails from the Rileys' bricks. I scrub them against my trouser leg, but it doesn't all come off.

Lunch is thin carrot soup. Afterwards, I slip upstairs, close the door, and sit cross-legged on the rug. I call my mana, feel it coil and stutter through my chest. I practice lifting my old arithmetic book off the bed, an inch, then two, raising it as high as I can, sweat beading on my brow. It drops back with a muffled thud.

Better. Still not enough.

I wipe my face, stand, and stretch.

Downstairs, Nonna is dozing in her chair. Nan knits, mouth set in a line. Mum's by the window again, watching the street.

I'm back helping Mum sort through a basket of old linens. We fold them together. The house is calm and quiet in that way that it feels balanced on a knife-edge.

Then there's a knock at the front gate.

It's not a hurried rapping. Not a cheery neighbour's tap. Just a single, heavy knock.

I stand. Mum looks up, something fragile sparking in her eyes. "Could you-?"

I nod before she can finish and walk out to the path.

There's a soldier at the gate. A proper man in uniform, hat tucked under his arm. He doesn't smile.

"Is Mrs. Russo here?"

I stare. The world shrinks to the sound of my pulse. This is it.

"I'll get her," I whisper. Then I turn and run back inside.

Mum meets me halfway. I don't even have to speak. She sees my face, or maybe she sees everything all at once, and pushes past me, hands trembling.

I follow her as far as the doorway. I watch her open the gate, and the soldier bows his head. He pulls something from his coat, a folded, official, and terrible paper.

He's holding the paper gingerly, like it burns. It's faintly damp at the corners from his coat, and when Mum takes it, I catch the cold scent of wool and something metallic.

I don't hear the words. I don't have to.

Mum folds, like her bones give way. The soldier catches her by the elbow. I bolt forward and help steady her. Together, we guide her back inside, the paper crumpled tight in her fist.

My ears roar. It's like trying to hear through water. I only catch scraps: "…deepest regret… killed in action… sincere sympathy…"

Inside, Nan is already crying. Her knitting slips from her lap, the ball of yarn rolling away across the rug, unspooling a long red thread like a vein. 

Nonna mutters, in shock, under her breath, "Madonna mia… mio figlio…" rocking slowly in her chair.

I stand with Mum on the hearth rug. Her hands clutch my shoulders. Her breath hitches and breaks. Then she pulls me to her, hard enough that it hurts, like she's terrified I might disappear too.

"I've got you," I whisper, voice thin as thread. "I promise. I've got you."

I look down. The words on the paper are clean and crisp. My eyes blur for a second, but I force them to focus.

"Deeply regret to inform you that the report dated 13/6/1941 has been received from the War Office that your husband has been killed in action. The Army Council desire to offer you their sincere sympathy."

My throat closes. I reread it, slower, as if I read it carefully enough, the meaning might change. It doesn't.

Mum makes a broken sound and covers her mouth. Nan starts sobbing outright. Nonna sinks into her chair, rocking, rosary beads clicking like little bones.

I fold the paper carefully, even though my hands want to crumple it into nothing. I set it on the table. Then I pull Mum close, let her bury her face in my shoulder.

A stupid thought worms its way in: Was Papa cold when it happened? Did someone at least bother to cover him? The questions lodge in my throat, bitter as coal dust.

The house feels smaller. Too small for this grief.

Hours pass like breath held underwater. None of us speaks much, the wireless drones on with distant voices. I bring Mum tea, but she doesn't drink it. Nan sits by the window, her knitting idle in her lap. Nonna just stares at the wall, rosary moving soundlessly through her fingers.

By dusk, Mum is lying down. Nan is dozing in her chair. I realise I haven't seen Nonna since before supper.

Her room is dimmed, and the lamp is turned down low. I cross the floor slowly.

"Nonna?"

She's lying so still. Her hands were folded over her chest. Eyes closed.

Her rosary is still laced through her fingers. When I lift her hand, the beads shift with a tiny click, like soft sighs.

I reach out and touch her wrist.

Cool.

Tears fail to emerge.

Too much. 

Too soon. 

The back-to-back impacts are starting to numb me.

My throat tightens. I press my forehead against her hand, whisper in Italian, "Ti voglio bene… sempre."

Then I stand.

I straighten. Because someone has to tell Nan. Someone has to be there when Mum wakes and realises there's even less of us now.

And tomorrow I'll wake up and keep stitching the tatters of this family together, even if there's hardly any thread left in me at all.

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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.