What Remains
[POV SWITCH: RICHARD RUSSO]
It's been three weeks since I turned eight. The morning air crept cold and unwelcome under the doorframe, pooling around my feet as I stood at the stove, stirring a pot of thin porridge. The house was quieter now, as if silence had filled the empty spaces left by those who weren't here anymore.
Nonno's telegram had come after Nonna had passed, two blows in rapid succession. It was short and brutal, like the coughs that had rattled through his chest in the trenches. "Died of disease," it read plainly, impersonally. He never knew about Nonna, never had a chance to grieve her. Maybe that was mercy.
Nan had fought her own slow battle, an infection that refused to let go, dragging her down piece by piece. Two months before my birthday, she slipped away quietly, as if afraid of disturbing us. Mum had held her hand tightly, whispering comforts she didn't believe herself.
Now, it was just Mum and me.
I glanced toward the bedroom where Mum lay, probably awake but unable to rise. She drifted more each day, her eyes fixed on things that weren't there. When she caught me watching, she forced a smile, strained and painful, as though each curve of her lips required a piece of herself she couldn't spare.
The wooden spoon scraped quietly in the pot as I ladled out breakfast. Meals were simple, sparse. Flour was scarce, sugar a memory. I'd taken to accepting scraps from neighbours, Mrs. Kemp with her extra potatoes, Mr. Avery offering stale loaves. They meant well, but their charity felt heavy, another reminder of how alone we'd become.
Pride and pragmatism clashed constantly within me. I needed their help, but accepting charity bruised something deep and raw inside my chest. Every time Mr. Avery waved away my coins or Mrs. Kemp handed me a bag of vegetables without meeting my eyes, it felt like admitting defeat.
I overheard whispers about our family, hushed voices saying how tragic it all was, how terrible our situation had become, how remarkable it was that I was coping so well.
I hated their pity more than anything. The gentle looks, the compassionate sighs, they burned deeper than hunger or cold ever could. I didn't want to be seen as a child anymore. I needed them to know that I could manage, that I was strong enough.
However, hunger doesn't care about pride, and pragmatism usually prevails. Each night, as I lay in bed, shame twisted with gratitude, leaving me restless and weary.
Neighbours often offered extra help, clothes we didn't need, trinkets, and gestures of kindness. I politely refused anything more than essential, quietly determined to maintain whatever dignity remained.
I did what needed to be done, cooking, cleaning, and hauling coal buckets through biting cold. Mum tried to protest at first, whispering that I was too young, that it wasn't right. But lately, she watched without speaking, eyes heavy with a quiet surrender. She knew, like I did, there wasn't a choice. The chores filled my days, keeping silence at bay.
Some evenings, when chores were done, I'd sit in Grandad's old chair and lose myself in the wireless. The distant voices and music, crackling and soft, painted stories of places untouched by war, worlds I wished were mine. But always, reality tugged me back.
Luca knocked occasionally, but I barely spoke to him now. He'd linger awkwardly by the door, shuffling feet, unsure what to say. Eventually, he stopped knocking altogether, and I didn't blame him. There wasn't much room in my world anymore for childish things.
School was becoming harder, too. Kids whispered behind cupped hands, threw glances that were part curiosity, part judgment. Some days, they openly mocked me, calling me a charity boy, an orphan, or worse. I had stopped reacting, stopped caring.
My indifference only seemed to anger them more. Teachers looked at me with concern, but their sympathy felt just as oppressive as everyone else's. I was growing colder toward them all, retreating into myself.
The porridge steamed gently as I carried the bowl into Mum's room. She was propped against pillows, staring blankly at the wall until she saw me, then pulling on that practised smile.
"Morning, Mum," I said softly, placing the bowl by her bedside.
"Good morning, Richie," she said, voice brittle.
I managed a small smile back, an effort to reflect some warmth for her sake. My genuine smiles had grown rare, reserved only for these quiet moments when I knew she needed them most.
Later, I sat alone by the kitchen table, shuffling cards idly. My fingers had grown quicker, practising sleight-of-hand not because I wanted to, but because something told me I'd need it someday. I hadn't stolen anything, not yet, but necessity was a patient teacher.
The idea had begun to occupy more of my thoughts lately. At first, it was just a distant consideration, something I brushed aside quickly, guilt fluttering briefly in my chest.
But each day the guilt lessened, replaced by a steely practicality. I wondered, with an odd detachment, if I'd even feel guilty at all. Protecting Mum mattered more than my conscience. It mattered more than other people's struggles, too. If stealing meant keeping Mum safe and fed, I realised with a chilling clarity that I didn't care who else it might hurt.
Our savings dwindled each week, like water dripping slowly from a cracked basin. Odd jobs kept starvation away, small payments from menial tasks, stacking coal, fetching firewood, but they weren't enough, not nearly. Each coin I earned felt heavier in my pocket, a bitter victory against an overwhelming tide.
I was becoming someone colder, harder. I felt it settling into me with every quiet meal, every forced smile, every unspoken worry. It happened slowly, unnoticed at first, but I saw it clearly now in the mirror, eyes sharp, expression guarded, warmth replaced by pragmatism. The boy who'd laughed freely felt distant, like a friend I'd known once, now lost.
Whispers filled the spaces around me, rationing tightening its grip, air raid sirens becoming nightly companions, and propaganda posters fading on brick walls, their optimistic slogans hollowed by rain and grime. 1942 was a harsh year; the war was grinding on relentlessly, reshaping our world into something unrecognisable and unforgiving.
At night, when the house creaked and moaned around me, I stared into the darkness and thought about tomorrow. Not in dreams or fantasies, but in calculations, quiet plans on how to keep us going. How to survive.
I wasn't the child I used to be, but perhaps that was the price of growing strong enough to bear the weight of what remained.
The afternoon sun barely pierced through grey clouds as I headed outside, coat buttoned tight against the chill. I made my way down the street, eyes cast downward, hands tucked deep in my pockets. The city felt emptier too, war had hollowed it out, stripping away the warmth, leaving bones of brick and cobblestone.
I passed by Luca's house, glancing briefly at his window. He was there, watching me from behind the curtains, eyes wide and hesitant. Neither of us waved. He just watched until I moved past, leaving unspoken words in the air behind me.
The market was quieter than usual; conversations were hushed, and faces were pinched with worry. I found Mr. Avery stacking loaves onto his counter. He gave me a sympathetic nod and handed me a small bundle.
"For your Mum," he said softly, refusing my offered coins. "Take care, Richard."
I nodded thanks, turning away quickly to hide my embarrassment at needing charity again. The weight of his kindness lingered, a bittersweet reminder that despite everything, there were still threads holding our lives together.
Back home, I unpacked the bread and sliced it carefully, already planning how many meals it might stretch. As darkness crept back into our home, I lit a candle, the small flame flickering like a fragile hope in the encroaching night.
I stared into its gentle glow, memories of brighter days swimming through the shadows, Grandad's laugh, Nan's quiet humming in the kitchen, Nonno's reassuring presence.
Tears blurred my vision, hot and bitter, falling silently onto the rough tabletop. But I brushed them away quickly, squaring my shoulders, steeling myself once more against the ever-present ache of loss.
I would endure. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Because there was no one else left to carry this weight, no one else left to hold the pieces together.
In the silence of the night, I made a quiet promise to myself: whatever came next, I'd face it unflinchingly, stronger for having lived through what I'd already lost.
Although all seemed to be falling around me, I would make sure I kept Mum safe and looked after.
I seized the moment of resolve to check my status.
'Status.'
[FAMILY SYSTEM]
________________________________
Name: Richard Russo
Age: 8
Race: Homo Magi
House: N/A
Position: Scion
Allegiance: N/A
Alliance: N/A
Family Tree: -><-
Total Family Members: 2
________________________________
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: 14.67
Mind: 33
Soul: 24.33
Mana: 8158
________________________________
Strength- 14
Dexterity- 15
Constitution- 15
Intelligence- 33
Wisdom- 34
Spirit- 32
Charisma- 22
Charm- 19
________________________________
SI: -><-
________________________________
The tears threatened to come again at the sight of the entire family.
[Total Family Members: 2]
The increase in my stats put a smile on my face. Although it was a slow process, I could feel the benefit of the stats in my everyday life. My Intelligence, Wisdom, and Spirit have given me clarity, memory, and a learning speed that my past life could not match.
I wiped my face, squared my shoulders, and took a slow breath. Numbers and silent measures might be all I had left to mark progress, but they were mine, proof that even in a world stripped to rubble and ration books, I was still building something. Still surviving. Still fighting.
And if the weight of it all made me colder, harder, then so be it. The world didn't need my softness now. It required me to be sharp, clever, and unflinching.
I'd keep Mum safe. I'd grow strong enough to hold up whatever pieces remained. And someday, when this war inside and outside of me was done, maybe I'd remember how to be warm again.
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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.