I've Got Us

It's the day before my birthday. Nine, tomorrow. Hard to grasp, not because I still feel young, but because most days it seems like I've already lived enough years to count for three lifetimes.

It's 1943 now. London breathes war with every lungful of air. The rationing has grown sharper, slicing into cupboards and bellies alike. Nearly every conversation on the street curls back to shortages of eggs, of coal, of the tiny things that keep a person feeling human.

The new points system has people bartering secrets on how to turn carrots into jam and how to pretend powdered egg is the same as the real thing. They say things are shifting in Italy, that Mussolini's lost his grip. But from our narrow street, the war still feels endless, like a thundercloud that settled overhead and decided to live there.

Mum is slipping. Every morning, I brace myself before I open her door, terrified that one day soon, I'll find nothing left of her but the ghost of her shape in the bed. Not taken by shrapnel or a falling bomb, but by the slow, gnawing rot that set in when Grandad died. When Papa, Nonna, Nonno and Nan followed. When each piece of her heart got carved away.

Some mornings, she's already sitting up when I come in, her hands twisting the edge of the quilt. Once, she asked if Papa would be home for supper. Another time, she tried to button the collar of her dress and ended up just fumbling there, blinking down at her own shaking hands. I stood by the doorway, my throat tight, until I stepped forward and did it for her. "There you are, love," I said, smoothing the fabric, pretending it didn't scare me half to death.

She doesn't take care of herself anymore. Some days she forgets to wash, forgets to eat unless I stand there and guide the spoon to her lips. Her hair's turned dull, hanging in limp ropes around her face. Her eyes drift often, like she's waiting at a station in her mind for a train that's long overdue. But when she does look at me, truly sees me, she tries to smile. Always for me. Always strained and a little broken, but it's there, like a fragile lantern fighting against the wind.

Once she dropped a cup and didn't even flinch when it shattered at her feet. Just stood there in her slippers, blinking at the shards as if trying to remember why they mattered. I swept it up without saying a word. Later, I caught the reflection of myself in the window, and the set of my mouth was the same as hers, thin, strained, already older than it had any right to be.

It's strange how completely things have reversed. Just a handful of years ago, she was brushing my hair smooth, tying my laces, humming songs about sparrows and sunlit gardens as she tucked me in. Now it's me combing out her tangles, coaxing her to take another sip of broth, smoothing the quilt over her shoulders. Sometimes I call her "love," the same way she once did for me, in a low, careful voice that makes something profound in my chest clench. I can't pinpoint exactly when the line between mother and son smudged into nothing, only that I can't let her drift any further.

So it's me now, just me. I cook. I clean. I keep the damp from swallowing up our little house whole. I walk to the market, stand in queues beside old women with hollow eyes, and keep my hands stuffed in my pockets so they don't see how ready I am to move, to take.

Some of the neighbours look at us differently these days. A few still press parcels into my hands, a smear of dripping wrapped in wax paper, a knob of cheese small enough to hide in a fist. But others give Mum a wide berth on the pavement, like her grief might be contagious. I nod when I accept their scraps, mumble "Thank you," though my voice is flat. Grateful, yes. But I've got no softness left to warm it.

I've started stealing more. Small things, easy to tuck into my System Inventory when no one's watching. A wedge of cheese, a handful of potatoes, half a loaf. Once, a string of dried onions rattled faintly in my coat pocket all the way home. It's not greed. It's to keep my own cheeks from sinking in, to keep Mum's skin from turning that dull yellow that means worse is coming.

Last week at Taverner's stall, I slipped a couple of bruised apples into my coat. I was careful, slow, and practised. But his dog, a mean old terrier with a patch over one eye, caught my scent. It started growling, snuffling close to my ankle.

My heart flipped over. For a second, I pictured the whole street turning, the butcher's boy pointing, people shouting "Thief!"

But Taverner only swatted the dog away with his hat, muttering about mongrels. I let out a long breath I hadn't meant to hold and walked off steadily as I could, though sweat slicked my back under my shirt.

That night, I removed them from the System Inventory and peeled and stewed them with stale bread for Mum. Watched her smile faintly as she swallowed. Worth it.

Sometimes, weighing the risk, I have a tiny dark thought: maybe it wouldn't be so terrible if the war kept dragging on. War makes everything looser. Messier. Easier to slip by unseen, easier to steal unnoticed. Peace might mean people start asking hard questions about why a boy my age is keeping house alone. Or decide Mum needs to be somewhere "proper." Somewhere I couldn't follow.

I still go to school. Not because I care about sums or neat copperplate letters anymore, but because it's routine. Because it lets Mum pretend I'm growing up right. Luca tries to chat sometimes. I answer short, and watch his smile falter. I'm not cross with him; I just don't have the room inside for play anymore. Most days, I keep my head down, let the world swirl by without me.

When I come home, I scrub myself clean. Always. No matter how thin I'm stretched, I won't let filth take root. I scrub my hands until the skin shines pink, check under my nails, and smooth my hair. Strength isn't only in muscle or mana, it's in discipline. If I let that go, the rest will crumble along with it, too.

My body's stronger. I feel it every morning when I haul the coal, every night when I ease Mum upright so she can sip her tea. The chores, the constant motion, plus the exercises I force myself through, push-ups, squats, pressing my shoulders against the door frame until my arms quiver. It's more than just keeping fit now. It's a quiet promise that if someone ever tried to take Mum, or take what's left of our life, I could push them back. Or hold them down. The thought comes cold and sharp, but I don't turn from it.

But mostly it's my magic. Every afternoon, once the house is still, I draw deep, let the mana surge. My pool of mana feels wider now, thicker under my skin. It's easier than it used to be. The channels inside me feel stretched, still snug around the edges, like shoes I'll soon outgrow, but quicker to obey. 

It's no longer stubborn sludge. It answers me, mostly. The System says my stats creep up, bit by bit. Body. Mind. Soul. Like watching tidewater rise, stone by stubborn stone.

I can lift three books at once, make them spin slow, lazy orbits above the bed. Sometimes I push them harder, watch them smack into the wall with dull thumps. Once, I guided a dinner knife across the table's edge with just a thread of mana, slow and careful, etching faint lines into the wood. I told myself it was practice. But there was a part of me that wondered how far I could push it if I had to.

I recall the last time I cried properly. It was when Papa died, unfortunately, that I don't think I can anymore.

Sometimes I think I'm storing it all up, like there's a cupboard inside me stacked high with tears I'll pay out later. Other times, I suspect that cupboard's empty after all.

I keep myself busy so the emptiness doesn't drown me. At night, when Mum sleeps, I pull out the little notebook hidden under the mattress. It's full of cramped lines and tiny numbers, plans for the aftermath of the war. 

Investments in companies that I saw do well in my previous life, utilising my knowledge of the future to ride the waves and trends. Schemes for how I could use my System's edge to build something real, pay for doctors and specialists from London, and possibly even across the sea. Get Mum well again. 

I fill whole pages with tiny sums, scraps of brand names I half-remember. I write down "Coca Cola," "McDonald's," "Nestle," "Ford," "BMW," "Lego", circling them again and again. I draw little boxes for properties I might buy.

And I let myself think about inventions, too, things like sturdy "ballpoint pens," "plastic combs," even "Velcro". Tiny hooks and loops that grip and pull free, simple enough, I might manage it with scraps of fabric and glue, working by lamplight. The harder dreams, "non-stick pans," "nylon stockings," "strange new plastics," I'd slip to clever machinists or chemists, let them build it while I hold quiet shares. If one fails, another might soar. Just scribbling it out makes something in me spark, bright and alive for a breath.

Maybe, if the world's kind enough, if it lets me keep clawing my way up, there could be more. A house with a stout fence. A garden. Children with bright eyes who don't jump at loud sounds.

It feels like a story I tell myself to keep the dark out, a paper-thin fairy tale. But I fold it up carefully and keep it close, because even a thin dream is better than none.

At night, I tuck Mum in. She turns her face into the pillow and whispers that she's sorry, as she's always so tired. I hush her, brush back her hair. "Rest, love," I tell her, stealing her old words. "I've got us." 

Last week, she reached out suddenly and cupped my cheek. "You're so tall now, Richie. My little bird's grown so fast." Her eyes shone wet for just a moment. Then the light dimmed again. I covered her hand with mine, hoping she wouldn't notice how rough my palms have gotten, how far I am already from being anyone's little bird.

Some nights, I sit by the stove, watching the last embers fade. I practice my sleight of hand, make coins vanish, scraps of paper disappear, my fingers quick and sure, learning how to take without leaving a mark.

The savings are as thin as tissue; the pension from the War Office is months late and half of what was promised. I've learned enough by now not to trust the world to save us.

So tomorrow I'll be nine. No cake. Maybe I'll steal a sweet. Perhaps I'll stand by the window and watch the smoke curl over the rooftops, and let myself pretend, just for a breath, that I'm already older, already rich, already strong enough to make this stop hurting.

Then I'll turn away. Boil water. Feed Mum. Fold the linens. And keep going. Because that's who I've become. Because if I don't, no one else will.

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