A House of One

Two weeks have passed since my ninth birthday, and it was a quiet evening celebrated with stolen goods. I hardly notice their passing. Each day shapes itself around the same narrow tracks, chores, school, the market, making sure the house doesn't collapse under the weight of its quiet.

But then comes the morning that cleaves my life in half.

I wake as usual, before the weak light of dawn has properly settled. The house feels brittle with cold. The breath in my throat scratches as I stand and pad to the stove, stir the embers to coax a small tongue of flame. The kettle goes on. I rinse my face in the basin. My movements are mechanical, my thoughts already halfway to the list of tasks I've made for the day.

Then I moved to Mum's room.

I push the door open with my shoulder. The hinges sigh, a tired old sound. Her figure lies curled in the bed, the blankets slightly rumpled around her shoulders.

I step closer.

Her chest is still. Her face, half-turned to the window, is slack in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. The air around her feels heavy, the sort of stillness that knows how to keep its secrets.

The air smelled faintly of lavender water and something sourer underneath. I studied the way her hand lay curled on the blanket, thumb tucked beneath the fingers like she'd meant to clutch at something. Her mouth was parted just slightly. For a wild moment, I thought she might murmur my name, that her breath might stir the hair on her brow, but she moved.

I stood there for a long time. I don't rush to touch her. Part of me, dark and tired, already knows. When I finally lay a hand on hers, it's cool, the delicate skin already beginning to stiffen.

A sigh slips from me, thin, almost thoughtful. 

And that was it. My chest didn't seize or squeeze. My throat didn't burn. I only blinked once, slowly, as if testing how vision worked in this new world. Was it strange, I wondered distantly, that I didn't sob or clutch at her the way people should have in this situation? Was it wrong that my heart didn't shatter in any obvious way? I couldn't tell if I felt too much or nothing at all, like some dam had cracked somewhere unseen, leaking everything out by slow degrees so that when the moment came there was simply… emptiness.

It hadn't always been that way. When Grandad died, the first real loss that pulled our family apart at the seams, I'd cried until my ribs hurt, until my throat went raw. I'd pressed my face into Mum's shoulder and sobbed against the smell of her hair, terrified of how the world could keep turning with him gone. Even after, I'd woken up in the dark with tears already on my cheeks, breathing like I'd run miles.

But each death that followed scraped something out of me. Papa, then Nonna and Nonno, then Nan, each loss wore the edges smooth, like river stones. Each grief had come easier somehow, quieter, until now with Mum, it was like standing at the edge of a pit and feeling nothing at all. No fear. No shock. Just a hollow echo where grief should live.

Then I straightened. Because I still had to do the things that needed to be done. There were neighbours to inform, papers to sign, floors to sweep, and a world that didn't care how many cracks ran through me so long as I kept moving.

It takes hours to arrange things. I go to the neighbours first. Mrs. Kemp answers her door, hands wringing a dish towel. Her mouth pulls into a shape of sorrow when I tell her. Her voice is soft, careful, too round at the edges, but I don't match it.

"Ah, Richie… oh, love, I'm so sorry. So sorry. What can we,"

"She's dead," I say plainly. "I'll need to report it to the local warden's clerk. Just thought someone should know."

She looks like she might gather me in her arms. I step back before she can.

The street seemed narrower than usual. Posters for war loans and victory gardens peeled in the damp, their bright colours sagging. A soldier stumped past with a wooden leg, tapping the cobbles like a slow metronome. I caught my reflection in a bakery window, pinched cheeks, hollow eyes. A stranger who moved like me.

The registrar's office is a cramped little place that smells of ink and coal dust. The clerk behind the counter fumbles for papers, peering over thin spectacles. His eyes dart up to my face as he asks questions in a low voice. I answer them in short, clipped syllables. Name. Address. Cause? "Illness," I say. No tears. No faltering. His pen scratches across the form.

"Someone will come by tomorrow to confirm, lad."

"Alright."

When it's done, I walk home. My shadow paces me on the frost-bitten street, long and thin. I think about how I should feel. Something breaks off and drifts away from me instead.

At the house, I keep moving. I sweep the floors. I scrubbed out the teacups she left on her bedside table. I fold up the cardigan she wore most days. At noon, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for school. Luca gives me a wary look across the yard, but I turn away before he can come over.

Miss Haynes paused by my desk at one point, hand hovering like she might pat my shoulder. "All right, Richard?"

"Yes, Miss."

The lie slipped out smoothly, polished from so much use. Luca's grin was entirely gone by day's end.

Classes blur quickly by. 

At the bell, I drift toward the market, hands stuffed in my pockets, feeling the rough shape of my System's Inventory token against my palm. I pick up turnips and stale bread, pay with coins that seem lighter each time I count them.

That evening, I made a thin stew and set one bowl at the far end of the table out of habit. When I catch myself, but I don't move it. I ladle another portion for myself and sit down in Grandad's old chair.

The kitchen is dim but not empty.

For a breath, I see them, Nonna fussing with her sleeves, Grandad telling some loud joke that makes Nan's shoulders shake. Papa leans back with a conspiratorial grin, clinking glasses. Nonno sat quietly, a small smile gracing his lips. Mum is there, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed with laughter. I'm at the table's end, just watching.

For a heartbeat, I heard the scrape of chairs, the gentle murmur of voices. Nan dabbed her eyes with a napkin, laughing so hard she nearly spilt her tea. Papa caught my eye and winked, as if to say, "This is how it's meant to be, son."

Their joy rings through me, thin as a bell strike. A single tear spills from the corner of my eye. It slides down, quick and hot, catching on my jaw. Though my face stays neutral and my eyes distant.

Then the image thinned, warped by the dim. The table stood silent, the bowls cooling. Just me, the steam, and the echo of laughter that didn't belong here anymore.

Later, I drift to Mum's room. The bed is still unmade from the morning. I stood there for a long while, studying the dent where her head lay, the little wrinkles in the pillow slip. It's as if part of her still lingers in the shape of things.

I smoothed the pillow she'd left dented, pulled the quilt tight across the bed, then opened the window a crack. The air that drifted in was cold and sharp, but it felt right somehow, chasing out the heavy closeness that had settled there.

Finally, I crouch down and pull out a battered wooden box from beneath. The lid sticks on its hinge, then gives with a soft pop. Inside are the scraps of a life: yellowed photographs, a pressed flower, a smudge of red ribbon from a Christmas long past. 

I thumb through them carefully. A young Papa in his service uniform, grinning widely. Nan and Grandad at the Brighton pier. Mum in a summer dress that looks too bright to be real. Nonna, Nonno, and a baby Papa before they immigrated.

At the bottom lie the pieces I've been thinking of all day. Nan's thin, long gold necklace. Nan and Grandad's heavy gold bands. Nonno and Nonna's matching rings, worn soft by decades of hands meeting hands. And at last Papa and Mum's platinum rings, the Russo heirlooms, carried from Italy to England long before my time.

I string them all on Nan's necklace. It clinks faintly as I work, the rings sliding together, catching on each other like old friends reunited. When I finish, I slip it over my head. It settles against my chest with a cool, solid weight. Like the whole family is pressing close, whispering that they're still here.

But they're not.

That night, I washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. I sweep up a few stray crumbs, light the little oil lamp, and then sit by the stove with my notebook.

I don't write much. My mind is a vast, echoing hall. Instead, I turn the necklace over and over in my hands, letting the rings click and chime against each other.

When the lamp finally goes out, I press the chain against my lips once, then tuck it under my shirt. I stand in the dark for a moment, steadying my breath.

'Status.'

 [FAMILY SYSTEM] 

________________________________

Name: Richard Russo 

Age: 9

Race: Homo Magi

House: N/A

Position: Scion 

Allegiance: N/A

Alliance: N/A

Family Tree: -><-

Total Family Members: 1

________________________________

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: 15.67 

Mind: 34

Soul: 25.33

Mana: 9408

________________________________

Strength- 15

Dexterity- 16

Constitution- 16 

Intelligence- 34

Wisdom- 35

Spirit- 33

Charisma- 23 

Charm- 20

________________________________

SI: -><- 

________________________________

[Total Family Members: 1]

A grim reminder I'm all alone.

I spent some time idly going through the panel. Looking at the grey names of my family in the [Family Tree], skimming through my [Talents] and [Affinities], the list of names in my [Compatibility Index], it was only when I made it to the [Tasks] section that my eyes focused. 

A new task had appeared.

[System Task: Herald of the New House]

[Issued: September 16, 1943]

[Deadline: Indefinite]

[Duration: Indefinite]

[Objective:]

[As the last living member of your lineage, an unprecedented opportunity has emerged. The System now offers you the chance to establish your House ahead of the destined time, ensuring your family's name, ideals, and symbols endure beyond you.]

[Name Your House: Select the name that will carry your legacy into history.]

[Create Your House Motto: A succinct declaration, three to seven words, that embodies your House's core belief.]

[Design Your House Crest: System assistance is available. Describe its primary symbol, any supporting motifs, and the colours.]

[This act of founding is timeless. Take all the days you need, for once chosen, these decisions will be etched into the fabric of your being.]

[Rewards:]

[House Created: The System will recognise and sanctify your House, permanently recording its name, motto, and crest.]

[House Structure/House Wealth: Unlocked]

[Random Family Familiar: A unique creature bound to you and your House, its form and temperament shaped by your House's name, motto, and crest. It will serve as guardian, companion, and herald of your family's ethos.]

[Stat Points: Spirit +3]

My breath left me in a long, soundless push. The glow of the System text hovered, stark in the dark kitchen. I read it once, twice, then a third time, tracing the lines with my eyes until they blurred.

A House of My Own. Not someday, not decades off when I might have sons or daughters of my own. Now. Because there was no one else left.

I ran a thumb over the edge of the table, feeling a splinter catch at the skin. A dull pressure pressed at my ribs, not grief exactly, but the weight of a thing too large to hold. I should have felt proud, maybe, or frightened. Mostly, I just felt... hollow.

It made sense, didn't it? The System was pragmatic, like I'm progressively becoming. It didn't care about aching hearts or kitchens that once rang with laughter. It only saw an empty family line, desperate to be propped up by whoever was left breathing.

I sat back in Grandad's chair, the necklace heavy against my collarbone. I thought of their rings sliding together on the chain, the quiet chorus they made whenever I shifted. A family reduced to gold, strung around my neck. It seemed fitting that now it was up to me to give them something to hang on to.

My eyes drifted across the kitchen, the faint outlines of chairs, the ghost of a table set for too many. I imagined the crest the System wanted. A hawk, maybe. Or a stag, like in the old country. Something proud, with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

But my mind circled back to simpler shapes. A single, sturdy oak. Roots tangled deep, branches stretching out. Solid. Unmoving.

No matter how hard the wind blows.

I wondered what my motto might be. Three to seven words, carved into memory. Perhaps something like:

"Stand when others fall."

"Endure beyond the storm."

"Carry the weight alone."

I didn't decide yet. The System had given me time, and I'd take it. This wasn't something to pick carelessly, like a new shirt or a stolen sweet. It was the sort of choice that could echo long after I was gone, if anyone came after me at all.

For a while, I just sat there, the cold creeping up my legs from the flagstones. My eyes wandered back to the System panel. My stats flickered steadily, like tiny lamps against a dark sea. Body: stronger. Mind: sharper. Mana: deeper. I was becoming something else, stone by stone.

Maybe that was good. The world didn't reward softness.

Eventually, I closed the panel with a thought. The kitchen fell back into gloom, the only light a wan stripe of moon through the thin curtains. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and rubbed at my face.

I hadn't eaten. The stew pot sat cold on the stove. I ladled out a small portion, swallowing it down without tasting. My throat worked mechanically. No prayers for Mum, no final words. I wasn't sure I had any left.

After I washed the bowl, dried it carefully, and placed it back on the shelf. Everything is in its place because order was the only thing that didn't break.

Upstairs, I drifted through Mum's room once more. The bed was neat now, the faint impression of her head on the pillow fading by the hour. I touched the quilt lightly, like I might memorise its pattern through my fingertips.

"Goodnight," I whispered, though there was no one left to hear it.

Back in my own room, I set the little battered box on my lap. The photographs were spread around me like fragile leaves. Mum's bright smile on Brighton Pier. Papa holding me up on his shoulders. Nonno with his lined hands folded over a spade handle, eyes crinkled in the sun.

I stacked them one by one, placing each memory carefully back into the box. The chain around my neck felt heavier every time I shifted.

I crawled under the covers at last. The sheets were cold, but I didn't shiver. I lay on my back, eyes open to the dim ceiling.

Tomorrow, I will start thinking properly about the House. About a name that could carry us forward. About a crest that would mean something long after my own bones were dust.

Tomorrow I'd rise early, sweep the floors, check the larder, and go to school. I'd keep my head down, keep my hands quick and steady, keep the world fooled that a small boy could shoulder so much.

Because there was no other way. 

Because I was all alone.

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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 readers. I have ideas of what I want things to be for his second task. Obvious, given the title, but I'm including this here in case any of you have ideas that you think would be well-suited. Again, just comment here.

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To all those who have expressed their desire to stop reading after this chapter, I bid you farewell. Although I understand it, I wanted to create an actual character with a backstory, and in doing so, I could have gone overboard from some perspectives. However, I feel happy with this direction. I've read too many fanfictions where everything goes perfectly or the characters have a sad backstory, but it has no consequences or is glossed over. So I wanted to dive into it with a very real possibility. I do hope everyone continues to read on, but it's ok if you don't want to.

Just keep this story in your Library, so when you run out of things to read, you can come check up on this story and see how it's going. :)

Sorry if it was too depressing, my bad.