The Empty House

It's remarkable how quickly new patterns emerge once the old ones fade away.

Mum's gone, truly gone now, her absence woven into the quiet fabric of the house. For the first few days after the men came to take her away, I kept expecting to hear the soft drag of her slippers on the floorboards. I still paused at doorways, half-formed words of care balanced on my tongue. But each time, the silence reminded me. There was no one left to fuss over.

Without Mum's pot simmering, without Nan's lavender sachets stuffed behind cushions, the house smells mostly of dust and old wood. Every so often, I think I hear her cough from the bedroom, or the shuffle of slippers down the hall, but it's only the tick of the old clock, or the wind teasing under the door, but again, no one there.

In a way, it was a freedom. For years, my life had looped around other people's needs, feeding Mum, coaxing her to bathe, smoothing her hair, steadying her fragile hands. The weight of it had shaped me. Now that the weight was gone, but in its place stood something else. A responsibility wholly my own: to decide what came next.

It felt both vast and hollow. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, wind tugging at my sleeves, urging me to step forward.

I didn't change much else. I still rose before dawn, still washed carefully at the basin, scrubbed my nails until the skin burned faintly pink. I swept the floors, boiled water, reheated thin stews and chewed stale bread as if it were the finest fare. Each routine was a small bulwark against the dark thought that maybe none of it mattered anymore.

A few days after they took Mum, a different man knocked at the door. Well-dressed, with a small leather case. He introduced himself with a name I didn't bother remembering. His hands were careful as he handed the papers he held to me.

"This is the official death certificate for your mother," he said, voice pitched low as though to break the news gently. His eyes darted around the small kitchen, landing on the bare table, to my thin shoulders.

I took the paper without comment. He coughed, clearing his throat.

"There… will be arrangements to discuss soon. About your situation. You'll likely be placed with a state facility, an orphanage."

My eyes didn't flinch. I just nodded. "Alright."

He hesitated, like he'd expected tears or pleading. When neither came, he offered a stiff little nod and stepped back out into the street.

When he left, I took the certificate and brought it to my room. The old battered box sat beneath my bed. Inside lay the quiet story of my family's endings: Grandad's certificate, then Papa's, then Nonna's, then Nonno's, then Nan's. Now Mum's joined them, paper edges whispering together. It felt right, somehow, that they should all rest in the same place.

Word spread quickly through our tight lane. The neighbours had already known Mum was slipping; they'd watched her shuffle along the pavement for years, eyes cloudy, smile weak. Now they knew she was gone, and that I was the only Russo left.

They came in small trickles over the following days. Mrs. Kemp brought a loaf wrapped in a towel. The old man Douglas down the road offered a flask of thin whisky that burned like acid on my tongue. Miss Vale pressed my hands between hers, eyes bright with pity.

"Such a brave boy," she whispered.

I didn't argue. I didn't tell her that bravery had little to do with it; sometimes living on was just a habit.

It was while standing at the kitchen window one afternoon, watching smoke drift from the chimneys across the street, that a thought slid cold and neat into my mind.

There was no sense in keeping everything.

The house was filled with objects that no longer held any practical value. The extra sets of dishes from Nonno and Nonna's house were stacked in crates in the shed. Grandad's old butcher tools rusting beneath oilcloth. Spare pillows, spare blankets, pairs of shoes that hadn't felt feet in years.

So I started offering them. Quietly. When neighbours came by to pay their respects, I led them to cupboards and trunks, pulled open drawers.

"You can have this for a few shillings."

I'd say.

At first, they looked startled. Then most softened, seeing it for what it was, a boy doing what he must. They left with bundles under their arms: extra pots, spare jackets, a few of Papa's old Sunday shirts. Someone even took the chipped tea set Nan had once fussed over.

Cecilia stands just inside the doorway, hat clutched tight in her hands like she doesn't quite know what to do with them. Her eyes flick around my kitchen, to the bare table, the shelf that used to hold Mum's best teacups, all the little ghosts of a life that's been pared down to the bone.

Her mouth presses together, like she's swallowing something sharp. Then she manages a wobbly smile.

"Oh Richard… your mother was just a girl when I was already helping my own mum hang wash. I remember her chasing after us with that bright grin of hers, hair coming loose from her ribbon. Always gentle, even then. Once, I fell right off our garden wall and she ran over, cleaned up my knee, marched me home, like she was older than both of us."

I let her words wash over me. I just watched her.

After a moment, I clear my throat.

"I've still got too many cups," I say, my voice calm, far-off even to my own ears. "You could take a few. They're good china. Mum liked setting them out even if it was just us."

Her hands fly up to her chest.

"Oh, I couldn't, well, maybe… just two. To remember her by."

I nod. Turn toward the sideboard. I lift two of the last cups from the neat little line, careful not to chip them. When I hand them over, they feel oddly light in my palms.

"They're yours."

She cradles them against her like fragile birds. Her eyes shine too brightly.

"If you ever feel like you want company, or a warm supper, you only have to knock. Truly, Richard. Any time."

I give a slight nod.

"I know. Thank you, Miss Marino."

My face doesn't change. It's as if it no longer knows how to do so. But after a moment, she seems to understand. She just reaches out, gives my hand a gentle squeeze, her fingers warm, trembling a little, then slips back out the door. I hear the cups clink together as she goes, two small reminders of a family that's almost all packed away.

I didn't sell everything. Some things I kept locked tight to my chest. The battered box of death certificates and photographs. The necklace around my throat, heavy with the rings of everyone I'd loved. Most of my clothes, along with some of Grandad's, Papa's, Nonno's and Mum's wedding shawl. Grandad's flat cap, which I've worn for years. Papa's and Nonno's small medals and death plaques, along with the king's message. Along with one set of each dish, those stayed. Those were all I truly needed.

By the end of the week, the house felt cavernous. Whole shelves stood bare, the wardrobe gaped open with only a few hanging shirts left inside. The shed out back was nearly empty; the echo of my boots was loud on the planks as I stepped inside.

It did bank me just over 40 pounds, which I kept stowed away in the System Inventory.

That night, I made a small supper. Just boiled potatoes and a smear of butter, eaten straight from the pot. I sat at the table anyway, Grandad's chair pulled close. The rest of the seats stared back at me, hollow-eyed.

For a moment, just a breath, I closed my eyes and imagined them there again. Mum humming, Nan muttering about the dust, Papa's hand clapping my shoulder in his rough, sure way. A small smile pulled at the corner of my mouth, almost too faint to count.

Then I opened my eyes. The kitchen was empty. The ghosts had gone back to whatever quiet places memories sleep.

Later, in bed, I lay with my hands folded over the necklace. The rings clinked softly with each breath. I thought about the orphanage the man had mentioned, about the state taking me in and deciding what scraps of life I'd be allowed next. Or, perhaps, about finding one of my own choosing. 

The thought of letting the state sort me out sits foul in my gut. I've let others steer my life long enough. Although that was because they were my family, I do know that maybe my need and desire for a family may have made me care for them. 

However, I don't think that mattered; I did what I did because I genuinely love and loved them, and now they're gone, I'll figure it out on my own.

If there's magic here, truly here, I'll find it on my own terms. Better to stand alone on cold stone than under someone else's thumb, even if it means I starve.

There's a place I'd read about in fanfictions of the world, I suspect I reside in. The world of Harry Potter was a magical realm with a rich history. Of what I can remember from it, the main antagonist, Voldemort, grew up in an orphanage in London.

Wool's Orphanage

In that place, I could prove it.

And if that didn't work, I could find the entrance to Diagon Alley. 

Specifically, the Leaky Cauldron.

Many thoughts flew through my head as I lay awake long after the dark settled thick around me. Planning. Weighing. Deciding.

When sleep finally does drag me under, it's with my hand still curled around the necklace, the heavy links biting into my palm. Tomorrow will come, with frost or fortune, I can't say. But I'll meet it head-on.

Because now there's nothing left to break me. And if the world means to fear anything at all, it might as well start with me.

I'd look for the orphanage I had in mind. I'd see if it matched the things I feared and hoped. Then I'd decide if I'd let the government have me, or if I'd carve a different road entirely.

Because now there was nothing and no one to hold me back. My old, for lack of a better term, burdens were gone. 

The new ones were mine alone to shoulder.

And somehow, that felt almost like a cursed gift.

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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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I've decided just to continue three uploads until I can't or I finish this Arc, enjoy. :)

If I can't, I'll go back to the two uploads a day.