It had been seven years. Seven long, bitter years since that day. And yet here he was, impeccably dressed in a suit that itched with hypocrisy, applauding like a dutiful guest, as if this moment had anything to do with him.
Calm down, Leo. Breathe. Smile. You don't want to end the night with bruises again, do you?
He forced a smile—one of those brittle things that cracked at the edges—and brought his hands together in applause. The bride waved at him, eyes glowing with a joy so sincere it made his stomach churn. He could barely look at her face.
The wedding passed swiftly, as they often do when your heart isn't in it. The newlyweds retreated to their suite, laughter echoing down the marble corridors, tangled with the sound of soft, romantic music drifting from the far end of the third floor.
Leo didn't linger. He slammed his bedroom door shut and let himself fall backward onto the bed. The silence was deafening, save for the thudding of memories knocking against his mind.
Seven years ago.
He had been just eight then, a quiet child who had never set foot outside the walls of their modest home. The world began and ended with his mother. She was his universe. Doctors had worried over him, murmuring words like developmental delay, emotional detachment, and possible cognitive impairment. They didn't understand that his silence was not emptiness. It was devotion.
His toys, his imaginary kingdoms, and above all, his mother—these were his everything. He could still picture the cardboard fortress he was building that day, meticulously stacking boxes and cushions into the shape of a castle.
He had been waiting for her, his queen, to help him finish the towers. She had promised. But instead, she came through the door without so much as a glance, tears already painting her cheeks. She walked past him, her figure shaking, disappearing into her bedroom.
He followed, curious and concerned, his small feet padding behind her softly. The door creaked open. She was sitting on the bed, clutching a cluster of strange pills in her hand, sobbing with a pain that shook her chest and made her breathing jagged.
He approached slowly, innocence radiating from his tiny frame.
"Mommy… you're late," he whispered. "You said you'd help me finish my castle. You promised you'd play with me."
The memory ended there, but the ache it left behind was eternal.
She turned toward him, her eyes distant—haunted—as though she no longer saw the world around her. As if she were floating somewhere between the present and a place far beyond his reach. Her hair clung to her tear-streaked cheeks, soaked and tangled, her breath hitching in shallow bursts.
Then, slowly, one trembling hand reached out and cupped his small face. Her gaze locked with his, but it wasn't the gaze of a mother. It was wild, unnerving—eyes full of storms and shadows.
"Play?" she whispered, her voice fractured. "You want to play? Forget the castle, Leo. Let's play a new game, something much more fun."
Leo tilted his head, his wide eyes filled with innocence and hope. "A new game? What's it called, Mommy?"
She glanced around the room, her movements erratic, until her eyes landed on the chair in the corner. Her breath hitched. She looked back at him, forcing a trembling smile.
"It's called... The Flying Game," she said. "I climb onto the chair, and you pull it away. Then I fly. Just like magic. And then... it'll be your turn. You'll fly too. Doesn't that sound fun?"
The boy's face lit up with pure, radiant joy.
"You'll really play with me? Yay! Finally, Mommy! Hurry! Come on!"
She moved quickly, her limbs propelled by some desperate final resolve. She took her scarf—silken and soft, the one he liked to run his fingers through—and fastened it to the chandelier above. Then, she climbed onto the chair. But something in her hesitated. She stepped down again, knelt before him, and pulled him into a fierce embrace.
She kissed his forehead. His cheeks. His hands. She held him as though she were trying to memorize the feel of his body in her arms. As if love alone could shield him from the weight of what was about to happen.
"Tomorrow," she whispered shakily, "I'll play with you again. I promise. But first, it's my turn, okay?"
She climbed the chair once more. Her tears came harder now, as if her very soul were unraveling. She gave him one last look—eyes overflowing, yet oddly peaceful—and her lips moved.
"Now, Leo," she said. "Pull the chair. So I can fly."
With a gleeful cheer, Leo obeyed. He tugged the chair away with all his might, laughing as he looked up.
"You're flying, Mommy!" he cried, clapping. "You're really flying! Look, your legs are flapping like wings!"
But the joy in his voice soon faded. Her legs thrashed wildly at first, then slowed. Then stopped. The silence that followed was unlike anything Leo had ever known.
He stared. Confused. Unsettled. Then he reached up and grasped one of her feet, gently shaking it.
"Mommy?" he said, voice growing quieter. "You said it was my turn. Why are you flying so long? I want to fly too."
Stillness. No reply.
His voice cracked. "Mommy…?"
No answer. Only the dull creak of the scarf above.
Panic gripped him. Tears flooded his eyes, and his voice rose in desperation. "Mommy! Mommy, why won't you talk to me? It's my turn!"
He cried harder now, sobs tearing from his chest as he stumbled backward from the motionless figure of his mother. He ran from the room, tears blinding him, clutching the remnants of something he didn't yet understand.
He found himself outside his father's study. The door creaked open under his trembling hand. His aunt was there, her face pale, lined with worry. His father was nowhere to be seen.
Leo didn't say a word. He only ran into her arms and clung to her, sobbing, searching for something—comfort, answers, or maybe just someone who could hold him and not let go.
"Auntie," Leo murmured, his voice thick with tears, "Mommy is bad."
Marie blinked in surprise, the soft smile still lingering on her lips. "What do you mean, sweetheart? Don't say that. Your mother loves you very much."
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffling hard. "But… but we were playing the flying game… and she didn't let me have my turn…"
"The flying game?" she echoed, puzzled. "That's a new one. Well, come then—let's go talk to her together. I'm sure we can convince her to let you play too."
He nodded eagerly, wrapping his tiny fingers around her index finger and pulling her down the hall with childish trust. She followed him, amused at first—until they reached the door. Until her eyes fell upon the still shape suspended in the air.
Her breath caught. Her heart plummeted.
The person hanging before her—limp, lifeless—was her younger sister.
She released Leo's hand without a word and rushed forward, overturning the chair as she clambered onto it, frantically trying to lift Lara's weight and loosen the scarf from the chandelier. The body fell like a puppet with its strings cut—silent, cold, heavy with finality.
She dropped to her knees beside her, trembling. "Lara…? Lara, answer me… please, don't scare me like this."
But there was no response. Only the awful silence that swells when death enters a room.
Marie's composure shattered. She clutched her sister's face with trembling hands and screamed, her voice tearing from the depths of her soul.
"LARAAAAAA!"
Her scream echoed down the corridors like a thunderclap. Within moments, footsteps rushed toward the room from every corner of the estate.
The governess arrived first. Without a word, she scooped Leo into her arms and turned his face away, gently closing his eyes with her palm. He was still babbling, confused.
The maids followed, horrified. Two of them tried to pry Marie away from Lara's lifeless body, but she was inconsolable. She clung to her sister as though sheer will could bring her back, sobbing her name again and again.
"Lara… please… please…"
And all the while, the master of the house was nowhere to be seen.
Later that night, a doctor came and administered a mild sedative to Leo, fearing the trauma might leave deep wounds on a mind so young. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep before the sun had fully set.
The next morning, the governess returned with a small, formal suit—black, like the others. Leo stared at it, perplexed. He had never worn anything like it.
"Why didn't Mommy come read me a story last night?" he asked, tugging at the sleeves of the black shirt. "Why is everyone wearing these dark clothes? Why am I wearing them?"
Tears filled the governess's eyes. She knelt to tie his shoes, biting her lip hard, forcing herself not to sob.
Leo stepped out of his room hesitantly. The hallway was thick with hushed voices and the rustle of mourning. The entire house had become a sea of black—every guest, every servant, dressed in grief.
He stopped just short of the main parlor, peeking around the corner. There were too many people. Too many sad faces. Something deep inside him recoiled. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to be part of whatever this was.
He turned away and retreated back down the hall, unnoticed, still too young to understand that the game had ended—and that his mother would never take her turn again.
Some time later, his aunt returned. Her eyes were sunken, bruised with dark circles from sleepless nights, her face drained of all color, pale as porcelain. She didn't say a word at first—just knelt down and wrapped her arms around Leo, pulling him close. He felt how cold she was. Not from the weather, but from something deeper, something that had hollowed her out.
"Come, Leo," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "You need to see your mother."
His eyes lit up, wide with a sudden burst of hope.
"We're going to see Mommy?" he gasped. "Really? Finally! Let's go!"
She carried him through the crowded parlor, weaving through a forest of grieving faces. No one tried to stop them. They simply parted like water, stepping aside to let them pass. At the far end of the room stood a polished casket, surrounded by white lilies and shadows.
Leo's father was already there, standing in silence, staring down into the open coffin. But his face bore no visible tears—only a quiet expression of something unreadable, something more akin to guilt than grief.
Marie stepped closer and lowered Leo carefully into her arms, positioning him just beside the casket. He peered inside, his smile tentative.
"She's sleeping, Leo," Marie said gently, her voice shaking as she brushed his hair. "Why don't you give her a kiss?"
He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his mother's cheek. Her skin was cold. Stiff. But he didn't understand.
"Okay," he said cheerfully, turning to Marie. "So when is she going to wake up? She promised she'd play with me today. We have a deal!"
The room fell utterly still. Someone stifled a sob. Others couldn't. Tears flowed freely as the little boy stood beside the body of his mother, waiting.
Four solemn men in dark suits stepped forward. Wordlessly, they closed the lid of the coffin with a soft thud that echoed through the room like thunder. Then, they lifted it and began the slow walk toward the front door.
But Leo screamed.
"No! Where are you taking Mommy? She's not done sleeping yet! She was gonna play with me!"
He tried to break free, reaching after the coffin with outstretched arms.
"Bring her back! She wants to stay here! She said she would play with me today!"
Marie fell to her knees, sobbing as she pulled him into her chest, holding him with a ferocity born of desperation, as though she could protect him from the world itself. He kicked and cried in her arms until his small body, too tired to fight anymore, gave in to exhaustion. His sobs slowed. Then stopped. He fell asleep against her, his tears soaking through her black dress.
That memory—buried deep like a splinter in the soul—came flooding back with cruel clarity. The years had passed, but grief never aged.
Lying on his bed in the dim light of his room, Leo felt the tears slip down his cheeks again. He wiped them away hastily, angry at himself for feeling so much.
Outside, laughter rang through the house. Music played. The air was thick with celebration and dancing and voices full of life.
But Leo didn't move. He pressed his pillow tightly over his ears, shutting it all out. The world could sing. The world could dance. But inside him, the music had stopped a long time ago.