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The bedroom is quiet except for the distant, muffled hum of classical music still playing from the ballroom downstairs. Sunlight filters through gauzy red curtains, painting the floor in a bruised shade of pink.
Boomer is the first to stir. His eyes open slowly, puffy from crying himself to sleep, though the tears dried long before the silence did. Sharky is pressed tight to his chest, frayed tail tucked beneath his chin like a security blanket.
To his left, Butch is turned away on the far side of the room, one arm over his eyes, blanket half-twisted around his legs. He’s not snoring. Not moving either. Just breathing heavily.
And a neat empty bed to the right…
Wait, Brick’s not in bed.
Why?
Maybe he left.
Maybe it was because of me.
He hated that thought. It made his stomach hurt.
Boomer sits up slowly. His stomach twists when he looks around the room. It still feels tense. The room is in shambles from yesterday.
He tiptoes around the broken toys on the cold marble floor and pokes his head out the door. No sign of Brick.
He left, Boomer thinks, throat tightening. He’s mad at me. He didn’t even want to sleep near me.
He clicks the door shut behind him, muffled by the hum of the vents. He tiptoes through the corridor, avoiding the creaky floorboards near the first bend. He knows this route by heart now—every dip in the carpet, every shadow the sconces threw across the walls. Still, he hugs the wall like he wasn’t supposed to be there. Like any sound he makes might be too much.
His heart thuds quietly in his chest.
The mansion seemed bigger when it was quiet. Colder. He climbs the narrow stairwell near the back of the hall, one careful step at a time, fingers brushing the rail to keep steady. He hears faint movement up ahead—a soft rustle of fabric, a shifting weight.
The door to the balcony creaked when he pushed it open. Boomer winced. He hoped it wouldn’t annoy whoever was out there. But when he peeked through, relief washed over him.
Brick was there. Sitting alone, his arms draped over his knees, staring silently at the skyline.
The city stretched out below them—blue and pink bleeding into the horizon. It looked soft, like a painting left in the rain.
Boomer didn’t say anything at first. Just stood in the doorway, one sock slipping down his ankle.
Brick didn’t turn around. “What.”
Boomer flinched a little. “I was just… checking.”
Brick let out a quiet breath, more air than sound. “You don’t gotta keep checking. I’m not gonna disappear.”
That stung a little, even though Brick hadn’t meant it to. Boomer clutched Sharky tighter, fingers squeezing into the worn plush.
Brick didn’t look at him again.
Boomer didn’t ask to sit. He just slowly lowered himself to the floor, a few feet away, leaning against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. He didn’t want to get too close. He never knew what the limit was with Brick—not until it was already crossed.
For a while, they said nothing. Just breathed in the quiet.
Boomer kept stealing glances at his older brother. Noticing how tense his shoulders were. How tired his eyes looked even in the soft morning light. How Brick didn’t blink much when he stared out into the city, like he didn’t trust the skyline not to vanish if he looked away.
Boomer wanted to ask what he was thinking.
He wanted to ask if Brick was okay.
But he didn’t.
Because Brick didn’t like questions. Brick liked silence.
And Boomer was good at silence.
After a long pause, Brick stood up.
“I’m getting food before a certain someone wakes up,” he muttered.
Boomer scrambled to his feet. “I’ll come.”
Brick didn’t answer. Just glanced at him once over his shoulder and walked away.
Boomer followed—quiet as a shadow.
The mansion’s kitchen was already alive. Chefs moved between counters like a choreographed dance, chopping, flipping, whisking. Silver trays were being loaded with small pastries and porcelain dishes stacked high with folded cloth napkins. The smell of sugar and coffee filled the air.
But the staff didn’t look at them. They never did.
Brick entered like he owned the place. Sat down at the far end of the massive dining table, spine straight, arms crossed over his chest like he was preparing for battle. His face stayed unreadable, eyes scanning the kitchen like he was waiting for something to go wrong.
He didn’t grab anything. Didn’t ask for anything.
Boomer hovered at the entrance for a few seconds, watching.
Then, slowly, he crossed the room and slipped into one of the chairs—not next to Brick, but facing him from a short distance. He didn’t say anything. Just rested Sharky on the table, folded his arms around him, and lowered his chin onto the soft fabric of his head.
He kept his eyes on Brick, hoping maybe this time he’d say something back. Or offer a small smile.
He didn’t.
The staff moved around them like they weren’t even there.
Boomer swallowed hard.
Maybe it’s better that way.
Maybe the quieter I am, the easier things get.
He sat perfectly still. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t ask for food. He didn’t speak unless spoken to.
And when one of the maids tripped and cursed under her breath, Boomer was the only one who looked up—like it was his fault.
Because deep down, it always felt like it was.
Back in the boys’ room, Butch was still dead asleep, arm dangling off the side of his bed, mouth open slightly. A faint bruise bloomed on his knuckles from last night’s outburst, and a broken toy lay underfoot, the pieces scattered like glass.
Boomer moved quietly, stepping over the mess. He picked up one of the fractured action figures—a leg bent the wrong way, one arm missing. He sat cross-legged by the window and began gently trying to put it back together.
Maybe if I can fix it, he won’t be mad later.
It wasn’t his job. But it felt like maybe it could make things easier. Maybe if he made the room clean again, Brick wouldn’t get mad. Maybe Butch would notice and not break something else. Maybe… maybe someone would be proud of him.
The pieces didn’t fit right. They never did.
Eventually, he gave up and went to the small drawer where he kept his papers and crayons.
Drawing always helped him but butch doesn’t like them.
He started sketching their family anyway: himself, Brick, Butch, Mojo above everyone in the background, and HIM off to the side.
It was small and colorful, the lines shaking a little. He drew Sharky in his own hand. Brick looked strong. Butch had his spiky hair. He made himself smaller. He didn’t know why—it just felt right.
But when he was done, he stared at it for a long time.
Something about it felt wrong.
He crumpled it slowly and stuffed it in the bottom of the trash can.
Boomer moved quietly down the hallway, pressing himself against the wall as usual—small, invisible, forgettable. Sharky was tucked beneath his arm, one hand clutching the hem of his oversized shirt.
He spotted a fingerprint smudge on the decorative mirror near the end of the hall. Without thinking, he stopped, pulled his sleeve over his hand, and gently wiped it clean.
That’s when HIM appeared.
He glided down the hallway in his usual swirl of silk and perfume, wine glass in hand, phone pressed delicately to his ear. His laugh was soft and silvery, like something artificial and practiced.
“Ah yes, darling, but you must remind him—if you let men assume things, they’ll take the whole house,” HIM purred into the receiver.
As he passed, his eyes flicked toward Boomer—just a glance. A flicker.
Then he slowed. One step, two. His voice dropped slightly, playful but biting.
“Well now,” he said with a dry smile, “you’re so quiet, I nearly forgot you were here.”
Boomer froze, sleeve still pressed to the mirror.
HIM stopped walking entirely and turned to face him, the wine in his glass catching a glint of red light.
“You should’ve seen him,” he went on talking on the phone. “He was practically a ghost, that little one. A silent, pale little ghost.”
Boomer’s mouth opened, then shut. He didn’t know what to say. He only nodded slightly and lowered his eyes.
HIM took a seat on the fainting couch across the hall, crossing one leg over the other, and waved lazily toward the small table nearby. “Boomer, be a dear and fetch me that coaster, won’t you? Not that I plan to use it—it’s just decorative. Like you.”
Boomer padded over without hesitation. Picked it up. Handed it to him.
HIM accepted it with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Mm. Thank you,” he said, placing it down beside him. “You’re such a sweetie.”
He took a sip of his wine.
Boomer stood there, heart thudding.
See? I do exist. I’m not a ghost. I helped you.
But HIM was already lifting the phone back to his ear, slipping back into conversation as if Boomer had vanished.
He didn’t cry.
Not out loud, anyway.
His throat felt tight, like when you try to swallow too fast and it gets stuck. He walked slow back down the hallway, holding Sharky so close it squished his cheek. Sharky didn’t mind. Sharky never did.
Boomer kept thinking about what HIM said.
“I nearly forgot you were here.”
He didn’t think HIM meant it to be mean. HIM didn’t really care enough to be mean on purpose.
But it still hurt.
It made his chest feel weird. Like he was invisible again.
Maybe I am.
He didn’t scream like Butch. He didn’t demand anything like Brick. Good kids don’t make trouble. Good kids help. Good kids listen and wait their turn and don’t make messes.
So why did it feel like no one ever saw him?
He stared at the floor while he walked, careful not to step on any cracks. Not because he believed in the sidewalk thing. Just because… it gave him something to do.
I bet no one would notice if I wasn’t around for a whole day.
Maybe even two.
He squeezed Sharky tighter.
I don’t wanna disappear.
He didn’t know how to make them see him.
But he could try. He could do something nice. Something extra nice.
Maybe Butch.
Butch was mad all the time, but sometimes… sometimes Butch liked when he gave him stuff.
Boomer blinked and looked down at the hallway rug.
I’ll fix him something.
Yeah. He could do that. It would be easy. And maybe Butch would like it. Maybe he’d say thank you. Or even laugh.
Maybe then Boomer wouldn’t feel like the quiet space between everyone else’s noise.
He turned around and padded quickly toward their room, already thinking about the broken toy from earlier.
Sharky bounced under his arm.
He approached Butch’s bed with something in his hand—just a little car. He’d fixed the wheels and thought butch would like it.
Butch was sitting at the foot of his bed, chewing on something, half-focused on a violent video game.
Boomer stood in front of him, extending the drawing. “I, uh… I fixed this for you.”
Butch looked up, confused. He took the car without much interest. Looked at it. Blinked. “Why’d you give me this?”
“You broke it earlier,” Boomer said, a little too fast. “So, like… I dunno. I fixed it. For you.”
Butch stared at it another beat, then shrugged and let it slide from his fingers. It fell to the ground, forgotten.
“I don’t want that shit anymore.”
Boomer bent down slowly and picked it back up. Said nothing. Returned to the corner of the room like he’d never moved.
Boomer found himself in the kitchen again.
He needed company. Brick told him to leave when he asked if he could help with something.
“Go away, Boomer.” That’s what he said.
And Butch had already pushed him out of the room after dropping the car Boomer gave him.
“Stop being weird,” Butch snapped. “No one asked you to do this shit.”
So he wandered. Quiet, quiet steps, until he ended up here.
The kitchen was warm and noisy and busy—but in a way that didn’t bother him. It was work noise. The clatter of pans, the hiss of steam, the fast voices of people who had stuff to do. He liked that kind of sound. It didn’t yell. It didn’t scare him.
He hugged Sharky to his chest and stood near the wall, small and out of the way.
The chefs didn’t notice him. They rushed past, carrying trays, barking orders to one another. A few maids passed through too, talking to each other in soft, tired voices. Grown-up voices.
No one looked at Boomer. And for a little while, that was okay.
At least no one was mad.
Then someone dropped something.
A spoon hit the tile with a loud clink, spinning a little before settling. One of the chefs let out a frustrated sigh, crouching down to grab it—
But Boomer was already there.
He picked it up carefully, holding it out with both hands.
The chef blinked down at him, surprised. Then smiled.
“Thanks, kid.”
The chef hesitated, but then reached into a paper-lined basket nearby and grabbed a small, sugar-dusted pastry.
He didn’t say anything—just set it quietly on a napkin and slid it toward Boomer.
Boomer blinked.
It wasn’t much. Just a warm little thing that smelled like cinnamon and butter.
But it felt different.
Not like a command.
Not like an obligation.
Just… something kind.
He sat in the corner and took a tiny bite, Sharky resting against his knee.
And for the first time all day, his stomach didn’t hurt.
Later that evening the mansion had quieted down a little. Most of the kitchen noise had moved to the back corridors, and the air had grown heavy with leftover warmth and the smell of butter and roasted herbs.
Boomer wandered back upstairs, arms still around Sharky, his steps light like he was afraid of waking something.
He paused near the game room doorway.
Butch was there—sprawled out on the floor, controller in hand, playing one of the R-rated fighting games HIM let them play when no one cared enough to stop them. Explosions flared across the screen. Every few seconds, someone on the TV screamed.
Brick sat on the couch behind him, flipping through magazines like he couldn’t decide what he wanted. His jaw was tight. He looked like he was thinking too loud again.
Boomer stood in the doorway.
“Hey,” Butch called without looking. “Bring me a snack.”
Boomer blinked. “I—I just got here.”
Butch tossed his head back over his shoulder. “So? I’m busy winning.”
Brick didn’t look up. “Get me something too Boomer.”
Boomer’s fingers tightened around Sharky.
He didn’t want to.
He didn’t even think Brick or Butch was that hungry.
But he still nodded.
“Okay.”
He turned and left, soft and obedient, walking back downstairs to grab chips and sodas from the edge of the counter—even though his own legs were sore and his stomach hurt a little. He didn’t complain. He didn’t say “I’m tired” or “Can’t you get it yourself?”
He came back and handed Brick and Butch the snacks wordlessly.
Brick only took a soda. He said that he didn’t want chips.
Butch didn’t say thanks. He just opened the bag and kept playing.
Boomer stood there a second too long, hoping maybe they’d invite him to sit or watch or… something. But nothing came.
Then Brick looked up.
“You’re in my space.”
Boomer stepped aside immediately.
“Sorry.”
Brick didn’t respond. Butch didn’t either.
Boomer drifted back out of the room.
He didn’t even know why he’d said yes.
He was tired. His head was sore. He’d spent the whole day trying to be good, and still ended up floating around like a helper nobody asked for.
But “yes” was easier.
“Yes” meant no one got mad.
“Yes” meant he wouldn’t be yelled at or ignored or blamed.
So he said it. Even when he didn’t want to. Even when it made him feel small.
At night the boys’ room was dim again. Butch was already asleep, half-off his mattress, limbs tangled in the sheets. He snored lightly, his mouth half-open, one arm dangling over the side like he had collapsed mid-battle.
Brick lay rigidly in his own bed, blanket pulled up to his chest, staring at the ceiling. His eyes blinked slowly, unblinking and far away.
Boomer lay curled on his side on the edge of his own mattress, facing the wall. Sharky was tucked beneath his chin. He didn’t feel tired. Just… empty.
He hadn’t said much all day.
Hadn’t asked for anything.
Hadn’t cried.
Hadn’t made a scene.
He’d just tried. Tried to be helpful. Tried to be good.
And still, no one really looked at him.
No one said, “Hey, do you want to pick the game?”
No one said, “I missed you this morning.”
No one said, “Thanks for fixing this.”
They didn’t mean to forget him.
He knew that.
But they did anyway.
And still, he said yes.
Because saying no felt dangerous.
Because saying no meant they might actually stop talking to him altogether.
Maybe being quiet keeps me safe, he thought.
Maybe being helpful makes them like me.
Maybe if I do enough, they’ll see me.
His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. Crying was loud. Crying was bad. He pressed his face into Sharky’s head and breathed slowly until the sting faded.
The room was still except for Butch’s snoring and the occasional soft hum from the hallway vents.
That’s when the maid came in.
She didn’t speak—just walked over to his nightstand, set down a familiar glass of warm milk, and left again without a word. The door clicked gently shut behind her.
Boomer sat up slowly. Reached for the glass. It smelled sweet and familiar.
He stared at it for a long moment.
He knew what it did.
He knew why they gave it to them.
But he drank it anyway.
Because he can’t sleep well anyway.
He’d have nightmares like he did at Mojo’s.
He settled back under the covers, holding Sharky close with one arm and the empty glass resting beside him.
As his eyes grew heavy, his last thoughts floated like whispers:
I don’t want to disappear.
But if I do everything right…
Maybe someone will remember I was here.