Chapter 1; The Weight They Carried
930 Words
The gods had ignored the Kyrkos family for years—
until he came along.
Before that, their world had already fallen apart.
Two years ago, everything changed in a way none of them could undo. Their mother died quietly, like a candle burning out long before its time. No storm. No warning. No miracle to save her. Just a slow fading—until one day, she was simply… gone.
The house never sounded the same after that.
Her laughter had once filled every corner, soft and warm, like sunlight slipping through open windows. After she died, silence replaced it. Not peaceful silence—but something heavier. Something that pressed against their ribs and lingered in every room.
And then their father left.
Not with a fight loud enough for neighbors to notice. Not with dramatic goodbyes. Just one morning—gone. No note. No explanation. No promise to return.
Five children, abandoned in a house that suddenly felt far too big.
The silence he left behind was different.
Sharper.
Colder.
Final.
Since then, Damien and Cora had been forced into roles no one their age should ever have to carry.
Damien, the oldest, became something like a pillar—though even pillars c***k under enough pressure. He wore responsibility like armor, stacking it piece by piece over grief he refused to face.
Bills. Work. Food. Survival.
Everything was calculated. Measured. Controlled.
Sleep became optional.
Emotion became a liability.
He moved through life like someone constantly bracing for impact.
And maybe he was.
Cora adapted differently.
Where Damien hardened, she sharpened.
She learned how to stretch money further than it should go. Learned which markets had better prices, which vendors might lower them if asked the right way. Learned how to make meals that looked like more than they were.
She carried quiet strength—not loud, not obvious—but constant.
Reliable.
Necessary.
Iris became the balance.
She kept things together in ways no one noticed at first. Cleaning. Organizing. Making the house feel… livable.
Like it hadn’t already begun to fall apart.
She didn’t speak much about how she felt.
But sometimes, late at night, she would sit by the window longer than necessary—watching something distant, something unreachable.
Keraubs remembered everything.
That was his burden.
Every detail of their mother’s last days—the way her voice weakened, the way her hands trembled when she thought no one noticed. The lullabies she sang softer and softer, like she was already slipping away.
And their father—
He remembered the argument.
The sharp words. The silence that followed. The door slamming shut.
The echo.
Gods, the echo.
It had stayed in the walls for days.
Those memories didn’t fade.
They sharpened.
They followed him like shadows that refused to loosen their grip.
But he never spoke about them.
Because he knew Damien would try to carry that too.
And Damien was already breaking.
Isaac was different.
Too young to remember.
Too young to understand.
He lived in a world untouched by what the others carried—full of curiosity, small joys, and questions no one always had the energy to answer.
He laughed easily.
Trusted easily.
And somehow, that made everything both better—
and worse.
Despite everything, the Kyrkos family adapted.
Not gracefully.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
They built something fragile.
A system that worked—barely.
Damien handled the bills.
Cora managed food.
Iris maintained the house.
Keraubs filled the gaps.
Isaac… simply lived.
For now.
“Damien, what do we need this week for groceries?”
Cora’s voice cut through the quiet as she stepped into the living room, already holding a pen and scrap paper.
Damien didn’t look up right away. His focus stayed on the paper in front of him—covered in numbers, crossed-out totals, recalculations stacked on top of each other.
Every coin had a purpose.
Every mistake had consequences.
“I’m making a list,” he said finally. “Bread. Maybe whole grain if it’s cheaper. Milk—or something that lasts longer. Eggs. Fruits… vegetables… oil. Canned goods.”
Cora nodded, writing quickly.
“How much can we spend?”
Damien hesitated.
Just for a second.
“I’ve got about seven hundred fifty-four drachmas,” he said. “I can give you fifty. Maybe a hundred.”
He leaned back slightly, rubbing his temple.
“But I’ve got work soon. Take Keraubs with you.”
“Alright,” she said. A faint smile flickered. “As long as he doesn’t start arguing with vendors again.”
“It wasn’t arguing,” Keraubs called from the hallway. “It was negotiating.”
“It was arguing,” Cora replied flatly.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“…Sometimes.”
Damien stood, grabbing his jacket.
“What about Isaac?” Cora asked.
“With Iris,” he said. “Backyard.”
“And bills?”
“We’re fine.”
The answer came too quickly.
Cora noticed.
But she didn’t push.
Instead, she took the coins he handed her—carefully, like they mattered more than just money.
“We’ll make it work.”
“You always do.”
Outside, Isaac’s laughter drifted through the open window.
Bright.
Unburdened.
Unaware.
It clashed with the heaviness inside the house in a way that almost didn’t feel real.
Like two different worlds trying to exist in the same space.
Damien paused at the door.
Just for a second.
Something felt… off.
Not wrong.
Not yet.
But different.
He stepped outside anyway.
There wasn’t time to think about things he couldn’t explain.
There never was.
- Writer
