QUIET PAINS
1288 Words
Seraphim's POV
Elsa hums when she’s happy.
It’s the only warning sign I get.
I glance over my shoulder as I flip the last pancake. She’s sitting at the small kitchen table, legs swinging, chin resting in her palm with a dreamy expression that tells me I’m about to hear something dramatic.
“So,” I say carefully. “Tell me about this new friend.”
Her eyes light up immediately. “Tristan.”
Of course.
I slide a pancake onto her plate. “Tristan,” I repeat. “And how exactly did you make friends with Tristan?”
“He was alone.”
The answer is simple. Too simple.
I turn off the stove. “Alone how?”
“He doesn’t talk much. But he listens. And he’s really smart. Like… really smart. And he’s handsome.”
I choke slightly on air. “Handsome?”
Elsa shrugs with the confidence of someone who believes she’s making a very mature observation. “Yes. Like in those old movies you watch.”
I stare at her.
“You are six.”
She smiles sweetly. “And observant.”
I shake my head, fighting the smile that threatens to break through. I move to the fridge, open it, and stare at the contents.
Eggs. Milk. Half a tomato. Butter.
Not enough for lunch.
I close the fridge slowly.
“Elsa.”
“Yes?”
“You’ll come to the clinic after school today.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Why?”
“I don’t have enough ingredients to prepare lunch for you. We’ll stop at the store together.”
She nods easily. “Can Tristan come too?”
I pause.
“I suppose that depends on him.”
Her grin tells me she’s already decided for both of them.
The clinic is quiet by mid-morning.
The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts wander too far.
I’m reorganizing files when the door opens.
The man who steps inside doesn’t belong here.
It’s in the way he walks.
Measured. Controlled. Not rushed. Not uncertain.
He closes the door behind him with deliberate care.
“Good morning,” he says.
His voice is calm. Neutral. Professional.
“Yes?”
“My name is Matthias Laurent. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Voss, Tristan's father, regarding his son’s medical documentation.”
Ah.
So that’s who Tristan’s father sends.
I study him briefly.
Tailored suit. Perfect posture. Eyes that miss nothing.
“I was informed there is a clinical pass that requires signature.”
“Yes,” I say. “There is.”
He waits.
I don’t move to retrieve it.
“Due to school policy,” I continue evenly, “the direct guardian must sign in person.”
His expression does not change. But something sharpens behind his eyes.
“I’ve been authorized to handle all documentation.”
“I’m sure you have,” I reply. “But for medical clearance and liability reasons, I require the parent or legal guardian present.”
A pause.
His gaze shifts slightly, taking in the clinic.
The arrangement of files. The emergency kit by the cabinet. The window placement. The second exit.
He’s assessing.
I notice.
“You may take the form,” I add calmly. “But it will not be processed until Mr. Voss signs it here.”
His eyes return to mine.
“Is there a specific concern?”
“Security,” I answer simply. “Children deserve that much.”
Another pause.
“I see.”
“If there is an issue,” I continue politely, “you may discuss it with the school administration.”
For the first time, a flicker of something passes across his face. Not irritation.
Recognition.
He inclines his head slightly. “Understood.”
He turns and leaves without further argument.
The clinic feels smaller after he exits.
Controlled men always make spaces feel smaller.
By afternoon, I’m finishing a report when the door bursts open.
“Mama!”
Elsa.
Behind her, walking at a much more dignified pace, is Tristan.
I suppress a smile. “I thought I said after school, not during.”
“It is after school,” Elsa insists dramatically. “We came immediately.”
She drags Tristan forward by the wrist.
He doesn’t resist.
He also doesn’t smile.
“Hello, Tristan,” I say gently.
“Good afternoon.”
Polite. Composed. Guarded.
Elsa releases him and hops onto the examination bed like it belongs to her.
“We told each other secrets today,” she announces.
“Oh?” I fold my arms lightly. “And what secrets would those be?”
“That he likes math.”
Tristan sighs softly. “Everyone likes something.”
“Not everyone likes math,” Elsa argues.
I step closer, kneeling slightly so I’m at eye level with him.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
He answers efficiently. No extra words.
I reach out carefully, adjusting the edge of his short where the bandage would sit beneath. I don’t press.
Just checking.
“You’re healing well,” I say softly.
Elsa tilts her head. “Mama burns food sometimes.”
I nearly choked on air again.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s true,” she continues cheerfully. “Last week she burned rice.”
“That was one time,” I protest.
She turns to Tristan. “Does your mom burn food too?”
The room shifts.
It’s subtle. But I feel it.
Tristan’s shoulders go still.
“I don’t have a mom,” he says.
Elsa frowns. “You don’t?”
“She died.”
The words are blunt. Clean. Without decoration.
I swallow carefully.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He shrugs.
“It happened.”
There is no tremor in his voice.
No visible c***k.
But something in the way he avoids my eyes tells me the subject is not simple.
Elsa slides off the bed slowly. “Oh.”
Silence settles.
I kneel a little closer.
“Do you remember her?” I ask gently.
He nods once.
“That’s good,” I say.
He looks at me then. Directly.
“I don’t need to remember much,” he adds calmly. “Dad remembers enough.”
There it is.
The kind of child he is.
Loyal.
Guarded.
Protective of the only parent he has left.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
I know what it feels like to lose something foundational.
To grow up too aware.
To learn how to stand still in the middle of absence.
For a brief second, I see a younger version of myself sitting in a room full of adults speaking in hushed tones after my parents’ funeral.
I blink the memory away.
This is not about me.
I reach out and lightly smooth down the edge of his uniform collar.
“You’re very strong,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t smile.
But he doesn’t pull away either.
Elsa claps her hands suddenly. “We’re going to the store with Mama!”,and I knew that was her own little way of lightening the atmosphere.
Tristan looks at me for confirmation.
“If it’s alright with your father,” I say carefully.
He nods. “I’ll ask my guards.”
Always measured.
Always responsible.
As the two of them begin arguing about whether cereal counts as dinner, I watch Tristan carefully.
He laughs once.
It’s small.
Brief.
But real.
And I understand something then.
Some children are loud in their grief.
Others fold it neatly, tuck it away, and learn how to function around the empty space.
Tristan is the second kind.
And those are the ones you have to be gentle with.
Very gentle.
- Writer
