THE BOY WHO LOOKED AWAY.
721 Words
The Diary of Silence
Chapter Six — The Boy Who Looked Away
Morning in the new house arrived quietly.
Too quietly.
Amara woke before the sun fully rose, unsure for a moment where she was. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. The walls were too bare. The air carried a faint smell of polish and dust.
Then she remembered.
Her parents.
The funeral.
The car ride.
Her uncle's house.
The memory settled over her chest like a heavy blanket.
She sat up slowly and hugged her knees.
The room felt bigger than it should have.
Lonelier.
Breakfast
When she came downstairs, the house was already awake.
Plates clinked softly in the kitchen.
Her uncle sat at the table reading a newspaper, his thick fingers gripping the edges like the paper had personally offended him.
He didn't look up when she entered.
A woman Amara guessed was the housekeeper placed a plate in front of her.
Bread.
Eggs.
Tea.
“Eat,” her uncle muttered without lifting his eyes.
She nodded and sat quietly.
A chair scraped across the floor.
Her cousin entered.
He looked older up close. Tall and thin, with restless eyes that seemed to avoid everything around them.
Especially her.
He glanced at her once.
Just once.
Then looked away quickly.
Almost like he wasn't supposed to see her.
He sat across the table and began eating.
No one spoke.
The silence felt thick enough to chew.
The First Words
Halfway through breakfast, the boy finally spoke.
“What class is she in?”
His voice was quiet, careful.
Her uncle lowered the newspaper slightly.
“SSS 1,” he replied.
The boy nodded slowly.
Then, after a pause, he looked at Amara again.
“Do you like school?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
That was all she said.
He nodded again, but something in his face shifted — something like guilt or discomfort.
Before she could figure it out, her uncle slammed the newspaper down.
“Enough questions.”
The boy immediately fell silent.
Amara noticed something then.
The way the boy's shoulders stiffened.
The way his eyes dropped instantly to his plate.
It wasn't respect.
It looked more like fear.
The Hallway
Later that afternoon, Amara wandered down the long hallway upstairs.
The house felt like a maze of quiet rooms and closed doors.
She held her drawing of the mango tree in one hand.
She hadn't decided where to keep it yet.
Her footsteps were soft on the polished floor.
Then she heard a voice behind her.
“Hey.”
She turned quickly.
Her cousin stood a few feet away.
Up close, he didn't look as confident as boys his age usually did. His eyes kept shifting toward the staircase like he expected someone to appear.
“You shouldn't walk around too much,” he said quietly.
“Why?” she asked.
He hesitated.
His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.
Finally he shrugged.
“Just… don't.”
Amara frowned.
“But this is my house too now.”
For a moment, something flashed across his face.
Sadness.
Deep and sudden.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“I guess it is.”
The Small Gift
Before walking away, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small.
A wrapped candy.
He placed it gently in her hand.
“For later,” he said.
She blinked in surprise.
“Thank you.”
He nodded once.
Then he left quickly, disappearing down the stairs.
Amara stood in the hallway holding the candy.
It felt like a secret.
A quiet act of kindness in a house that didn't seem to have much of it.
That Night
That night she lay in bed again, staring at the ceiling.
But something was different.
Her uncle’s voice echoed faintly from downstairs.
Angry.
Sharp.
Her cousin didn't respond.
Not once.
The shouting eventually stopped.
Footsteps moved heavily across the floor.
Then silence returned.
Amara pulled the blanket up to her chin.
The house no longer felt just unfamiliar.
It felt like a place where people held their breath a lot.
A place where words were swallowed before they could escape.
A place where even kindness came quietly… in the form of a single piece of candy.
She closed her eyes slowly.
And somewhere down the hallway, a door creaked shut.
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