Roland Layton POV
Hershel is a really introverted and rigid boy, almost like an automaton. With high probability our presence shares him but, after all, having being adopted for mere two weeks and without the brother, it's more than normal being confused and scared of strangers such are we, despite our care and kindness. That would be interesting to fathom what's going on in that child's brain.
He's young, not stupid, especially a child as brilliant as him. And yet he hasn't asked anything about his parents and his brother.
Rather, he doesn't talk at all: only few times where luckly enough to hear his voice, usually as an answer for a puzzle, impulsively. And in those same rate occasions, realizing the fact, the gathers the hands on the lips, stopping the words' flow, his thoughts again unreachable. «He's just homesick.» Lucille said.
Despite his silence, apparently he's upset even, or especially, after twilight: from sunset, he starts stiffing even more, his muscles oxidated, almost as if for hiding his breaths and life's sigh: it's not rare in fact finishing him at 2 am buried in covers or even under the same bed, almost as if for hiding himself from something or someone. The other day night he's closed himself in the wardrobe. He didn't want to get out. «Maybe he's homesick.» Lucille had said.
And tonight won't be apparently that different from the other ones, ruled by the uncomfortable child's silence, his eyes staring on the plate, as if they're travelling over the porcelain, his foot hanged. It's like he's reading something in the sour just served, like when one reads fate with the coffee's waste. His glance is not a good omen, but experience taught me I must not interfere: yesterday he's misunderstood my hug as an evil grip, bolting yelling in his room in tears.
Lucille looks worried, the anxious child upsets her. I reassure her with a hand on the shoulder, reminding her that tomorrow we are visiting the paediatrician. I don't bother to hide the conversation, knowing that Hershel is feel in his vision, away.
We sit on the table. He eats unwillingly the soup, the spoons dragged on the bottom our only company. It's pointless to try to start a conversation with him, he talk even less with us. In the end with being him to the bed, he grips the covers as if they're the closest thing to him, a shield against monsters. We kiss the brow and let him sleep, the candle on the nightstand still lit.
We reach our room, my treasure harmed by worry. I've never seen her so tormented since that time she'd worked with me in that murder, where I must admit that the body was indeed upsetting. Here though there is not homicide, and yet her eyes can't find peace. «But is it really just homesickness?»
«I don't know.» I hug her, the grip strong but reassuring. She hugs on it like ivy and I oblige.
Only now I can feel the heavy weight on my shoulders, what the light of the day and the ephemeral worries had hidden for my wellbeing. Even eyelids are even more onerous, but hers are more tired. «Tonight I will calm him, ok?»
She bows the head, laying on the bed, exhausted. Her hair, somewhere brown and white, because of the light and the age, frames the fresh, comforting and comfortable pillow. «Yes, thank you. You know, it's been days that he can't stop crying in the night. He's inconsolable and he feels lonely. Maybe we should've taken both...»
I sigh, freeing my sense of guilt and resignation. «We've already talked about it, darling, and you know we couldn't and we can't afford it, and besides you've sea Theo is ok. In case in the future we will make them meet. We could contact the Phibbs. How does it sound?»
Her tired smile is enough to me. «Goodnight, darling.»
After some minutes I fall asleep as with her, her shapes lit by the moon impressed on my eyelids.
The image fades. It's replaced with another one, familiar. I find myself in an abandoned house, one of its rooms charred. Oh right, the case of the arson from the kitchen that killed two spouses and their daughter's whereabouts were unknown, now I remember. my silent steps revealed the source of those sobs: the basement. I fastly reach the corner in which she was hidden and reassure her. The little girl is no more frightened, but I still can hear these whimpers.
I wake from the memory. The cry is still there. Instinctively I throw myself toward Hershel's bedroom. There is no sign of him, the bed lacks of the cover. The slow steps reach the ground floor, the complaints more audible and loud. He's in the basement.
As I peer from the door, though, silence swallows all. In the quiet the little frightened heart is almost audible, breaths avoided, tremors barely imperceptible. But they are there, I know it. It's not the first time I witness them, coming by children from troubled families, from questionable, horrible and improbable situations.
Traumatized.
Hershel is one of them? God, how can it be? How can a child in this world becoming son of the violence? What have they done?
I'm in front of the doors of the wardrobe, on the corner green fabric, the edge of the sheet suffocated when the frightened creature tores it, searching for relief. Sometimes it rocks with the wind, other times it trembles for the cold or the comfort it gives.
«Hershel—I whisper—you can go out. No one will hurt you.»
Now the fabric is pulled, abducted by the inside.
The environment is more dark, pure, still.
I peer from the narrow opening between the doors, the extraterrestral the natural lamp. A pair of wide open eyes reveals to me, the eyelids drawn, the pupils dilated, ready to focus the predator; it doesn't let the guard down, trying to stay immobile, pretending to be a statue, a picture, an imagination. Yes, those eyes are not new to me. Sadly. Those are the same of that little girl's, of that memory. How many have I seen them in my life, spending my working days passing among the troubled and not trusty districts, far from being lively, despite being crowded? And those young victims'?
But I would've never said that those eyes would've appeared inside my house.
Hershel is apparently immobile from the start. I caress the wood, he startles, almost waking up. «No one will hurt you.—I assure him, his glance crosses mine, both beneath moon rays—We will protect you.» I can't help but smile, a spontaneous tear washes the cheek. How much has he endured?
If earlier his lips were gathered in a line, now the may untie, still mute.
I'm not afraid to wait, and surely neither Lucille. «Do you want an hug?»
The humidity on the eyes is enough as an answer, but shyly he shakes his head, nodding. Then the doors are opened in an instant, trying to grip as much he could of my robust chest. I return the hug gradually, almost frightened to destroy him under my pression. I rib his back, cares his hair, the tears unstoppable, the tremor a quake, sobs an eruption.
Time stops for several minutes. The hug unties, some tears still trapped in the eyes but easily removable. In the mourn quiet I accompany him in the bedroom. The child reaches the bed, exhausted. In a matter of few seconds I tidy the cover, now free to fly in the wind. Hershel jumps in the soft and fresh mattress, extending himself finding the most comfortable position, and then freezes, as if just recognizing my presence.
«I-I am s-orry for before, mister Layton.»
«No need of apologies.— the voice calm, like the one of a storyteller—You want me to read a bedtime story?»
«No.»
I draw the empty hand from the shelves with books with coloured covers. «You must be tired.»
He lets go by a little yawn, the rest is chewed
It's incredible how a child can be so mysterious. Then sweet dreams.» The goodnight kiss seems reassuring to him. I reach the door, ready to round the corner.
«Wait...»
I turn toward the weak voice.
He seems sleeping, but the eyelids are not completely down. «I must tell you something...»
«Sure, tell me.» I don't know why my hands start to sweat, I just know it's not a good omen.
«You taked the wrong child.»