Grey. The world passed her by in shades of deep, dreary grey. Emptiness filled the room, suffocating her. Not even the usually vibrant voice of her economics teacher could stir any expression on her face. Her gaze remained fixed on the page before her, though her mind had long since wandered. The incessant scratching of pens on paper echoed throughout the classroom, a rhythmic drone that seemed to mirror the monotonous fog in her head. Every head was bowed in concentration; Linear Algebra was no easy subject. Taking notes and practising was the focus for everyone today. Everyone, except Estelle.

  The pencil in her right hand felt cold, lifeless, as though it had no purpose. There was little difference between the sheet of paper before her and the emptiness in her heart. Both were blank, devoid of meaning. Her eyes drifted to the side, and she stared out of the window, lost in the grey world beyond.

  Oh, you’ll get there if you just keep practising!

  Wah, why don’t you believe me?

  How are you supposed to manage in this weather?

  It was always harder to practise firebending on grey days. At least, that’s what Propin used to say.

  The school bell rang, and the sound of pens scratching paper ceased, replaced by the deafening screech of chairs scraping against the floor. Everyone, from the teacher to the students, moved with automatic haste, packing up their things and leaving the room. Estelle stood still, rooted to the spot in front of her desk. Silence. She slowly packed away her notepad and tugged the zip of her rucksack shut, lingering for a moment as her gaze fell once more down. This time, her phone stayed buried at the bottom of her bag when she boarded the bus.

  The chatter of students, the grumbling of older commuters about the noise, faded into the background as if she were hearing it from a distance. Her ocean-blue eyes drifted out of the window, watching as the bus stops passed by, one after another. She glanced to the side and caught sight of her reflection in the small screen of the security camera. Her eyes met her own for a moment, but without thinking, she quickly looked down at the floor.

  Estelle ascended the stairs to her flat slowly, the weight of each step pressing heavier on her chest. She pulled out her key, staring at it in silence for a moment, before closing her eyes and, with a deep sigh, turning the lock. The sound of her mother and stepfather’s loud laughter echoed from the living room, the two of them absorbed in funny videos on their phones. Estelle swallowed hard, her throat tightening, and slipped quietly into her room.

  She sank onto the bed, the world around her blurring into the background. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling, her lips pressed tight in a thin line.

  “Don’t exaggerate your situation. Isn’t that normal in your line of work?” Greg’s words cut through the air, sharp and venomous, his face twisted in a scowl. That was one of the softer things he’d said about Propin’s death. As always, he tried to undermine her grief. Her mother’s icy grey eyes met hers, and a shiver crawled down Estelle’s spine. “Nothing’s changed. The only thing you’re good at is crying and turning everything into a bloody drama”.

  Her family never knew how to handle her tears. Estelle kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, inhaling deeply. In a moment of frustration, she had eaten her stepfather's chocolate ice cream. The sweetness did nothing to ease the ache inside, but at least it offered a fleeting numbness. Greg’s face had turned a bright shade of red, his anger palpable as if steam might begin rising from his nostrils at any moment. Anka shot her a look of disdain, and in the end, Estelle had been forced to buy him two new ice cream sundaes with her own money, just to avoid the scene turning ugly.

  She closed her eyes, hugging her favourite blanket tightly, pulling it close as if it could offer some comfort. She pressed her lips together, fighting to hold back the flood of emotions. They say such events can numb you, make you detached. But for Estelle, it felt as though someone was continuously driving a dagger into her heart. A heavy, suffocating pressure spread through her chest. She had grown used to a certain pain, but the weight of this loss was unlike anything she had ever known.

  In the shower, Estelle let the warm water cascade over her, hoping it might somehow wash away the heaviness that clung to her. The corners of her mouth quivered, a faint tremor of grief. Here, in the solitude of the steam, no one could tell her to stop crying.

  "What do you mean there won't be a funeral?" she asked, her voice trembling with disbelief. Her face twisted in horror as she looked at Simon. He exhaled deeply, his green eyes lingering on her for what felt like an eternity, as though he were searching for the right words. It was unlike him—Simon, who always had a quick answer for everything. "Propin's parents are refusing to bury him. They say they can't afford it" he said, his voice heavy.

  "THAT'S A LIE!" Estelle erupted, her voice sharp and filled with raw fury. "Not only do they both have very good jobs, but they've always taken the money from his missions!"

  "Estelle..." Simon's voice softened, but she couldn't stop.

  "They always made him believe they loved him, with their fake smiles!" she shouted, her fists trembling at her sides.

  "Estelle..."

  "He... He thought they were his real parents, even though they were human and he wasn’t... He...!!"

  "Estelle”. Simon repeated her name, his voice gentle yet firm. When she looked up, she saw it in his eyes—the silent understanding. She knew what he was trying to tell her. She was right in everything she had said, but that didn't change a thing. Nothing would change. No one cared enough for things to be different. It was just as Greg had put it. It was normal in her line of work. No one at the EFJ would shed a tear for something like this. It was simply the risk of the job. He wasn't the first Monto to die, and he wouldn't be the last.

  Simon extended a small object to her, the weight of it heavy with unspoken meaning. "The leather strap... from Propin's soul stone"

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Estelle's eyes widened as she reached out with trembling hands, taking it carefully. The leather was cold, but it felt like a burning ember against her skin. Hot tears began to fall, soaking her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to stop the flood of emotions that threatened to consume her. Was this fate?

  Was this all that would remain of them? A leather strap, once the tether for their souls? What was the point of life? What did it truly mean to live, if all that endured was a mere strip of leather? Was this how it would all end? Their lives reduced to nothing more than that, and one day, her end would be the same. But there would be no one left to take her leather strap.

  She gripped it tightly, as though it were Propin himself, as though his very essence still lived within it.

  Estelle opened her eyes, her gaze locking onto the bathroom mirror. Her chest tightened, a weight pressing down, and she exhaled deeply, the sigh escaping her like the last shred of hope.

  "There are no gods" she whispered into the quiet of the room. How could they exist, when such suffering was allowed to continue? If they were real, surely there would be no such pain. And if they did exist, they didn’t deserve the faith of the world. How could the gods permit this? How could the stars allow such cruelty?

  She dressed in silence and made her way to the kitchen. Her younger brother, Finnegan, sat at the table, a grin stretched across his face as he gazed into his mobile phone. Her mother had just bought him the latest model, and since then, it was an even greater battle to pull him away from the small screen. The sound of his laughter filled the space, mingling with the hiss of the kettle as it boiled in the background.

  There were no greetings, no "Good morning" or "Hello”, exchanges between the two siblings were rare, almost non-existent.

  "The latest XGI model! Thanks, Mum! And what did you get?" Finnegan beamed, his smile wide and triumphant. Anka had a habit of surprising him with gifts now and then. Estelle watched him in silence, her gaze drifting, her eyes heavy with an unspoken sadness. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d received something like that, something given with no strings attached, without explanation. Especially not from her mother, with whom she barely spoke on a normal day. Finnegan already knew the answer, of course. He only asked to hear it from her mouth. It had always been like this between them, a dance of unspoken understanding.

  "Nothing" she muttered, barely above a whisper.

  His smile widened, that smug, knowing grin of his. He only wore that expression when he was mocking her, when he was calling her out, or during moments like this. Their mother’s face twisted, her icy gaze landing on Estelle. Estelle dropped her eyes to the floor, the weight of her mother’s stare heavy on her soul. Perhaps it would have been better not to say anything at all.

  That was how she had always survived in this house. Even when the silence felt heavier than usual, it was her only refuge. Even if it meant swallowing everything. She picked up a piece of toast, tossed it into the toaster, and reached for the chocolate spread. Taking a plate from the top shelf, she moved with deliberate care, trying to avoid the scalding steam rising from the kettle. The toast popped up, and Estelle slowly spread the chocolate spread across the golden surface.

  It was then that Finnegan seemed to finally realise she was there. He looked up at her with a frown.

  "Hey! That's my chocolate spread!" he shouted, his voice sharp. But Estelle didn’t respond.

  He called out again, louder this time, but she simply ignored him. With a sudden burst of frustration, Finnegan lunged at her, shoving her aside. Estelle straightened up, her cheeks burning. "Leave me alone!" she snapped.

  "THAT'S MY SPREAD! YOU CAN'T JUST USE IT LIKE THAT!" Finnegan screamed, his anger filling the room.

  It didn’t stop. Finnegan kept lunging at her, trying over and over to shove her aside and wrest the jar from her hand. But Estelle stood her ground. “I said, leave me alone!” she repeated, her voice trembling with anger and desperation.

  But he wouldn’t stop. His frustration bubbled over, his voice rising to a shrill shout. “MUM! MUM! IT’S TAKING MY CHOCOLATE!”

  He shrieked louder, and in the chaos, Estelle shoved him back. His screams echoed through the flat, sharp and grating, the kind of noise that always summoned immediate attention. Within moments, Greg and Anka stormed into the kitchen, their faces etched with urgency. For them, Finnegan’s screams were always a crisis worth dropping everything for. Anka’s ice-grey eyes narrowed, taking in the scene. Her piercing gaze landed on Estelle, cutting through her like a blade. She didn’t need to ask what had happened, she already knew.

  “Estelle, let go of the chocolate spread. It’s not yours”

  Anka’s tone was as cold and commanding as ever, the kind that usually sent shivers down Estelle’s spine and had her falling into line. But not today.

  “No” Estelle said firmly, her voice low but unwavering.

  Anka froze for a moment, clearly taken aback. It was rare for Estelle to defy her.

  But Greg didn’t hesitate. He’d seen and heard enough.

  Greg seized her wrist in a vice-like grip, forcing her to loosen her hold on the jar. “Let go of me!” Estelle cried, her voice breaking. His grip only tightened, and a sharp, searing pain shot through her arm. “Give it back!” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.

  But she shook her head stubbornly, tears threatening to spill. “Let me go!” she kept repeating, each plea growing louder. Her chest began to heave, her breath coming in shallow, panicked bursts. She didn’t know why, but something inside her was unraveling. The tightness in her chest swelled, spreading like wildfire. The kettle shrieked violently, steam and boiling water spurting into the air. With a deafening clang, the taps flew open, sending water gushing in all directions.

  “I SAID LET ME GO!” Estelle screamed, her voice a raw explosion of fury and pain.

  Greg staggered backwards, his eyes wide with shock, the others retreating instinctively. Finnegan’s cries turned into dramatic sobs, his fear palpable. Yet no one came to comfort her, no one offered a hand. Her stepfather and brother abandoned the kitchen without another word, leaving her standing in the chaos.

  Estelle’s ocean-blue eyes met her mother’s cold, unflinching gaze. For a fleeting moment, she searched for something—an explanation, a shred of understanding—but found none.

  “You’re sick” Anka spat, her tone sharp and cutting as a blade. Then, with an expression of disdain, she turned and left. Water splashed across the tiled floor, soaking her retreating footsteps. The taps continued to gush, the sound filling the silence like a relentless storm. Estelle stood frozen, staring at her reflection in the rippling puddles. Her trembling hands caught her gaze.

  She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, willing the storm inside her to calm. When she opened them again, she looked down at her hands again.

  Never again.