The apartment smelled faintly of soap and reheated protein packs, a strange mixture that Robby had grown used to over the years. The floors gleamed faintly under the warm ceiling lights, polished so often that the faux wood grain had begun to fade in the places where his mother walked the most. The counters in the kitchen, once bright white, were now a soft cream, the edges rounded and smooth from decades of scrubbing. Every surface in the apartment bore a story of constant care, though some scratches, small dents, and faint burn marks whispered the apartment’s age.

  Robby’s mother, Lily, was standing at the stove, apron tied neatly over her faded but clean dress. The dress was a light blue with white edges, though some of the edges had trimmed and patched frayed edges. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing forearms that still bore faint scars from long-ago kitchen mishaps, or perhaps from her earlier work in the engineering office.

  She stirred the pot carefully with a hand carved wooden spoon, tilting it so that the thick, simmering meal glowed a deep amber. Every movement was precise, practiced, but there was a softness to it as well, a tenderness Robby had always felt when she cooked for him. The slight sent of apple filled the air as well, it meant for a good day when she added some of the apple to the oatmeal. Robby smiled in anticipation.

  His father, Robert, had peeled off his light gray jacket and hung it over a chair. His shirt, a fade pale blue with faint pinstripes, had trimmed frayed cuffs, worn down from long hours at his desk and frequent washes. Even so, he had ironed it carefully this morning, the collar straight, the wooden buttons shining faintly in the warm light. His pants, dark and neatly pressed, were scuffed slightly at the knees, evidence of long commutes on auto lifts and walks across uneven streets.

  Robby leaned over the kitchen table, staring at the neat stack of homework sheets before him. He had avoided them all afternoon yesterday, letting his mind wander to spaceships, distant planets, and engines that could outrun even the most persistent adults. His pencil hovered above the page, unsure whether to mark numbers or continue drawing tiny ships in the margins. Dad eyed him as if reading his mind so he started doing his multiplication.

  His father picked up the day’s mail from the counter and began sorting through the envelopes with slow, deliberate movements. One envelope stood out. Its paper was slightly thicker than the rest, and the official seal glinted faintly in the kitchen light. His father held it carefully, almost reverently, as if the paper itself carried a weight too heavy to lift without caution.

  “Lily,” he said softly, not looking at her but letting the name hang in the warm air of the apartment.

  “Yes?” she replied, turning her head from the stove. Her apron was dusted with flour from earlier preparations, a fine powder clinging to the fibers. She stood for a moment, hand resting lightly on the counter, and waited for him to continue.

  Robby leaned closer, curiosity pushing him forward. “Can I read it for you?” His small fingers reached for the envelope. “I’ve been practicing my reading!”

  His mother shook her head slightly. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, angel,” she said, though her voice trembled. She crossed the kitchen, settling on a stool beside him. “Mommy and Daddy have to deal with this.”

  Robert opened the letter and started to read it, Robby noticed his face changed but he wasn’t sure how. “Yeah, it’s the letter we’ve been fearing. Damn”

  Lily, “Language Robert.”

  Robby scrunched his face, “What’s wrong?”

  Dads faced kept it’s almost stone look, like he could stare down a rock and break it. “It’s just the way the world is now, nothing we can do about it for us.”

  Mom rest her hand gently on dads arm instantly softening the granite look on his face, “We pla... It’s ok. It’s nothing for you to worry about Robby.”

  Robby frowned. “I don’t get it.” He had learned that when adults said “it is nothing,” it usually meant it was something very big and very serious.

  His father finally spoke. “The world wants bigger families,” he said quietly. “More children might have kept us exempt from the draft.”

  Robby’s forehead wrinkled. “More children? What’s a draft?”

  “Draft will be of no concern to you. Hopefully not ever, some people say the war will be over soon. As far as the children, I had trouble,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You know that, remember? You asked if you could have a brother… and well, we tried. But it’s not always easy. It is not your fault, angel.” She reached across the table, smoothing the back of his hand with hers. Her touch was warm, gentle, yet it carried the weight of worry she could not hide.

  The envelope shifted slightly in his father’s hands, and Robby noticed the tremor in his grip. His father’s lips pressed together, eyes narrowing. Robby had never seen him cry. Never. And now the faint sheen of moisture glimmered at the corners of his eyes, a slow, quiet surrender that left Robby’s stomach tight.

  “Will… will you be okay?” Robby asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  His father nodded, forcing a small smile, though his throat worked nervously. “We will do our best. That is all we can promise.”

  His mother’s voice was soft, careful, like she was speaking to something fragile. “And… if something happens to us, some of the debt we carry might be reduced. Not much. Enough that it might not hurt you as much later.”

  Robby did not understand completely. Debt had always been numbers on a small chip in his hand. Trillions, growing with each meal, each purchase, each breath. It was abstract, meaningless, until now. Now it was tethered to people he loved, to something he could not fix, to the fragile edges of the world he counted on.

  He pushed the envelope slightly across the table. “Do I… do I have to go too?”

  “No, angel. You are staying here,” his mother said. “You will be cared for. That is your job. To learn, to grow, to be yourself.”

  Robby looked around the kitchen. The cupboards were spotless, the counters gleaming faintly under the ceiling light. The silverware had been polished countless times, the finish worn in places from hands that loved and cared for them. Even the refrigerator bore faint fingerprints and small scratches, even with years of careful care. Everything here was clean, neat, functional. Yet for the first time, it felt smaller, tighter, as if the walls themselves pressed in.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Robby turned back to his homework. Numbers stared up at him, dull and uninteresting now. The sketches of engines and ships in the margins felt tiny, insignificant compared to the quiet heaviness around him. And yet, even in that heaviness, a spark burned. He would notice, tinker, survive. If the people he loved could cry, the world could hurt. And if the world could hurt, he could find a way to fight, to build, to fly.

  The evening passed in quiet routines. Lily laid out the bowls of apple oatmeal and a glass of soy protein milk for Robby along with fresh bread with something that resembled butter. Robby ate slowly, the soft hum of the city outside the window pressing in. Electric trucks rumbled across distant streets, faintly shaking the walls. Smoke from industrial stacks spiraled into the fading light, curling toward clouds tinged with dust. The apartment felt like a fragile island, neat and lived-in, polished yet worn, holding the family together for now.

  After dinner, Robby returned to his homework, pencil scratching in short bursts, occasional small ships leaving glowing trails along imaginary orbits. His parents moved quietly around the apartment, cleaning, straightening, preparing for the days to come. Outside, Ravenholt continued its endless hum, indifferent to the small boy, to the parents whose eyes glimmered with worry, to the fragile routines that kept them all afloat.

  Robby traced one ship with his finger, imagining it soaring past Saturn, past the brown dwarf colonies, past Nemicorp territory. Adults said it was impossible. Adults said a lot of things were impossible. But he would try anyway. Things only became impossible when you no longer tried.

  And in the quiet apartment, polished and worn from a thousand careful hands, he felt the first flickers of independence, of determination, of hope that even a seven-year-old boy could carry the weight of a world that sometimes forgot he existed.

  The morning light was pale and sharp as it filtered through the thin curtains of the apartment. Robby’s parents were already up, moving quietly but with purpose. The faint scent of toasted protein packs lingered in the air. Robby rubbed his eyes, expecting another ordinary school day, backpack slung over his shoulders, notebook tucked under his arm.

  “Good morning, angel,” his mother said, voice soft but firm. She adjusted the strap of his backpack and kissed his forehead. Her apron, still dusted faintly with flour from last night’s cooking, was tied carefully at her waist.

  “Morning,” Robby mumbled, still half-asleep.

  His father handed him a small cup of synth-milk. “Drink up. Big day today,” he said. His shirt was tucked neatly, the frayed cuffs worn smooth from countless washes. He ruffled Robby’s hair. “We’re driving you to school today. Special morning, just the three of us.”

  Robby blinked at the words, a small spark of excitement lighting in him. “Cool.”

  They piled into the small, worn hatchback parked out front. Seats were soft but flattened from years of use. That’s the way cars were now dad said, you just replace the batteries and sometimes the electric engines. The dashboard bore faint scratches, but everything was clean and functional. Lily settled into the passenger seat, and Robert slid into the driver’s side.

  “Car, autopilot to Evan’s Supermarket,” his father said. The console beeped softly, lights blinking green as the car hummed to life. Mom pulled out her perfume bottle from her purse and did a little spritz, then slid the bottle of perfume into the glove box.

  The city streets of Ravenholt slid past, electric vehicles and pedestrians moving in their endless rhythm. Robby pressed his face against the window, expecting the familiar turn toward the low-slung school building. But instead, the vehicle hummed along passing the school toward the market.

  “Grocery store first,” Robert said. “Mom’s list is long.”

  Robby blinked. “We’re going to school…”

  His father laughed softly. “We will, buddy. Don’t worry. Just… a detour.”

  Inside the store, Lily disappeared into the aisles with a basket swinging from her arm. She moved with practiced efficiency, scanning shelves, checking labels, filling the cart with cans, pouches, and packets of synth-food. Robby’s father wheeled the cart, leaning down occasionally to straighten a can or adjust a stack.

  “Remember how to start a fire, right, buddy?” he asked, crouching to meet Robby’s eyes. “Safe, just like I showed you. Show me how you’d do it.”

  Robby fumbled with the imaginary match in his hands. “Uh… first, you find dry sticks. Then you… um…”

  “Right,” Robert said, nodding. “That’s right. Keep it small. You never leave a fire alone. You keep water nearby. You remember why, right?”

  “Because… it can burn everything?” Robby said.

  “Exactly,” his dad said. “Everything, even things you love.” He ruffled Robby’s hair again, smiling. “Good. That’s my boy.”

  Robby huffed, pulling out his comb and tidying up his hair for school. He did not understand why his parents’ eyes were wet, their hands shaking ever so slightly as they drove him around all morning instead of school. He didn’t understand why Dad kept messing his hair up, or mom kept hugging him.

  Outside, the car groaned slightly under the weight of the groceries as Lily loaded them carefully into the back. Robby noticed something new. Among the boxes and bags was a rolled-up sleeping bag. He only saw one. He frowned but said nothing.

  The car hummed forward again, gliding through streets that seemed smaller than yesterday. Another supermarket appeared, and both parents disappeared inside. Robby sat quietly in the car, unwrapping a synth chocolate candy bar, savoring the sweetness, the first small pleasure of the day. When they returned, they started stacking groceries into the front seat, the back and trunk already being full. Every corner of the hatchback seemed full with food, this was wrong. Robby’s small shoulders tensed. The sleeping bag was still there. He didn’t understand.

  His mother looked at him with wide, serious eyes. “Now, Robby, you behave. Do not come back to the city. They will get you, my little angel. They will steal your halo, your wings. You cannot let them have those. Those are yours. You hear me? You do not come back here.”

  Robby’s small mouth opened, but no words came. Fear and confusion tightened his chest.

  His father’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “Love you, kid. I wish I could tell you how much.” He pressed a small button on the dashboard. “Car, autopilot to preset destination one.”

  Robby’s eyes widened as the car doors clicked shut. The hatchback hummed, slowly pulling away from the familiar streets of Ravenholt. His stomach dropped. The city, the apartment, his toys, the faint scent of breakfast still lingering in the air… all receded behind him.

  He scrambled to the door, banging on the window, shouting, his small voice carried across the morning air. “Wait! No! Mommy! Daddy!”

  The car accelerated smoothly, pulling out into the main highway, the autopilot carrying them away. Robby screamed, tears streaming down his face, hands pressed to the glass, watching everything he knew vanish behind him.

  Inside, the car smelled of groceries, faintly of his mother’s perfume, and the soft leather seats. The sleeping bag rested beside him, rolled and silent. None of it made sense, why there was only one. He did not understand where they were sending him. As the city shrank behind him, Robby felt the first pang of fear for himself, for the small world he had always counted on, and for the wings and halo that his mother had told him were his alone.