October 2025. A chilly day in Autumn.
Ethan Brandon receives a phone call.
It seems to be coming from a stranger.
Unknown number.
He hesitates a second then picks up.
"Hello?"
"Ethan Brandon?" the voice responded.
"Who is this?"
"You are fucking loser, hahaha."
Ethan ended the call immediately, his jaw clenched against the familiar sting of harassment.
The bullying had been a close friend for years now, following him even after his family's attempt to escape it through relocation.
Their financial circumstances, strained by the previous move, left no room for another fresh start. Their modest savings had been depleted in the process.
"Who was that, son?" Sarah asked, collecting the empty cereal bowl from in front of him. Her movements were slow, as she was already fatigued from her double shifts.
"No one, Mom. Wrong number." Ethan managed a reassuring tone, protecting her from yet another worry.
Sarah nodded, accepting his answer.
"Alright, son. Get up and go to school before you arrive late. Education is important."
Ethan responded with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, shouldering his backpack as he headed out.
The walk to school was always carefully calculated by Ethan.
He had learned through bitter experience that arriving exactly on time meant facing his tormentors unsupervised.
The sweet spot was one minute past eight, it was late enough that the teacher would be present, and early enough that the punishment would be minimal.
Usually.
Today, however, Ms. Richardson was in a particularly caustic mood.
"Mr. Brandon," she announced, her tone filled with disappointment and slight anger. "How generous of you to grace us with your presence at," she made a show of consulting her watch,
"eight-oh-one. Perhaps you'd like to share with the class why you believe your time is more valuable than ours?"
The response was immediate.
From the back, Jack Thompson's mocking voice rose above the others. "One minute late again," he announced as he shook his head. "Probably spent too long crying in the bathroom this morning."
"Or maybe he was dumpster diving for a new wardrobe," James Chen added with a snort, eyeing Ethan's worn jacket. "That's where you got those clothes, right, Brandon?"
"Nah,"
Donald Weber joined in, "he was probably counting his pennies to see if he could afford lunch today."
Another wave of barely suppressed laughter from their corner of the classroom arrived. "Oh wait, he never eats lunch. Too poor even for cafeteria food."
Several students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but others joined in, their faces showing a mix of amusement and indifference.
A girl in the front row at least had the decency to look down at her desk, her cheeks flushing with what might have been shame.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Richardson. It won't happen again." Ethan's voice emerged smaller than he intended, barely audible.
"See that it doesn't," she replied, turning back to the whiteboard with a dismissive wave. "Page 394, everyone."
The next hour became an exercise in endurance. From their position at the back of the room, the group of bullies launched their campaign once again.
"Hey, Brandon," Jack's whisper carried just far enough. "Did mommy forget to pack your lunch again? Or did you spend it all on that charity shop clothes?"
Ethan kept his eyes fixed on his textbook, the words swimming before him as he tried to focus on anything else.
The margins of his notebook slowly filled with drawings, it was a habit he'd developed to keep his hands busy and his mind distracted. Each stroke of his pencil was a silent response to their barbs, each spiral a contained scream of frustration.
When the lunch bell finally rang, Ethan didn't join the other students to the cafeteria. His stomach had long since learned to ignore its protests during school hours.
Instead, he walked the empty hallways, heading for his sanctuary of the day - an unused classroom in the east wing.
Sometimes it was the disabled bathroom on the third floor, but today he'd seen the janitor heading that way with cleaning supplies.
The empty classroom welcomed him with silence. Sitting at a desk near the window, he pulled out his worn copy of "The Hoabbit" - a birthday gift from his mother two years ago.
The pages were dog-eared and familiar, offering an escape into a world where the smallest and most overlooked could become heroes.
The final bell couldn't come soon enough. As his classmates rushed toward their various after-school activities, Ethan made his solitary way to the riverbank. The spot had become his refuge over the past months - a place where the flow of water seemed to wash away anything on his mind.
Three benches lined the bank, weathered wood worn smooth by years of use.
The river ran deep here, its surface deceptively calm while underneath, a powerful current pulled everything inexorably downstream.
"Without you," he whispered to the rushing water, "I don't think I could last this long." The current seemed to respond with its endless song, a constant reminder of both permanence and change.
Some days, like today, he found himself mesmerized by its strength, wondering about its depth, its power, its ability to sweep away all burdens.
A fallen leaf caught his attention as it fell on the surface, fighting briefly against the current before being pulled under.
"Told you! I knew we would find this rat here, hahaha."