“Tickets—those most neglected, inconsequential scraps of existence—how often have you witnessed their fate? Carelessly discarded the moment they fulfil their purpose, trampled beneath indifferent feet, ground into the dust by the relentless march of time. A fleeting glance at a wristwatch, a hurried step forward, and the remnants of passage are left to decay upon the road, their wrinkled, battered forms tormented by the ceaseless rhythm of footsteps. And when the rains descend, they are washed away into the gutters—forgotten forever. Yet, without these seemingly worthless slips of paper, the journey itself would have been impossible. Such is the nature of existence in this universe: the voyage is remembered, but the means are always forgotten.”

  “Fascinating. Is that your essay for the English class today?” Oliver inquired, tilting his head as he peered at the neatly written pages in the notebook of the boy, seated opposite to him in the bus that wound its way through the mist-laden valleys.

  Arthur—such was his name—belonged to Oliver’s class at the St. Peter’s. They were not the best of friends, nor even particularly close, yet fate had bound them together as companions on this daily ride. Closing his notebook with deliberate care, Arthur removed his small, round spectacles and looked up. “So? What do you think?”

  “A masterpiece!” Oliver declared, his eyes alight with admiration.

  Oliver Storm- yes, that’s our protagonist- a boy of twelve, fair complexion, his curly brown locks ever unruly, his bright, mischievous eyes betraying a soul teeming with restless energy and the old school uniform- pale and tattered at places. Do not be deceived by his cherubic appearance—for this was, perhaps, the most incorrigible child ever to have set foot upon the earth. A master of mayhem, a harbinger of disorder, he was the scourge of every teacher, the terror of every prefect. There was scarcely a day when he was not summoned to the principal’s office, yet no punishment, however severe, had managed to bend his indomitable spirit.

  “Why is it that I can never write such essays?” Oliver mused aloud, his gaze drifting past the window, where the emerald thickets of the valley stretched endlessly.

  Arthur smirked, adjusting his glasses with the air of one about to deliver an undeniable truth. “The answer is simple, Oliver. A mind brimming with mischief has no room left for knowledge. Do you never get tired of your antics?”

  Oliver turned to him with a feigned look of innocence. “I am grievously misunderstood, Arthie. I’m not as they claim. Those old tyrants at school are weaving fables about me. What have I done to them?”

  “What have you done?” Arthur’s voice carried the weight of exasperation, each word drawn out as if to ensure Oliver felt the full force of his accusation. “You stole Miss Natalie’s spectacles last week, and when she finally discovered them—abandoned in the washroom, no

  less—they were shattered beyond repair. And last month—oh, let’s not even dredge up that catastrophe—you nearly reduced the entire school building to ashes.”

  “It ought to have burnt it down,” Oliver remarked nonchalantly, his gaze wandering to the passing landscape outside. “What do those dull-witted lectures teach that life itself doesn’t? Sitting within four dreary walls, suffocated by uniforms and buried under books—it is a prison of the mind, Arthur. I detest it.”

  Arthur sighed, shaking his head in resignation. “Then perhaps, I’ve got some news that’ll make you happy. The school shall remain closed for the entire next week.”

  Oliver’s eyes sparkled. “Wow. I mean, why?”

  “The annual feast in the town. And speaking of which— my family has been invited there like every year. It’ll be fun- lots of delicacies! The great Mayor has himself invited us. Come, let’s get down. Our stop has arrived.” He turned to Oliver with a knowing glance. “Shall I be the one to pay for the tickets again, or will you?”

  Oliver feigned a look of distress. “Ah—my wallet! I must have forgotten it at home.”

  Arthur knew with absolute certainty that it was a lie, but he merely sighed and handed a few coins to the conductor. “As always,” he muttered under his breath.

  By the time they reached their classroom, the English lesson was already underway. At the front of the room stood Miss Natalie, clad in a magenta coat that stretched over her ample frame, her chalk tapping insistently against the blackboard. She cast the late-comers a stern glance but allowed them to slip into their seats without further question.

  “You’ll behave today, won’t you?” Arthur murmured under his breath, side-eyeing Oliver with suspicion. “Tell me you’ll at least try, Oliver.”

  Oliver’s lips curled into a mischievous smile, but he nodded all the same.

  Miss Natalie’s voice rang through the classroom. “Paper boats!” she declared grandly. “Today, we shall discuss synonyms. Who among you can offer a progression of increasingly complex words? Come now, challenge your minds.”

  A beat of silence followed, until a single voice shattered it. “Fibrodysplasia!” Oliver proclaimed triumphantly.

  A ripple of laughter spread through the room, students clutching their sides in amusement. Even Arthur had to bite back a grin.

  Miss Natalie, lowering her spectacles with deliberate suspicion, peered at Oliver as though he had just revealed the secret to some ancient mystery. “Paper boats,” she repeated, her tone measured. “Where did you unearth such a word, Storm? Or—dare I ask—have you been stealing books from the forbidden section of the library again?”

  Miss Natalie possessed the air of a shadowy figure from a dime novel—a character with secrets lurking beneath her composed exterior, her sharp eyes hiding a world of untold stories behind

  the veneer of her fair skin. And Oliver, ever the agent of chaos, knew precisely how to stir the depths of that intrigue.

  "No, ma’am," Oliver replied, his voice bearing an innocence that was, by now, suspect. "I simply came across it."

  "Oh, did you?" Miss Natalie drawled, narrowing her sharp eyes upon him. "Curious, indeed. Words of such refinement rarely deign to come across rats of your sort, Sir Oliver Storm. A coincidence, then, of the most peculiar kind. Well, let me dwell upon it."

  She removed her spectacles and, with the dignity of a queen descending upon her throne, moved to settle into her chair—only to let out a shriek of piercing agony.

  "Paper-boats!" she cried, her voice echoing through the walls. Her hands clutched at her gown as she shot back up, eyes blazing in fury. The culprit was revealed at once—a single, sharpened pencil standing upright upon the seat, its tip affixed with a wad of chewing gum.

  Arthur turned to Oliver, his expression caught between incredulity and exasperation. "When?" he hissed.

  "Yesterday," Oliver admitted, his lips curving into an impish grin. "Before we left. The old Natalie needed a good lesson."

  The next scene, dear reader, you must already have foreseen—yes, the Principal’s office, yet again.

  The man seated before them, Mr. Thomas, was no stranger to strictness. His iron will was known to bend neither for excuses nor for sentiment. And yet, when it came to Oliver, something within him wavered.

  "Why, child," he began, his voice heavy with both frustration and weary affection, "why must you take advantage of my weakness for you? You know how dearly I once loved Mary—who now happens to be your mother. For the sake of those cherished days we had spent at Yorkshire, I have endured your mischief, time and time again, but there are limits, Oliver. Even for you."

  Oliver, for once, had no retort. His head was lowered, his fingers twisting the hem of his uniform. "I am sorry, sir," he murmured. "It will not happen again."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Do you swear it?" Mr. Thomas demanded, his voice balancing between a lingering fondness and an undeniable ire.

  "Yes, sir," Oliver said, his tone softer now.

  The principal sighed, rubbing his temples before gesturing toward the door. "Very well. Return to your class. And I expect you to offer Miss Natalie a proper apology. Remember one thing always, forgive and you’ll be forgiven."

  Oliver left without another word.

  But just as Mr. Thomas pushed back his chair to rise, he felt something pull at his feet. A sharp cry tore from his throat as he stumbled and fell, arms flailing, crashing onto the floor. His lace—his shoe laces—had been knotted together.

  A moment of stunned silence. And then— "Oliver!" His furious bellow rattled the very walls.

  That evening, the little boy returned home earlier than usual, his schoolbag slung over his shoulder as he stepped onto the worn-out wooden porch of a modest cottage on the outskirts of town. It was a humble dwelling—lonely, cluttered with the bare necessities of life, each object placed precisely where it was needed, yet never quite enough to make it feel complete. The house had long been in disarray, ever since Mary fell ill—stricken by a cruel affliction, Fibrodysplasia, or the stone man’s disease.

  She had been confined to her bed ever since, her body betraying her, each movement a battle against searing pain. The doctors had been powerless to save her, and their meager earnings could never stretch far enough for treatment beyond the town’s borders. In fact, Oliver’s school fees had been overdue for four months, and Mary didn’t know how to pay them.

  As Oliver stepped inside, his gaze fell upon a pair of shoes at the threshold. He recognized them at once—they belonged to his father. Mr. Ferdinand Storm.

  Another strange character of my story—a man who lived for his own purpose in life, abandoned Mary and their little son, a few days after she was hit by the disease and had gone to join as an employee in a local timber company. Oliver had never loved his father much— since the time he had begun to understand things, he had seen his parents' marriage falling apart due to growing differences.

  The man would drink up late nights and return home only to break things. Mary’s disease was the final strike of matchstick igniting the flame of the great dynamite of broken relationships and one day, he had just walked off.

  Oliver had taken care of his mother ever since, worked hard to arrange for her medicines, earned some money for food by delivering newspapers to houses in the early morning, and did everything to keep her happy. And now, after all these months, Ferdinand had returned.

  "So, you’re happy, huh?" Ferdinand’s voice rang out, a sharp sneer curling at its edges as he lounged in the armchair beside Mary’s frail form. "Come on, say it, Mary."

  Mary stirred, forcing herself upright with what little strength remained in her brittle limbs. Her voice, though weak, carried the echo of old wounds. "What have you come for, after all this time?"

  "Can’t I return to my own home?" Ferdinand retorted, his brows furrowing. "Do I need permission for that?"

  "Home?" A faint, bitter smile played upon Mary’s lips. "A house is nothing but bricks and mortar. It is the people who live in it that make it a home. And this one stopped being one the day its people left."

  "You’ve learned to speak up, Mary? Who's been teaching you all this—your spoilt little brat? That foolish, pathetic child. Incarnation of a Devil he is!"

  Mary’s gaze did not waver. There was no fear in her voice—only quiet, unshaken defiance.

  "That spoilt brat was there when you weren’t," she said, her words laced with restrained fury. "That idiotic child placed food before me when I lay burning with pain, when I needed you the most, and you were nowhere to be found. That devil patched up the roof when the rains dripped through, mended the doors when the winds howled in. He did everything you should have done. Dare you speak ill of him again."

  Ferdinand let out a scornful laugh, shaking his head. "Good Heavens! You do seem happier without me. Tell me, Mary—what’s the reason? Have you found yourself customers every night?"

  "Mr. Ferdinand Storm!"

  A sharp voice cut through the air, and Ferdinand turned. Oliver stood in the dimly lit doorway, his young face shadowed by something unfamiliar—an anger too large for his years, burning in his eyes like fire reflecting off steel. His hand was steady, gripping a knife pointed at his father.

  "Take one more step, and I will be forced to do something I do not wish to," Oliver said, his voice low, deliberate.

  For a moment, Ferdinand hesitated. Then, with a grumble under his breath, he stepped back, turned, and left—his presence dissolving into the night, just as it had all those years ago.

  Mary exhaled, her frail hands clutching the thin blanket draped over her lap. "You shouldn’t have been so harsh, son," she murmured. "After all, he is your father… by blood."

  "Is he?" Oliver's voice was cold, distant. "Our principal tells me something, something I wanted to believe but never could: Forgive, and one day, you will be forgiven. But tell me, Mother—does everyone truly deserve forgiveness?"

  Mary fell silent. There were no easy answers.

  "Let’s not talk about it anymore," she said finally, brushing the weight of the moment aside. "Tell me, how was school?"

  Oliver shrugged, setting his schoolbag on the chair. He pulled a few bus tickets from his pocket, carefully placing them inside a small wooden box. "The same old routine. The same old troublemakers."

  Mary smiled faintly. "And what do you expect from them? That they’ll start teaching you nanotechnology just because you find history, science, and literature boring?"

  Oliver hesitated for a moment, then looked up, his voice softening.

  "Listen, Mom… I’ve been saving a little money every day. Maybe by next year, we’ll have enough to get you treated abroad. The doctors say there are new advancements now—new technologies that can help. Don’t worry. We’ll find a way."

  Mary looked at him, her eyes filled with something between hope and sorrow. She reached out and gently placed a hand over his.

  For all that the world had taken from them, they still had each other.

  "Listen, Oliver." Mary raised herself with effort, adjusting her frail body against the pillows. "Tomorrow, the great Annual Feast begins. The mayor himself, accompanied by his guards, will go door to door, collecting food from every household in town. It’s an old tradition."

  Oliver frowned. "And what does he do with all the food he collects?" His voice carried the sharp edge of curiosity.

  "They hold a grand feast," Mary said, her tone tinged with both amusement and quiet resignation. "With all the fruits, vegetables, and roasted meats we offer, the rich nobles and the town’s royally affluent families gather for an extravagant, week-long celebration."

  Oliver’s brows furrowed. "And what about us? Aren’t we invited, Mother?"

  Mary let out a soft chuckle. "Which one are you, my dear? A noble, a royal, or a rich man?"

  Oliver huffed, yanking the blanket over his mother’s frail form. "Weird town with its even weirder rules!" he muttered under his breath. Outside, the last sliver of twilight faded into darkness. It was time for dinner.

  By morning, the sun was bright, the sky painted in soft strokes of blue. But as Oliver stirred awake, a wave of dizziness crashed over him. His limbs felt heavy, his head pounded, and as he sat up, a sudden feverish weakness overtook him. He collapsed back onto the chair with a thud. He was terribly late for work!

  Mary was still asleep.

  By noon, the sound of distant drums and hooves echoed through the town. The grand procession had begun. The Mayor of Westinghouse, an elderly man with a thick white beard, rode at the head of the parade upon a majestic white horse. Behind him, guards in gleaming uniforms trailed in disciplined formation. The air was thick with anticipation.

  As they reached the doorstep of Oliver’s humble cottage, one of the guards dismounted and knocked.

  Oliver, still pale from the fever, opened the door slowly. "Greetings, Sir," he said, his voice weak but steady.

  The guard looked him up and down, then glanced inside. "What food do you offer for the great royalty?"

  A silence stretched between them before Oliver finally spoke. "Sir… I’ve been unwell since this morning. I couldn’t go out to work. I haven’t been able to bring home anything to eat… There’s nothing left to give you, my Lord."

  The mayor's gaze darkened. His sharp eyes flicked toward the small window, where wisps of smoke curled into the air from within the cottage.

  "Nothing, you say?" His voice carried suspicion. "And yet, I see smoke rising from your hearth. Are you lying to us, child?"

  Oliver clenched his jaw. "I am telling the truth, Sir. There is no food to give. My mother is sick, and the doctor says if she starves even for a day…" His voice wavered slightly, but he steadied himself. "She might not survive."

  The air around them grew tense. The mayor studied the boy for a long moment, his expression unreadable. And then, ever so slightly, his lips curled into a smirk.

  The Mayor’s face twisted in anger. "What do you children think?" he thundered. "Are we, who sit upon the golden thrones of power, mere fools? Is it so easy to cheat us?" His sharp eyes bore into Oliver. "Guards—step inside!"

  Dismounting his horse, the Mayor strode forward, his long cloak brushing against the dusty floor as he entered the dimly lit cottage. The guards followed, their heavy boots thudding against the wooden planks. The small kitchen was bare—no lavish dishes, no baskets of food. Only a modest, soot-covered stove stood in the corner, a single earthen pot resting atop its weak flame.

  One of the guards stepped forward and lifted the lid. But, what they saw left them stunned!

  Inside the pot, floating in shallow, simmering water, were bus tickets—old, crumpled, faded with time. A lifetime’s worth of carefully collected scraps, now soaked and swirling in the warm broth of desperation.

  Oliver swallowed hard, his hands clenched into trembling fists. "Mother’s still asleep," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She won’t have lunch today, I believe… I will beg for something by evening." His lips quivered, but he steadied himself.

  The Mayor folded his arms. "And you?" he scoffed. "Are you planning to fill your stomach with these invisible meals, you little fool?"

  Oliver’s gaze did not waver. He stood tall despite his fever, despite his hunger. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of quiet defiance.

  "My Lord," he said, meeting the Mayor’s eyes, "you will never understand the pain of hunger. A man who has once sat upon thrones of gold will never know the value of the tickets trampled beneath his feet."

  A heavy silence fell upon the room.

  The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its feeble warmth a stark contrast to the cold judgment in the Mayor’s gaze.