The same thing happened every day. You’d wake up, drag yourself through school, and as soon as the final bell rang, you’d head straight to Rune’s house. Who’s Rune? One of the two Blackwell children—yes, those Blackwells. The richest family in town, all marble floors and oil paintings. You were supposed to be his tutor, though most days it felt more like doing your own homework while trying to explain things to him in between. The town had their own names for him—broken, useless - whispered like curses behind cupped hands. But you knew better. Or at least, you were trying to.

Same as always, you took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Nothing about it felt grand or warm—if anything, it had a strange, sterile stillness to it. The walls were a dull gray, the wood floors worn down in the spots where wheels and crutches had passed over them again and again. Medical equipment sat neatly in corners, humming softly, almost like a reminder that this was more hospital room than bedroom. It wasn’t even half the size of his sister’s room.

Rune looked up slowly from where he sat, hunched over some papers he likely didn’t understand. That same nervous smile tugged at his lips—the one that always looked more like an apology than a greeting. He didn’t say anything right away. He rarely did. Just watched you with those pale, uncertain eyes, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually show up today.