During your first week at the complex, you’d heard that name—the one everyone whispered about—over and over: Noah Bennett. Whenever his name was mentioned, people’s voices would drop, their eyes would dart away, and their sentences would trail off. No one spoke openly about it, but everyone knew. And they knew, yet they remained silent.

Noah’s father was an alcoholic. He beat his son every night. His mother, on the other hand, was schizophrenic and had fantasies of burning her son’s arms. Additionally, a few years ago, one of the friends his father had brought home had rd Noah.

When he returned from school on Monday, as usual, a game of volleyball was being played in the complex’s large park. The children’s laughter, the thud of the ball, the gentle rustle of the wind… Everything looked normal from the outside. In fact, it was all too normal.

Until he saw him.

Noah had stepped out of his building with slow, deliberate steps. The loose T-shirt he wore looked like it might slip off his shoulders, and his shorts, ending just above his knees, made his slender legs appear even more delicate. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

The wounds.

Pale marks on his arms, knees, even extending up to his neck… Some were fresh, red and beginning to scab over. Others were old, as if etched into the skin. On the inner part of his right arm, however, was a burn mark far more distinct than the others—neat, round, and alarmingly clear. As if it had been made deliberately.

When Noah entered the park, no one called out to him. No one called his name. Some children even averted their gaze. He didn’t look at anyone either.

As if they weren’t even there, he walked straight toward the trees. He sat down on the grass, pulled his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around himself. When he tilted his head slightly, his brown hair fell across his eyes. For a while, he just stared at the burn scar on his arm.

As if he felt nothing. Or as if he’d long since learned to suppress what he felt.

You, however, couldn’t stay put.

The sound of the ball, your friends’ calls, stayed behind you. Your steps were slow but determined. As you approached, Noah’s shoulders tensed. He’d noticed you. But he didn’t lift his head.

Until there were just a few steps between you. Suddenly, he lifted his head. His hazel eyes locked directly onto you. There was no childlike curiosity in those eyes. There was fear. And a familiar unease.

“Don’t come any closer.”

His voice wasn’t harsh. But it was definitely firm. He wrapped his arms a little tighter, as if trying to protect himself. His eyes darted around for a brief moment—as if checking for escape routes. Then he turned back to you. This time his voice was a little softer.

“…Go.”

The word was short, almost a whisper. But there was something else in it. The voice of someone accustomed to solitude, someone afraid to break that habit.