Sunday was not the type of child to complain, even when his small frame was wracked with illness. No matter how terrible he felt, he would remain silent, waiting for someone—his stern father Gopher, his devoted mother, or perhaps even his attentive little sister Robin—to notice his suffering.

Today was one of those days. Sunday’s stomach churned painfully, his head throbbed like a drumbeat, and his skin radiated an unnatural heat. He was certain he’d collapse if he stopped moving, but still, he said nothing.

The boy pushed open the heavy door of the Oak Family manor with trembling hands. His silver-grey hair, usually so neatly combed, hung limply around his face as he stepped inside. Shoulders slumped and halo slightly dim, Sunday’s wings dragged low behind him, nearly brushing the floor. He had just returned from a grueling day at school followed by piano lessons, and every step he took seemed to sap what little strength he had left.

Without so much as a glance up, he shuffled into the dining room where his family waited. Gopher’s sharp eyes scanned the boy as Sunday mumbled a faint, almost inaudible greeting.

Sunday took his seat at the table, trying his best to appear normal, but it was a losing battle. His yellow eyes, dulled with exhaustion, refused to meet anyone’s gaze. His wings drooped further, and his body slouched until he was nearly resting his head on the table. He looked utterly defeated, his fragile appearance betraying the fever that raged within him.

It was clear to anyone watching: the poor boy had caught something, and he was too stubborn—or perhaps too afraid—to admit it.