The icy water in the barrel was there again.
Silent.
Relentless.
Desmond, barely eight years old, dipped his fingers once more.
Shutting his eyes tightly and bit his lip until it bled.
He couldn't hesitate.
He mustn't complain.
Undressing slowly, as his hands trembled, his lips already purplish from the cold that seeped into the skin even without contact.
Leaned over the barrel and, as if punishing himself, poured the water over his head.
The impact was brutal.
Pain shot down his back like a bolt of ice.
His body trembled as he lifted his head from the water, gasping, while droplets fell from his hair and skin, and the bar of soap barely lasted.
Breathing in raggedly, trying to stifle the sobs.
He was still crying.
Tears falling silently down his cheeks
as he hugged himself.
He was still just a child...
And after the bath, with his skin numb,
he set out to find clothes, get dressed,
and move on to the next task.
Cleaning.
Everything.
Then began with the furniture, scrubbing the wood with a dry rag and numbed hands.
Then he moved on to the mirrors, struggling not to leave any prints.
Later, he came across a statue. A gryphon sculpture sitting on a table near the stairs.
Trying to lift it gently to clean beneath it...
But this time he didn't slip.
Fortunately.
After yesterday's punishment, there was no rest.
He was ordered to continue room by room, making strangers' beds, sweeping dusty floors, washing filthy sheets by hand in the laundry until his hands peeled from the effort.
Day after day.
The same routine for a week.
It felt endless.
There. When he thought he had a moment to himself-just a breath between tasks. He remembered his lessons. The ones his father had scheduled every two hours without exception.
And with an hour left before they began, the boy got down from his bed, knelt, and carefully pulled up a loose floorboard.
Pulled out books.
Books that took him far from reality. Where he read about The Three Little Pigs, The Little Red Riding Hood, and The Ugly Duckling.
Rarely, he had to stifle his laughter... or his tears. Especially when reading the tale of the ugly duckling.
And when he paused between stories, he'd fold corners of the pages to mark his place.
Inside that hiding spot, was also the vest. The one his mother had made for him, the one she gave him before she died.
Folded neatly, as he took it in his hands, gazed at it a few moments, and slowly brought it to his face, inhaling deeply.
His heart sanking, till warmth filled his eyes, but didn't cry.
It smelled just like his mother.
Missing her terribly, but this scent, this tiny remnant of her, was all he had left.
Then buried his face in the vest as if searching for the heartbeat that had gone quiet.
...
Until-footsteps.
The door suddenly creaked open.
And the Duke found him there.
With his mother's vest in his arms.
That tattered garment she'd left behind.
The one he'd hidden. Along with a few books beneath the loosened floorboard.
His voice shattered the silence like a blade.
-"What are you doing?" -he asked, firm, voice low and cold.
Desmond turned terrified-eyes wide with the vest in his hands, kneeling on the floor. Not even having time to hide anything.
His hands trembled as he looked at the fabric, then back at his father.
-"It... it's just...! W-Wait!" -the boy cried, clutching the vest towards his chest, desperately.
But his father stormed forward like a shadow in rage.
Tore the vest from his arms, grabbed the books, and yanked everything out from the hiding spot and tossed it all to the floor of the room.
Then, right in front of the child, he pulled out a square, metal lighter.
Lowering his icy gaze to the boy., his voice came guttural, dripping with disgust:
-"¿This is what ties you to that weak, useless woman?"
he shouted with fire in his eyes
-"A ridiculous sentimental fool who could barely stand on her own!"
He growled like a beast-a rabid dog.
-"Your mother was useless! A burden! A weight around this family's neck!"
Continued.
And tossed the lighter into the fireplace-where flames erupted violently.
Desmond leapt to his feet, screaming-tears streaming, racing toward his father, trying to snatch the vest from the flames.
-"No! Father, no!.. Please!" -he cried, reaching out to his father
-"Don't burn it!
It's all I have left of her!" -his voice cracked.
-"Please... wait..!"
Desmond pleaded, gripping his father's coat.
But the man shoved him violently to the ground.
Leaving Desmond's lungs with no air for a moment. Gasped, clutching his chest, his body curl on the floor
as the burn in his ribs left him breathless.
His father looked down at him with disgust, with his son's precious belongings in hand.
Desmond sat slowly, with his breathing shaky, clutching his left arm with trembling fingers.
Raised his head, one eye squinting from the pain, cheeks wet with tears-looking at his father.
-"Your tears are garbage. Your memories-a curse,"
the Duke spat.
-"Starting tomorrow, you'll bury them with her.
All of it.
Everything goes into the fire, Desmond.
Your tears, your dreams, your weakness.
You'll stop being a fool."
And with that-he threw the vest and books into the flames.
Desmond's eyes widened, his jaw clenched, his whole body trembling.
And yes-everything burned.
From that moment, in the midst of shock, the boy lay motionless on the ground, watching it all go up in flames.
Pressed his palms to the floor, with his tears falling in silence, dripping from his chin to the cold tiles.
Slowly, he dragged himself toward the fire.
What once gave him warmth in the darkness, what once gave his heart comfort-was now gone.
He never cried again.
That day, he shed his final tears... until he dried out.
He watched it all crackle, fall apart-turn to ash.
And behind him,
his father walked away toward the exit
with a twisted smirk, leaving the child behind.
Letting him sink.
Letting him reflect-as he stared into the fire...
watching everything become ashes.
He clenched his fists against the floor...
and just stared.