Monday arrived with the pale, washed-out light that usually draped Harlowe Ridge at the start of a school week. The sky hung low and clouded, as if mirroring the sleepy pace of the small town waking up. But Donald's morning was as precise as ever.
He dressed with mechanical efficiency, brushed his teeth, tied his shoes and then descended the stairs at exactly the same time he always did. Anna and Mark exchanged glances when he passed the kitchen doorway. He didn't acknowledge it. He simply murmured a polite "Good morning" and walked out the door with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
He was gone before they could finish their half-formed attempts at conversation. Harlowe Ridge High buzzed with the usual Monday fog. The hallways were filled with yawning students, half-finished homework, quiet groans as lockers clanged open. Donald walked through the corridor with his usual ghostlike quiet. His steps made almost no sound. His eyes drifted from person to person without lingering long enough to seem rude, yet never long enough to seem engaged.
What surprised him most was how quickly his classmates had forgotten Friday's gym class incident, how he had effortlessly flipped the instructor with one smooth, accidental motion. Teenagers had short memories. Attention spans even shorter. Now, the talk had shifted back to gossip, borrowed hoodies, upcoming tests. His name no longer floated in the hallway whispers.
Good. Perfect, even. Attention was exposure; exposure was danger. He slid into his first class and took his usual seat, posture straight but relaxed enough to imitate normalcy. The teacher gave him a quick fleeting look, concern? Maybe even unease, but said nothing.
The next teacher stared at him longer. And the next. And the next.
By midday, Donald could feel it—an accumulation of glances, murmurs, subtle hesitations. Teachers whispering to one another when they thought he couldn't hear them. Except he could. Enhanced hearing made every hushed conversation an open book. Words floated to him even across bustling hallways:
"Cold."
"Detached."
"Too smart for his grade level."
"He gives me the creeps."
"He's polite, but… something's wrong."
All of it reached him with brutal clarity. He maintained his façade of calm. By fourth period, the pattern was obvious. Teachers didn't just notice him; they had started reporting him. Not because he misbehaved, but because he behaved too well. Because he was too composed, too precise, too unreadable.
And inevitably… a student aide appeared at his classroom door just before lunch. The teacher paused mid-sentence as the aide handed over a small slip of paper. The teacher's eyes flicked to Donald.
"Donald? The principal wants to see you."
The room went still for a moment. A few heads turned. Most didn't care. Donald simply closed his textbook, stood, and walked to the door. The teacher watched him go with an expression somewhere between curiosity and unease. The hallway outside was empty. His footsteps echoed faintly, almost reluctant to exist.
Donald wasn't worried, fear wasn't something he experienced often. Instead, he felt something colder, more familiar: calculation, scenarios, probabilities and consequences. He approached the principal's office and noticed the blinds were half lowered, as if someone had hastily decided privacy was needed.
He knocked once.
"Come in," the principal's voice called, steady, but with a thin undercurrent of tension.
Donald stepped inside.
Principal Breck's office was brighter than most rooms in the school. Sunlight poured through wide windows, catching on the polished wood shelves and framed certificates. But despite the warmth, the air felt taut. Breck sat behind his desk with his hands loosely folded, watching the boy across from him.
Donald sat perfectly still. Back straight, knees aligned, hands resting flat on the armrests. His eyes remained fixed forward, unblinking, patient. Breck cleared his throat, trying to disarm the unsettling sense that he was speaking to someone far older than fourteen.
"Donald," he began gently, "you've been doing exceptionally well in your classes. All of your teachers agree on that." He offered a small, encouraging smile. "But they're… concerned."
Donald said nothing. He didn't fidget or blink or make any attempt to appear more… approachable. He simply waited.
"They say you're distant. Withdrawn. Focused, yes, but intensely so. And you don't seem to connect with the other students." Breck tapped a thumb against his kneecap under the desk. "That's not a problem on its own. Some kids are quiet. Some are private."
Silence pressed at the edges of the room.
"What I want to understand," Breck continued, leaning forward a little, "is whether you feel like something is wrong. Or missing."
Donald's gaze flicked to him sharp and precise.
Breck tried a different angle, softer. "Your parents mentioned you don't talk much about your early years. Before they adopted you."
Donald's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
"It's perfectly fine if you don't want to share," Breck assured him. "But I'd like to ask you something important… and I want you to answer honestly."
A long beat passed.
"Do you remember anything about your past? Before you came to this town?"
Donald stayed silent. Not confused, but guarded. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the question itself was a threat he needed to neutralize rather than answer. Breck waited, patient but concerned.
Finally, Donald spoke, his voice low. "No."
Breck watched him closely. The answer was simple, but the way he delivered it was flat and final, which made it feel like a door slammed shut.
"I see," Breck said quietly. "Well… if anything ever does come back to you, anything at all, you can always talk to me. Or your therapist. You're not alone, Donald."
This time, Donald didn't respond at all.
The meeting ended shortly after, with Donald standing as smoothly as he'd sat, leaving the office with that same robotic precision that unsettled every adult who met him. Behind him, Principal Breck let out a slow breath. The boy didn't remember his past, at least not in any way he was willing to admit. But something about the stillness Donald carried… made Breck wonder if forgetting was the safest thing for everyone.
By the time Donald stepped out of Principal Breck's office, the hallways of Harlowe Ridge High were already thinning. The muted rumble of chatter signaled the start of lunch period. He moved with his usual mechanical efficiency, descending the main staircase and crossing the corridor without once lifting his gaze.
He picked up his lunch tray from the cafeteria line, the same choices he made every day and headed toward the auditorium. Most students preferred the courtyard or cafeteria, but the auditorium was quieter. And Mara always found her way there.
When he pushed open the heavy door, the room greeted him with its familiar hollow stillness. Rows of empty seats stretched across the floor, the stage lights off except for the faint glow of the emergency strips along the aisles.
Mara was already seated two rows from the front, legs curled under her seat, chewing on a sandwich while she scrolled through something on her phone. She looked up the second she sensed him.
"You're late," she said softly, though there was no accusation in it just concern.
Donald slipped into the seat beside her without answering. He set his tray down. Opened his lunch. Began to eat.
Mara waited a moment, studying him.
"I heard you got called to the principal office?" she eventually asked.
Donald didn't nod. He didn't shake his head. But the pause before he brought the fork to his mouth was enough for her. She sighed, a small breathy sound, and tucked her legs down. He continued eating, his face unreadable.
Mara didn't push. She knew better than to crowd him when he was like this, locked behind whatever invisible wall he carried around. So she mirrored his silence. They ate side by side in the dim auditorium, the only sounds the quiet rustle of wrappers and the distant hum of the building's ventilation.
Silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was simply… how Donald existed. And Mara had learned how to fit beside him without making him feel cornered. When the lunch bell finally rang, Mara glanced at him again as if hoping for some sign, any sign that he was okay.
Donald stood with the same controlled precision he always had, gathering his tray. No change of expression. Mara followed him out anyway.
On the way home, Donald boarded the Harlowe Ridge bus with the same quiet precision he brought to everything. The doors hissed shut behind him, and the motor growled as the bus lurched forward. The afternoon light drifted through the windows in fractured stripes, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Students filled most of the seats, talking in low, scattered whispers. Some scrolled through their phones. Some stared out the windows. No one paid him much attention.
Perfect.
He slid into an empty seat halfway down the aisle, resting his backpack loosely at his feet. His posture remained straight, almost too straight for someone his age spine aligned, shoulders centered, hands still. From the outside, it looked like he was simply staring ahead.
Inside, his mind was spinning.
'why can't I remember anything' his thoughts drifted
All he got were the usual broken memories which suggested that he was from a lab, an experiment. Other than that he had no concrete memories of himself before arriving in Harlowe Ridge. He had no clue of whether he had parents, his real parents. Or whether they even knew he existed. He had asked his adopted parents whether they knew anything about his past. They had given him a name, a name of an orphanage which when he searched did not exist. He had simply come to the saddening fact that, that was how it was supposed to be. That he would live a simple life in Harlowe Ridge until old age. Little did he know that fate had different plans for him.