Chapter Text
He doesn’t understand why the walls are so high. Why everything is so gray. Why the air smells of dust, even in the rain.
He holds his mother’s hand as if he is about to fall. He does not fall, but everything within him wavers. His tiny fingers are cold, damp, glued to hers like a last thread that does not want to break. She told him she would be back. That a year isn’t so long. That she will think of him every day, even on the other side of the sea. That she is not abandoning him. That she has no choice.
But those are too long sentences for him. He hears only: I am leaving without you.
He is six years old, and the rain runs down his neck. His hood has folded back, his suitcase is too heavy, and his heart too, as well. He keeps his mouth shut because if he opens it, he knows the tears will come out along with the words.
She smiles at him, but her own eyes are trembling too. She crouches down in front of him, caresses his cheek.
“You will be brave, won’t you? My little lion.”
Harry does not respond. He no longer knows how to do that.
He wishes he could throw himself into her arms and say he does not want to stay. That he does not need friends. That he will sleep all alone in the house waiting for her if he must. That she can leave and come back late, he will be good. He won’t touch the oven, he won’t put crumbs in the bed, he won’t ask questions anymore.
But he remains frozen. Stomach in knots. Throat feeling like it is full of stones.
She hugs him tightly, one last time. Then she stands up. She kisses his hair, where the curls are damp, and when she walks away, her footsteps echo on the wet tiles. She does not look back. And even if the little boy cannot distinguish them, the sobs suffocate in his mother’s throat.
Harry does not watch her leave. He keeps his gaze fixed on the closing door. And everything becomes silent.
The lady who welcomes him and takes over after his mother speaks softly. As if that would help. She says his name with a kind smile, but Harry hears only the emptiness around him. He does not know how to walk anymore. He follows her anyway.
The hallway is long. There are drawings on the walls. Colors. But everything seems blurry, drowned.
He enters a dormitory where the beds are lined up like rows of unanswered questions. His bed is at the back, near the window. He doesn’t say anything. He does not want to be near the window. He does not want to be there at all.
He is told that he can call his mother on the weekend. That there will be activities, stories in the evening, outings. Harry nods. He is polite. He knows he must be polite. But in his head, there is only the sound of the rain, and the smell of his mother’s shampoo that is already fading away.
A woman approaches the room gently, barely knocking on the wooden door, then her feet step in without waiting. She has a notebook in one hand, a set of keys at her belt, a badge pinned to her oversized sweater. She smells of cafeteria soap and lukewarm tea.
“Hello Harry.”
She speaks like one speaks to little ones. With soft kindness, a reassuring voice that says: I mean you no harm.
He looks up at her without answering. He has taken off his coat now. He sits at the edge of the bed, his feet not touching the ground, his hands flat on the cover. Navy blue. Rough. Nothing like the one from home.
“I am Émilie. I will take care of you during your stay here, okay? You can come to see me whenever you want.”
She crouches down to be at his height. Harry does not really look at her. He stares at the wall behind her. He hears the other children somewhere, in a hallway or a playroom. They shout, laugh, and are already experiencing something he does not yet understand.
“It’s normal to be scared, you know. It’s new. It’s impressive.”
She puts a hand on his knee. She barely presses.
“Your mother is not abandoning you. She is doing what she can. She loves you very much, Harry. She will come back. She left you here because she thinks you will be well, that we will take good care of you.”
He grips the blanket between his fingers. He doesn’t cry. But his chin trembles a little.
"You’ll see, there are very kind children here. And games, and stories at night. And birthdays, sometimes. You'll see, the year will pass quickly."
Harry nods. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t yet understand the word year. It sounds like never. He can’t think further than tonight. And tonight, his mom won’t be there to read him a story, or tuck in his feet, or kiss him twice, once on each cheek.
Émilie prepares to continue, to say those things people say to sad children, but her eyes land firmly on Harry's and what they contain.
Because they shine. They almost overflow. No noise, no tear rolling down his cheek. But something is cracking. Like a dam that's been held back for too long.
She opens her mouth to say something else, to place a hand, to comfort, but a small voice interrupts her from the hallway, high-pitched and urgent:
"Émilie! I fell!"
She turns around. Harry does too.
In the doorway stands a little boy. A bit taller than him, perhaps. Ruffled chestnut hair, wet strands falling over his eyes. He holds his knee in his hands, lifting it slightly to show it. A wide, shiny scrape, a bit of blood on the skin. Nothing serious, but enough to make Harry wince.
Émilie sighs softly, but without anger. "Louis..." she murmurs, as if she is used to it. She straightens up with a movement.
But Louis doesn’t look at his knee anymore.
His eyes are on Harry. And in an instant, the grimace of pain vanishes from his face. A smile takes its place, as if nothing has ever existed before this. And without waiting for anyone to say anything, he steps forward.
"Hey." His voice is clear, direct. He leans a little towards the bed.
"What’s your name?"
Harry doesn’t know if he wants to answer. But Louis doesn't seem to need a response to keep going.
"I'm Louis. Do you want to come play with me?"
It's said without hesitation, without judgment, without really waiting for permission. As if it is obvious. As if it’s the logical continuation of the day.
Harry stands frozen for a few seconds. He no longer knows if he was about to cry. He no longer knows what he feels exactly. But the tears retreat, slowly. They return to where they came from. Where it is a little less heavy.
And then, without speaking, he nods timidly.
Louis reaches out his hand without thinking, as if he does it every day, as if it were natural to invite a child he doesn't know to come share a moment of nothingness.
Harry looks at his fingers, a bit dirty, a bit scraped, and hesitates. But he also extends his own, gently. His small palm glides against Louis's, warm and lively.
Louis pulls him along without waiting. His sneakers slap against the hard floor of the hallway, and Harry has to take a tiny extra step to keep up.
"Wait, Louis!" Émilie catches up to them with quick strides. She leans towards him, eyebrows furrowed. "Aren't you going to have a bandage? I need to disinfect it."
But Louis shakes his head immediately, the strands dancing in front of his eyes
"No, it’s fine, it’s just a tiny scratch!" He tightens his grip on Harry’s hand. "We're going to play!"
And off he goes, like a tiny tornado.
Harry follows him, silent, swept along by his momentum, still holding onto his hand. He doesn’t know where they are going, he doesn't even know if he wants to play, but he follows. Because for the first time since this morning, he feels something warm in his chest. Something that doesn't hurt.
Émilie watches them disappear around the corner of the hallway. She smiles.
One of those smiles made only for fragile and precious things, because one knows they never last. Because innocence, when it appears, has that power: to suspend the entire world.
***
The day goes by faster than he would have thought.
Not because he feels good. Not because he forgets. But because Louis does not give him the time. Because at every moment, there is a word to listen to, a race to start, a laugh to chase, a question to answer. He doesn't even have the chance to think about his mom, not when Louis asks for his name for the third time, emphasizing each syllable as if tasting the letters, nor when he shows him his boo-boo, which no longer bleeds, pulling on his shorts with pride, nor when they chase after the girls in the soaking wet garden, their sneakers slipping in the grass, their hair wild in the wind, nor when Émilie calls him into a room with a whiteboard to explain how the days will unfold after the weekend, with classes in the morning, games in the afternoon, rules to follow, adults to talk to if he needs, all of this, Harry listens only halfway, his legs still numb from sprints and the new heat that settles somewhere, discreet, between his throat and stomach.
He doesn't think of his mom either when they go to wash up in the showers, the boys together, lined up like little soldiers who laugh too loudly, hiding behind towels and giggling as soon as a jet of water is too cold. Louis explains everything to him: which body wash to smell, how not to slip, who always sings off-key underwater. And Harry, without realizing it, laughs. Just a little. A laugh trapped at the back of his throat. A laugh that makes a hole in the heaviness, just big enough to breathe.
But it is evening. When everything slows down. When the tired bodies climb into the beds, the whispers become more discreet, the covers rise up to the chin. When Émilie walks through the rows one last time, wishing each one goodnight with a hand on their forehead or a sweet word, and turns off the light without adding anything. When the door closes gently. That's when it comes back.
That’s when Harry suddenly feels, like a void too big around him. An absence that creaks against the walls. The breathing of the other children seems too far away. The sheets are rough. He does not recognize anything. Neither the smell. Nor the mattress. Nor the way the pillow flattens under his cheek.
And there is no one to kiss him twice before sleep.
No one to adjust the blanket if he feels cold.
No one to hear what he cannot say.
So, slowly, he starts to cry. Without noise.
Just sobs that shake his shoulders, tiny, discreet, so as not to disturb anyone. As if he feels ashamed. As if it’s his fault.
But a voice rises next to him, in the dark, a breath more than a whisper, that makes him jump.
“Harry? Are you crying?”
He does not answer. He cannot. His throat is too tight. His tears have taken everything.
He hears a rustling of sheets, a gentle sliding. And then, something touches his hand. A warm shape, a bit rough under his fingers. A little muzzle, two ears, soft fabric against his palm.
“Don’t you have a cuddly toy, Harry?”
The voice is very close now. Curious, but not mocking. Sweet. Sincere.
Harry breathes as best he can. He whispers, so low that his voice cracks a bit:
“I left it with mom. So she wouldn't be alone… and so she wouldn't forget me.”
A silence. Not a judgmental silence. A silence that understands.
And then, the answer, simple. Obvious. Unshakeable.
“Then I’ll give you mine. So you cry less.”
Harry automatically hugs the stuffed animal to him without thinking. It is a little brown deer, a bit worn, the seams a little loose on its side, smelling of laundry and child's skin. He buries his nose in it, gently, as if he has found a piece of home again.
And in the dark, he says nothing. But he no longer cries.
***
Days follow one another, stretch out, and look a bit alike, in the white light of mornings rising too early, in the chatter of meals in the cafeteria, in the regular rhythm of activities, outings, and lines hastily formed. And even if sometimes, at the turn of a hallway or in the silence of a break, a thought of his mom tries to return to haunt him, Harry chases it away with the tips of his fingers, too busy following Louis who can never sit still, transforming every moment into an adventure, every gesture into a secret mission, every glance into a playground.
Yet, every evening, when the lights go out in the dormitory and Émilie leaves the room after blowing a last "goodnight," emptiness returns like a black tide, inevitable and silent, filling all the space with a solitude that even fatigue cannot erase. Then Harry cries. Not loudly. Just stifled sobs, breathless gasps, his face turned towards the wall so that no one sees him.
But Louis, always, eventually gets up. He sneaks into the darkness as if he knows the way by heart, and silently slips the little brown stag into Harry's hand, his favorite stuffed animal, the one that smells a bit like laundry and a lot like childhood. He says nothing, or almost nothing, sometimes just a whispered "here," and he leaves as quickly as he came. Every night, the same gesture. The same comfort. The same silent promise.
Harry never truly returns the deer. He keeps it close until sleep takes him, like a discreet anchor in a world still too vast.
And then, one day, in the midst of a near-quiet recess, everything shifts a little. Harry, bent down to redo a loose shoelace, straightens up and realizes that his shoe has disappeared. At first, he thinks he must have looked wrong. He walks around the bench, lifts the piled coats, checks under the slide. But it is no longer there. When he hears the muffled laughter of a group of older boys, he understands. He slowly lifts his eyes and spots his shoe, stuck in the branches of a tree at the back of the yard, thrown there for no reason, just to mock, just to see him struggle without being able to protest.
He feels tears welling up, shame gently burning his cheeks, that bitter mix of anger and helplessness squeezing his stomach. He thinks of running to find an adult, to go tell Émilie or anyone, but he has no time to move.
Louis arrives running, as always, with the quickness of a wildcat, his energy impossible to contain, and his instinct to protect the things he loves, even if he never says it.
He sees the shoe in the tree, he sees the older boys laughing, he sees the shining eyes of Harry. And without asking questions or waiting for someone to say anything, he declares in a firm tone:
“No, don’t call the adults. I’m strong, you’ll see.”
Even before Harry has time to open his mouth, Louis launches himself. He grabs the trunk, climbs with his battered hands, his scratched elbows, his dirt-streaked knees, with the naive boldness that drives him to believe that anything is possible if he decides it hard enough. He climbs quickly, agile as if he does this every day, until he reaches the branch where the shoe rests. He stretches out his arm, grabs it, and swings it in the air with a triumphant smile just as a loud, sharp voice erupts behind him.
A supervisor, alerted by the commotion, rushes over, followed by two other adults. The older boys sneak away discreetly, as if they knew nothing, while Louis gets scolded loudly in front of everyone. They tell him that he could have fallen, that it's dangerous, that he must respect the rules, that he isn't there to do just anything. And he, he lowers his head without saying a word, the shoe still in his hand, cheeks red but gaze proud.
When everyone disperses, the cries have faded, and the yard finds a semblance of calm, Louis walks back to Harry, his sneakers dirty, knee torn, arms scratched by branches but his eyes still shining with pride. He clutches the shoe against him like a trophy, like proof, and he hands it over without hesitation, as if he has achieved something enormous, something that matters.
“See? I told you I was strong.”
He smiles, hair tousled, a leaf stuck to his sleeve, cheeks still flushed from the wind.
Harry doesn’t say anything immediately. His fingers slowly tighten around the undone laces of the shoe, but his eyes remain fixed on Louis, on his proud and tired expression, on the way he stands tall despite the reproaches, despite the voice that has shouted too loudly. He doesn’t understand why Louis did this for him. Why he ran, climbed, disobeyed, risked punishment just for a shoe. Just for him.
And without thinking, without warning, he steps forward and wraps his arms around Louis. An awkward gesture, not yet fully assured, but sincere. He holds him tightly, softly at first, then a bit stronger, as if clinging to something precious, as if saying thank you without knowing how to put the right words to it.
Louis doesn’t move. He freezes for a second, surprised, arms still at his sides. Then he laughs softly, a little breath between his teeth, and he places a hand on Harry's back, saying nothing either.
In the empty yard, their two bodies hold each other for a moment, tiny yet solid, as if, for a few seconds, the rest of the world can wait.
***
It’s a Saturday, one of those days where the sky is pale and silent, where children linger a little longer in their pajamas, where schedules are less strict and adults a bit more patient. Harry has just hung up the phone with his mom, the receiver still warm against his ear, his heart light from hearing her voice, even if it was only for a few minutes. She told him she loved him, that she was counting the days, that she was proud of him, that he seemed taller with each call. He smiled the whole time, even when she asked if he was eating well, if he was making friends, if he was sleeping a little better.
When he steps into the hallway, pockets full of sweet words, he instinctively looks for Louis, expecting to see him barrel around a corner, running through the hall with a stolen cap or a strange idea in his head. But he’s not there.
And it’s strange, because they are always together. Since Harry found out that Louis was seven years old, just a few months older than him, and that they were in the same group, the one for ages 5 to 7, the one that shares games, drawing classes, activities outside, meals, and even evening songs, they haven't really let go of each other. Louis talks for two, acts for three, thinks of a thousand things at once, but Harry is always in his wake, like a reflection that's a bit calmer, a bit quieter.
Yet during this hour of parent calls, Louis seems to have disappeared. Harry looks in the game room, under the tables, around the benches. Nothing. He scans the windows, the bookshelf, the reading corner he loves so much. Still nothing. He begins to feel something strange, a sort of emptiness in his stomach, as if he has forgotten something important. He stops, rubs his eyes, then decides to wash his hands before lunch, to get ready, because he’s been told it is important to be clean before eating.
It’s as he pushes open the door to the boys' bathroom that he sees him. Sitting on the floor, legs crossed on the tiles, head lowered onto his knees, a small hair tie spinning between his fingers like a top. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t sing, he doesn't even really move.
Harry approaches slowly, surprised to find him there, so calm, so alone.
“Louis? What are you doing?”
Louis lifts his head right away, a soft smile on his lips, as if he is happy to see him, as if nothing is wrong. He extends the hair tie toward him, to show him how he spins it between his fingers.
Harry crouches down beside him, hands resting on the floor to keep his balance.
“Aren’t you calling your mom?”
Louis gently shakes his head, eyes down again on the object he is twirling.
"She is tired. I can't call her often."
Harry furrows his brow a little. He doesn't quite understand.
"She doesn't sleep much?"
Louis shakes his head again, but this time he doesn't quite smile. Or maybe it’s a sad smile, one that comes without wanting to.
"No. That’s not it."
Harry waits. He doesn't know if he should ask another question. But he does anyway, in a low voice:
"What is it?"
Louis shrugs a bit, as if he has already explained this a hundred times in his head.
"She's very sick."
Harry looks at him for a long time. He is not sure he understands. His mouth opens a little, his fingers tighten around the fabric of his pants.
"Sick how? Does she have a fever?"
Louis shakes his head. His eyes shine, but he continues to play with the elastic, as if it could stop him from crying.
"She has cancer."
Harry blinks. The word is strange. He doesn't know its shape. He doesn't know if he should worry, or if he can say something.
"What is... that?" he asks, very softly, almost like a secret.
Louis stops moving. He looks up at him, searching for the right words in his mouth, in his seven-year-old mind, and ends up responding slowly, with pauses between each sentence, as if he's walking on stones he doesn’t know.
"It’s an illness… that hurts all the time. She has to stay in bed a lot. She takes medicine that makes her all weird. It made her lose all her hair. And she’s often tired, like she ran a long way, but without running."
Harry listens without moving. He tries to imagine. He thinks of his mom when she had a cold. Or when she was too tired to read at night. But that’s not the same. Not at all.
So he smiles, awkwardly, because he doesn't know how to do anything else.
"You can tell her to have milk with honey... My mom makes that for me when I'm sick. It helps."
Louis looks at him, and his eyes shine a little brighter, as if something inside him is gently twisting. He doesn’t laugh, but he doesn't cry either. He looks at Harry like one looks at someone who doesn't understand, but tries anyway. And it’s almost better.
He nods, just once.
"Maybe I’ll tell her."
Then Harry reaches out his hand, without thinking too much, and gently grabs the elastic. He bounces it awkwardly between his fingers, and Louis, next to him, starts to smile again, for real this time.
***
As the weeks go by, something slowly takes shape, like an invisible line that separates Harry and Louis, even though they are always side by side, even though they sleep just a few centimeters apart, eat at the same table, share the same games, the same races in the yard, the same stories whispered softly under the blankets. Harry feels it without knowing how to put it into words: Louis is moving faster than him.
At school, Louis understands everything almost immediately, even though he never sits still, even though he raises his hand to say silly things or answers incorrectly to make the class laugh. He fidgets in his chair, swings his legs under the table, forgets his notebooks or draws in the margins, but when it's time to respond, he always finds the right answers, with a ease that makes others envious without wanting to.
Harry, on the other hand, struggles to keep up. Not because he isn't intelligent, but because everything in him remains tense, occupied elsewhere, in this absence he drags around like a shadow, in this lack that takes the place of letters and numbers. He looks out the window too often, thinks of his mom too hard, forgets what he is asked, forgets to finish, forgets to start.
One day, Émilie calls him in. He doesn't understand everything, just that he now has to go to study in the evening, during free time. No playground, no games, no Louis. And that is worse than homework. Even if the young woman tries to make him understand that it is not a punishment, that it’s to help him and that he is improving, Harry does not see it that way.
He leaves the office with a tight heart, hands in pockets, dragging his feet along the hallway where Louis is waiting for him, leaning against the wall with a spinning top in his fingers.
“Did you get punished too?”
Harry nods, eyes focused on the floor.
“Yes…”
“Why?”
A silence. A sigh.
“I’m not doing well… I’m not strong.”
Louis furrows his brows, shakes his head energetically.
“Oh no, Harry!”
Harry shrugs, throat tight.
“Yes… I have to go to study in the evenings. But I’d rather play with you.”
Louis doesn’t say anything right away. He moves closer, puts an arm around Harry’s shoulders comfortably, as he always does, as if it’s normal to stick close to someone when they are feeling down.
“Don’t worry, I’ll come to study with you. And I’ll help you.”
Harry looks at him, surprised, brows furrowed.
“But no! You're not in trouble! And you won’t be able to play…”
Louis smiles, a gentle, calm smile that questions nothing.
“But it won’t be as good to play without you anyway. And I have good grades.”
Harry feels something warm rise in his chest. He lowers his head, but a smile slowly creeps onto his face.
Louis does not waste time. He grabs her hand and takes her directly to Émilie’s office. She is there, her thick glasses slipped down her nose, filling in a notebook. She looks up when they enter.
“Émilie? Can I go to study with Harry?”
She furrows her brows, perplexed.
“To study? Why?”
“To help him.”
She stares at him over her glasses.
“Louis…”
“Please, please! I will behave!”
A long sigh, a hesitation, then a small smirk.
“Alright, alright… But you won’t be sad about not going to play?”
Louis immediately shakes his head, as if the question doesn’t even need to be asked.
“No!”
Then Émilie nods, grabs her pen, and writes his name in the column on the board.
“Alright, I’m writing down your name.”
She watches them leave, arm in arm, already bickering over who will have the best spot at the table, and she smiles for real, a slightly moved, somewhat tender smile. Because it is the first time, here, that a child asks to go to study.
***
Friday evening always has a particular color at the boarding school. A floating atmosphere, somewhere between fatigue and relief, between the impatience of the weekend and the silence that follows the loud laughter. For Harry and Louis, this Friday is no exception, except that this time it begins in a classroom instead of ending in the courtyard.
Being in study hall is strange, especially on a Friday.
But since Monday, they have obeyed well. Not a single escape in the garden, no commotion, no running in the halls. Louis remains seated — almost the entire time — and Harry keeps pace. It is quieter than he imagined study hall would be. Almost gentle. There are five of them, no more, and the silence is not oppressive. Émilie is there, her glasses slipping a little down her nose, but she speaks more softly than in class; she takes the time to sit next to each one, to place a hand on a shoulder, to explain again when someone doesn’t understand.
Harry likes it, after all.
First of all, because Louis is there, always next to him, their elbows touching, the whispers encouraging him, the little drawings in the margins of his notebook to make him smile. And because understanding becomes easier. Less noise, more time, more Louis. He sometimes raises his hand without realizing it, dares to read aloud a few words, even begins to enjoy it when someone asks him a question.
When they pack up their things, their faces lit up by the idea that a weekend is starting, backpacks hastily zipped and pencil cases closed with both hands, Émilie looks at them. Both of them. This improbable yet sturdy duo. She has seen children pass through here over the years, in the ten years she has worked in this boarding school. She has seen friendships emerge, fade, disappear by the next school year. But nothing like them. Nothing like this obvious bond that has settled between Harry and Louis.
There is something rare, precious.
Louis, that little hyperactive boy who spent his time running, climbing on furniture, seeking attention that never came without a prank, seems calmer. Less electric. He still moves, of course. He still gets into trouble — he always will. But it’s not as systematic anymore, not as noisy. He no longer needs to scream that he is there, since someone is already watching. Harry watches him. All the time. And that is enough.
And Harry, on his side, changes too. The reserved child, shy, always in the shadows of others, begins to come out of his shell. His voice grows more confident, his gestures less hesitant. He talks to others, allows himself to laugh loudly, to run, to make mistakes without blushing. There is a new light in his eyes, a quiet confidence that grows between the silences, and Louis is there, always, to support him, to help him understand, to whisper the answer when he forgets.
Émilie watches them, one against the other, Louis quickly closing his pencil case while Harry adjusts the corners of his notebook. And she thinks, in that little suspended moment, that nothing is more beautiful than this. That nothing is more moving than to see two children battered by life, two children left by the world’s wayside, find in each other a support, a balance, a way to exist just a little better.
She smiles, her heart a bit tight, and lets them go down the hallway hand in hand, ready to experience a new weekend, together, as always.
***
Harry does not know exactly how time has passed. He suddenly realizes that it has already been three months since he arrived here. Three months sleeping in this bed that he found too hard, eating in this canteen that is too loud, living among children he did not know, and who now know the color of his favorite socks, the way he bites his lip when he is focused, and his laugh, a bit shy, a bit broken, when Louis says something too ridiculous to be true.
He only realizes this because someone just told him. The headmaster called him into his office, gently closed the door behind him, and spoke in that deep voice he always uses to say important things.
“Your mom is coming to pick you up for Christmas, Harry. It will be short, she won’t be able to stay long, but she is returning to England. You will be able to spend a few days with her.”
And that’s as if someone has suddenly turned all the lights back on in his mind.
He does not know how to contain it. It is too much. It is immense. It is the best Christmas gift he can imagine.
When he exits the office, he does not take the time to button his coat. He runs. He crosses the hallways, rushes down the stairs, his boots slipping a little on the wet tiles, his heart beating so fast that his temples throb. Outside, in the snow-covered yard, he immediately spots Louis, his hat askew, cheeks red, shaping a snowman with other children.
He charges straight toward him, stopping out of breath a few steps away.
“My mom is coming to get me for Christmas! She’s coming back to England! We’re going to be able to spend the holidays together; I can’t wait!”
Louis looks at him, and immediately, his face lights up as if he is the one who received the news. He drops the snowball he was shaping and rushes toward the curly-haired boy to hug him tightly, as he always does, as if emotions pass better through the body than through words.
“That’s awesome, Harry!”
Harry laughs against his wet sweater, his nose cold but his heart warm, then pulls back a little to look him in the eyes.
“What about you? Are you going to see your mom?”
Louis nods with a little smile, already starting to roll another snowball between his soaked gloves.
“Yes, my stepdad is coming to get me on my birthday.”
Harry furrows his brows.
“When is it?”
“The 24th.”
He pales. His eyes wide open.
“You’re going to be eight… the day before Christmas.”
Louis looks up at him, surprised to see his expression like that.
“Yeah, why do you make that face?”
Harry lowers his eyes, his heart tightening suddenly, a new worry creeping in.
“Well… you’ll be in the older kids' group, which means after…”
Louis laughs softly, grabs his arm, and pulls him close.
“But not this year! I’m still staying with you, I promise!”
And Harry looks up at him, a little relieved and a little calmer.
“And when is your birthday?” Louis asks.
Harry smiles shyly.
“February 1st.”
“Cool!” Louis exclaims as if he just learned the date of a fireworks display.
He grabs Harry by the sleeve and leads him back to the half-formed snowman, offers him a carrot, laughs when it falls from its poorly attached nose, and starts over tirelessly. He talks loudly, pretends the snowman is a monster, stomps in the snow, tries to make him laugh, tries to make him forget that tiny detail that could disturb the initial good news. And Harry slowly starts to smile again.
***
Harry tightly grips his mom's hand, as if he's afraid it's a dream, as if, if he lets go, she might disappear again. They walk slowly between the little illuminated wooden chalets, the Christmas music softly floating around them, the shimmering garlands above their heads, the scents of cinnamon and warm sugar tickling their noses. It's cold, but Harry doesn't really feel it. He is too busy enjoying the moment. She is here. She is really here.
Anne, on her side, struggles to hold back the lump in her throat. She looks up at the decorations, the fake stars hanging above, the children running around the stalls, and she wishes she could stop time right there. Freeze the moment. She feels so much pain deep inside her at the thought of leaving him again in two days. She picked him up just yesterday, and she already knows that the departure the day after tomorrow will twist her heart. She hasn't stopped feeling guilty since day one. For having to leave him here while she went to the United States, for having left him alone, even if it was for his future, even if she had no choice, even if it's just a sacrifice, just one year. That's what she keeps telling herself. Just one year.
But one year is long when you're six. It's long, even when you're a mom.
She looks at him, her son. He has grown, changed. He seems more self-assured, looking at the shop windows with curiosity, walking without dragging his feet, talking a bit more than before. He laughs sometimes without apologizing. He's becoming someone. But deep down she has this strange fear: what if he becomes someone she no longer recognizes? What if he ends up not needing her anymore?
Harry suddenly stops. He gently tugs at her sleeve.
She stops in turn and looks at what has caught his attention. It's a stall filled with snow globes, lined up on a shelf, all different. Some have little chalets, others penguins, or trees covered in snowflakes. But the one Harry looks at is different: a blue-tinted glass globe, inside of which stands a little deer, its hooves in the snow, head held high with pride.
Harry stares at it for a long time, as if he is listening to something she cannot hear.
"What’s the matter, my heart?" she asks softly.
He raises a finger and points to the globe without looking away.
"Can we take it?"
She furrows her brows, slightly surprised. He has never been one to ask for anything. He accepts what is given to him, always says thank you, but never asks.
"You want me to get that?" she repeats, a bit astonished.
"Yes."
She looks at the globe, then back at his face. He doesn't seem to be making a fuss. It's not a whim. There's something deep, almost solemn in his request. She doesn't quite understand. Harry has never shown particular interest in deer or Christmas items.
But maybe this isn't the time to ask too many questions. Maybe, for once, she can just make him happy. Because she has already abandoned him enough this year. Because he deserves a little yes.
So she buys it. The vendor carefully wraps it in glittery paper, ties the bag with a golden string, and hands it to Harry, who takes it with both hands, like a treasure. He doesn't put it in his pocket, doesn't leave it in his bag, he keeps it close, protected.
They continue walking, then stop at a hot chocolate stall. Two steaming cups later, they sit on a wooden bench, facing the ice rink where children skate and laugh, their cheeks red, their hats falling off.
Anne takes a sip, then turns her head toward him, a smile on her lips.
"So... you like deer now?"
Harry keeps his eyes on the globe resting on his knees, his fingers clutching the bag tightly. He shakes his head slightly, then says softly,
"Yes, I like them... but it's not for me."
She knits her brows, setting her cup down beside her.
"Oh really?"
Harry looks up at her, serious as rarely.
"It's for my best friend. Louis."
A little silence.
"When I cried because I missed you, he lent me his stuffed animal. It's a deer. He loves deer. And today, it's his birthday. He needs a present, right? I’m going to give it to him when I go back to the dorm."
Anne stands frozen for a moment.
She doesn't quite know what she feels. It's a strange mix — a bit of pride, a lot of emotion, and that discreet pain of knowing he cried without her, that another child had to comfort him. She wishes she could apologize, take him in her arms, promise him that soon it will be over. That she will come back. That she will be there.
But she simply smiles. She gently runs her hand through his curls, brushing them away from his forehead, and whispers,
"I am proud of you, my heart."
***
These four days spent with his mom do Harry a lot of good. As if something inside him gently falls back into place. As if he finally understands, at the age of six, that even if she goes far away, even if she can't stay for long, she will always come back. Not because she has to, but because she loves him. Because he is her son, and you never really leave those you love. Not for good.
So when December 26th arrives, and Anne takes him back to the boarding school, Harry does not cry. He is sad, of course. He holds her hand a little tighter, he slows his pace down the stairs, he looks at the walls as if he is rediscovering them. But he does not cry. He feels calmer, more grounded. He knows now that it is not abandonment. That it is temporary. That his mom exists elsewhere, and that she will think of him, even from afar.
They go up together to the room. The hallway is almost empty, like the dormitory actually. Few children have stayed for the Christmas holiday. Some have gone to their grandparents, others have been picked up for a longer period by their parents. The boarding school is silent, as if it is sleeping too.
But when Harry opens the door to the room, a little head is already peeking over the edge of a bed. Messy brown hair, wide-open eyes, a smile already ready.
Louis.
They jump into each other’s arms without thinking. As if it’s normal. As if those few days apart had been an eternity. Louis laughs loudly, holds Harry against him, and Anne, standing back, watches the scene with a tender smile. She has no doubt. It’s him. The famous Louis. The cuddly deer, the homework during study time, the jokes in the margins of the notebook — it’s him.
Harry turns around, his cheeks flushed with happiness.
“Mom, it’s Louis!”
Louis straightens up, breathless from the hugs, his cheeks rosy and his hair messy.
“Hello, ma’am!”
Anne steps forward, reaches out her hand with a smile.
“Hello Louis. I’m happy to meet you.”
But Harry can’t sit still anymore. He rushes towards his backpack, yanks the zipper hurriedly, rummages through it mumbling. Then he finds what he is looking for: the golden paper bag from the Christmas market, a little crumpled but still carefully tied.
He turns around, his heart racing, and holds out the package to Louis.
“Happy birthday!”
Louis freezes.
He doesn’t say anything right away.
His cheeks take on a shade of red that Harry has never seen on him before. Louis, the daredevil, the chatterbox, the tireless one, suddenly seems so small, so shy. He lowers his eyes, then lifts them to Harry as if he is not sure he heard right.
“It’s... for me?”
Harry nods, confident.
Louis catches the package gently, his fingers a bit trembling. He does not open it like a child tearing the paper. He unwraps it slowly, carefully, as if he is afraid of damaging something too beautiful.
And then he sees it.
The snow globe.
Blue, pale, delicate.
And at the center, a small deer standing on the snow.
Louis stares at it. For a long time.
He still does not speak. His heart beats too fast. He does not know why it touches him so much. He does not even know if he has ever received a real gift like this, a gift chosen for him, by someone who is not his mom. Not to fill a slot. A thoughtful gift. A deer. A birthday.
He smiles, softly at first. Then more widely. He raises his eyes to Harry and, without thinking, dives into his arms. A quick, awkward hug, a bit too tight, but sincere. The kind of hug given when one does not know how to say thank you.
And Anne, standing next to them, feels her heart tighten. Because looking at them both, she understands that even if she must still leave, even if she is not there every day, Harry is not alone.
She sits on the edge of the bed, next to Harry, while the boys sit across from each other on the carpet, with crossed legs, the snow globe placed between them like a sacred treasure. They talk quickly, with that hurried energy children have when they reunite after a few days apart, as if they have a thousand things to say and only a few minutes to tell everything.
She watches them with tenderness, letting herself be carried away by the rhythm of their conversation, by their interrupted laughs, by their phrases colliding without crashing. They are children, still very little, but already full of the world around them.
“What did you get for Christmas?” asks Harry, with bright eyes, already eager to hear the answer.
Louis puffs out his chest a bit, but his smile remains gentle, sincere, without exaggerated pride.
“I got lots and lots of presents, the biggest Christmas of my whole life!”
His arms spread out as if to show the extent.
“I got a bike, board games, a big stuffed deer — but really a big one! — and some collectible cars.”
Harry looks at him with admiration, real wonder in his eyes, without an ounce of envy. He has never been jealous. It is not in his nature. He listens, fascinated, and when Louis falls silent, he smiles in return.
“I got some action figures... and two books.”
Anne lowers her gaze for a second, her heart a bit tight. She wishes she could do more. But plane tickets, moving, savings... She could not. Still, Harry never asked, never demanded. And seeing him so happy with what he received reassures her. He does not need much, only love. She knows.
And Louis, for his part, does not brag. He shakes his head with a big smile, then simply adds:
“It was so cool. My mom was a bit less sick, so we were able to play in the snow together. My stepdad was grumpy, as usual, but at least my mom watched movies with me, and we played a lot.”
Anne smiles, touched by the way he speaks. He has a soft, slightly dragging voice, a way of telling that gives the impression that everything is always a little magical, even when it is not.
She asks, innocently, without really thinking:
“Oh, your mom is sick?”
She expects to hear about a cold, a cough, perhaps a sore throat. They are children, after all. Their worries should only be temporary.
But it is Harry who replies, with this disarming sincerity, as if it were the most normal thing in the world:
“She has cancer.”
Anne feels her stomach clench immediately, a chill running through her. She knows what that means. She knows the heaviness of that word. And she senses, in this silent room, in this little universe where everything still seems innocent, the weight of what these children are going through without even realizing it.
But Louis does not change his expression. He continues to smile gently, to play with the edge of his sweater, as if the word does not yet carry all its weight. As if he has decided to live despite everything, to hold on to what remains, to savor what is given to him, even when it is little.
Anne says nothing. She could. She could ask questions, say she is sorry, try to comfort. But she feels it's not the right moment. It’s not her pain, nor her story. And they, those two little ones, they speak of such serious things with so much innocence that she does not dare disturb their balance.
So she smiles. She asks them if they want hot chocolate, if they have a bit of space for a cookie, if maybe they can read a story together before saying goodnight.
And in her simple gestures, in her calm voice, she slips in everything she does not say: that they are brave, that they are beautiful, that they are strong, and that they deserve the world.
Anne closes the door to the bedroom gently behind her, leaving the muffled laughter of the two boys discussing in low voices, probably imagining a crazy plan to turn their snow globe into a rocket or their bed into a pirate ship.
She takes a deep breath in the silent hallway, slips her hands into the pockets of her coat, as if she needs to seek a little solidity there.
The principal waits for her a few steps away, standing upright in his dark suit, hands clasped behind his back, and beside him, Émilie, her glasses still straight on her nose, her notebook in one hand, looking sweet but tired. They nod when she approaches, as if to greet without making too much of a fuss.
They exchange a few words. A little summary, as they say.
Anne explains to them, in a low voice, that she does not yet have an exact date for her return, that the work situation is still unstable, that the move takes time. But she promises to do her best. She promises to organize everything so that she can come back at least for Harry’s birthday, at the beginning of February. And it is not an empty promise. It matters to her. It is vital for her to be able to hold him in her arms that day.
Then, in a more fragile breath, she dares to ask the question.
She hesitates to formulate the words. She lowers her eyes slightly, almost ashamed to speak them.
“And… Louis’s mom? The kids told me she’s sick.”
A silence settles in, barely a second. But enough for the looks to meet.
The principal turns his eyes to Émilie, who tilts her head slightly before responding. She leans against the wall, her voice a bit lower, slower, as if weighing each word carefully.
“His mom has a brain tumor.” She pauses. “It’s his stepfather who dropped him off here after lunch on the 25th. He left right away.”
Anne nods, lips tight, without speaking. She already feels that tension in her chest, a dull worry wrapping around her.
Émilie continues, her voice even softer now.
“She insisted that he spend Christmas with her. She knew she might not be able to offer him that next year. She called us several times… She said Louis would be spoiled this year because it’s likely the last time she will celebrate his birthday and the holidays. She isn’t sure she will make it that far.”
Anne does not respond right away. She looks at the ground, then at the wall in front of her, not really seeing either.
She thinks of the little boy in the room, his cheeks still red with happiness, the snow globe tightly clutched in his hands, the way he jumped into Harry's arms without hesitation. Of his voice when he said, “she was a little less sick,” with so much hope. With so much childhood.
She thinks of Harry too, of what he is going through, of his loneliness, of his courage. And she tells herself that sometimes, the world is ruthless, even for the youngest.
She clenches her jaw, swallows her tears. She cannot collapse here, not now. It is not hers. It is not her sorrow. But she feels it nonetheless. For this woman who is preparing her son to live without her. For this boy who still laughs, unaware that he already carries immense pain, lurking just behind his smiles.
“Thank you for telling me…” she murmurs, in a slightly broken voice.
The director nods, Émilie offers him a faint, tired smile.
Anne takes a deep breath, then straightens a bit. She understands. And it hurts. It hurts to know that a child here may soon lose his mother. And, with her, perhaps also that bright smile that brings Harry so much comfort.
But as she walks away, she also tells herself that she has witnessed something rare, up there in that room: a friendship born out of longing, forged in silence and comfort, and which, perhaps, will hold strong against everything that childhood is not supposed to face.
***
The weeks pass quietly, like the pages of a book being turned in silence. Winter gently fades away, the snow melts in the corners of the yard, scarves become lighter, the children’s laughter returns more vividly, carried by the scent of apple snacks and the sun still shy behind the clouds.
And Anne keeps her promise.
She comes. Not late, not halfway.
She comes completely, her heart open, her arms outstretched, her smile sincere. She offers Harry a weekend just for them. No suitcase between them, no phone to check, just walks, stories read aloud, shared meals, and arms to sleep in.
Harry turns seven.
Seven, a chocolate cake, two figurines, and a sweet note slipped into a blue envelope. But above all, he has his mom. And that is all he needs.
When he returns to the boarding school on Sunday evening, a lighter bag on his shoulder and his heart still swollen with memories, he doesn’t look for Louis: he already knows where he is.
He runs up the stairs, crosses the hallway, and pushes the door to their room. And right away, he knows he has been expected.
There are flowers everywhere — paper flowers, made from colored sheets, hanging around the frame of his bed, forming a trembling garland. There are drawings taped against the wall: hearts, stars, a deer, a house, two little figures holding hands.
And then, there is Louis. Standing by the bed, hands behind his back, a somewhat shy smile, a bit too proud to hide.
Harry looks at him, mouth slightly open. Then he puts down his bag, steps forward, and hugs him without hesitation. Tight. For a long time.
Louis laughs softly, his cheek pressed against Harry’s shoulder. And in a simple whisper, he murmurs in his ear:
“You are my best friend for life.”
Harry closes his eyes for a moment. He says nothing because it’s too tight in his chest. Because sometimes, it’s Louis who has the words better than he does. So he holds on even tighter.
And he thinks that if there is one thing he can believe in forever, it’s this.
***
One April morning, light filters softly through the still-drawn curtains, pale and blue, gentle as a secret. In the room, everything is calm, the beds breathe slowly, the blankets still wrinkled from the night's dreams. But on the bed at the back, something is wrong.
Harry wakes up in silence, his eyelids heavy, his throat dry, a strange weight on his chest. His whole body feels numb, as though he floats between two worlds, too hot and too cold at the same time. He barely moves, turns his head toward the window, then toward Louis, asleep on the other side. He wants to fall back asleep, just a bit, but his head is pounding, and his temples throb to the rhythm of a discomfort he doesn’t understand.
He eventually sits up, slowly, his arms trembling. His pajamas stick to his skin; he is too hot. Far too hot.
He places one foot on the floor. Then the other. The floor is cold. He staggers slightly, grips the edge of the bed, wobbles. And that's when Louis opens his eyes.
At first, he doesn’t understand. Then he sees Harry’s red cheeks, his misty gaze, his hesitant movements.
“Harry?” he says, already sitting up, brow furrowed.
Harry shakes his head gently, as if to say he’s fine, but his body contradicts him.
Louis springs to his feet, rushes to grab Harry's slippers and carefully slips them on his feet, one knee on the ground as if he is helping a king get ready. Then he slips an arm around him and lifts his chin seriously.
“Come on, let’s go. I’m going to help you down.”
And that’s what he does. Slowly, cautiously. They make their way through the hallways in little steps, Harry leaning against Louis, who speaks softly to distract him— we’re going to have toast, maybe you won’t need orange juice, unless you want it, we can ask Émilie — but Harry hardly responds. He whimpers slightly, his mouth trembling, his eyes moist.
“I don’t like being sick…”
Louis squeezes his shoulder a little tighter.
“I know. Me neither.”
When they arrive in the dining room, still half-empty at this hour, one of the staff members notices them immediately. He approaches quickly, kneels in front of Harry.
“Hey, buddy… what’s going on?”
He reaches out, brushes his forehead, and his expression changes instantly. He furrows his brow, leans in a bit more, touches Harry’s burning temple again.
“You have a fever.”
Harry closes his eyes, as if this phrase confirms everything. Yes. He is sick. Really. And even though Louis is here, even though he is brave, he wants to be taken back to bed. He wants to be tucked in. Wrapped in a blanket while someone reads him a story until the pain goes away.
Louis looks at him with concern, his fingers still clutching Harry's sleeve. He won’t let go. Not until he feels better.
The supervisor gently takes Harry's hand, his gestures calm, almost silent, as if he is afraid of shaking him too much. The little boy, feverish, follows him without resistance, his feet dragging slightly on the floor, his eyes half-closed, his breathing short. But barely have they taken a few steps when Louis, always glued to his heels, clings to Harry's arm, like an anchor that refuses to be lifted, matching their pace.
“Louis, go have your breakfast,” the supervisor says in a soft voice, without turning around.
But Louis shakes his head, his hair disheveled.
“No. I stay with him.”
The supervisor stops, turns to him, and gives him a firm but not harsh look.
“Louis...”
And then, Louis's voice rises, broken but determined, the kind of voice that comes from the belly rather than the mouth.
“If I can't take care of my mommy while she's sick, then I can at least take care of Harry!”
A sudden silence falls, heavy and sharp. The supervisor stands frozen, his mouth slightly open. And in his belly, something tightens. A sudden wave of sadness washes over him, deep and silent, and he closes his eyes for a moment, not to show what this little boy has just awakened in him. All the adults here know the little boy's situation and what might happen in the coming months.
When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, almost whispered.
“You’re going to get sick too if you stay…”
But this time, it is Harry who speaks. His voice is weak, wracked by fever, but it manages to slip between them.
“Don’t worry… I’m going to get strong. And then I’ll come back to play with you.” He breathes a little harder, then adds, with a tired smile: “Can you save me a pain au chocolat?”
Louis watches him without saying anything, his lips trembling a bit. He wants to say no, he wants to follow him, to stay close to him until he no longer hurts. But Harry's words gently find their way into his mind. And he understands. He understands that sometimes, loving means letting go for a little while, and that the adults are more capable than he is of taking care of his friend.
So, with shining eyes, he slowly nods his head.
And his fingers, until then clinging to Harry’s burning hand, slip away one by one.
The supervisor says nothing. He simply gives a discreet but sincere smile, and resumes walking, with Harry holding on to his hand like a fragile thread that needs to be handled with care. Louis remains there, at the end of the hallway, motionless, his heart tight, then turns around and darts off towards the breakfast room, determined to save the biggest pain au chocolat for when Harry comes back.
***
The dining room is full of voices, of clattering cutlery, of chairs scraping, of laughter that bursts too loudly. The other children talk about the games of the day, the weather, what they want to do this weekend, as if everything is normal, as if the world turns without a hitch.
But Louis does not move.
Sitting in his place, his plate remains untouched before him, steam still gently rising from the gratin. He has his head down, his hands under the table. He chews on his nails one by one, in silence, his gaze lost in the void. Not a grimace, not a silly act, not a word. Just the heavy silence he carries since this morning, since he saw Harry disappear down the hallway, pale and unsteady, taken to the infirmary.
The teacher has noticed. She talked about it with Émilie, quietly, during the afternoon break.
So Émilie approaches. She takes a chair, gently turns it over, and sits right next to him without saying anything at first. She observes him. This is not the Louis she knows. This is not the one who makes faces when she walks by, who slips pieces of bread into the glasses of water, who stands on his chair to tell a joke.
“Are you not hungry?” she asks softly, without insisting.
Louis shakes his head. His eyes are bright, but he does not cry. He keeps everything inside.
Émilie waits a little. Then she asks, a bit softer:
“Is it because Harry is not here?”
Louis does not answer immediately. He sniffs a little, then shrugs his shoulders. But his voice eventually emerges, almost broken, as if it has gotten lost somewhere in his throat.
“He is all alone. He is sick and I can’t even go see him.”
Émilie places her hand on his back, a slow, enveloping gesture.
“The doctor came by. He thinks it’s a nasty flu. He has a fever, yes, but we are taking care of him, Louis. It’s nothing serious, I promise.”
Louis grits his teeth. He still looks at his plate as if he is trying to read a truth he doesn’t want to hear.
“But… what if he stays sick for a long time? What if it gets worse?”
Émilie stays calm. She knows these worries. They are excessive, but not irrational. Not for a child like Louis.
“We are keeping an eye on him. He will get better quickly, you’ll see. It’s normal to be worried. But he’s in good hands.”
Louis barely nods his head, but his eyes shine brighter. And suddenly, his voice rises in a whisper, lower, almost secretive, almost guilty:
“Is it… is it cancer like my mom?”
Émilie feels her heart tighten violently. The silence that follows is suspended, fragile, and she remains frozen for a second, shaken by the brutal innocence of the question, by everything it implies.
She puts her hand firmly on Louis's shoulder this time, and her voice turns soft, filled with a care she doesn’t always know how to articulate.
“No, Louis. It’s not cancer. It’s not as serious. It’s just a nasty flu. It’s very bothersome, but it’s treatable. And Harry will recover quickly.”
And then, without warning, Louis’s voice slips. He lifts his eyes to hers, a wounded pout on his face.
“So that means that for my mom… it’s serious?”
Émilie feels a shiver run through her.
There is an entire world in that question. A world that an eight-year-old should not have to explore. She doesn’t respond immediately. She puts a firmer hand on his shoulder and speaks to him with all the care she can muster.
“It’s not the same, Louis. It’s not your burden to bear. Your mom has a difficult illness, yes, but she is fighting very hard. And you are doing your best here. And that is already quite a lot.”
Louis looks down. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his sleeve, a bit roughly, as if he is ashamed to be crying.
Then, after a silence:
“Is Harry going to sleep in the infirmary all alone tonight?”
Émilie nods gently.
“Yes. We will take care of him. He will have a bed, a warm blanket, a fruit juice if his throat itches. Everything he needs.”
Louis presses his lips together, his eyes gleaming once more.
“Harry needs my teddy bear. It’s Mr. Deer. I have to bring it to him. He sleeps better with it.”
Émilie freezes for a second. Normally, she would have said no. Rules are rules. No visits to the infirmary for healthy children. No teddy bears allowed to wander without permission. No compromises.
But she looks at Louis. And she thinks of the empty room. Of feverish Harry, alone in his bed. Of the bond that forms between two children who do not come from the same world. And she knows what she must do.
So she smiles a little.
“OK. We will go after dinner… but only if you eat everything, okay?”
Louis looks at her with a mix of relief and surprise. Then he smiles, shyly, for the first time that day.
And without saying anything more, he grabs his fork and finally begins to eat.
***
Émilie gently pushes the infirmary door, careful not to make a sound. Next to her, Louis walks in small steps, focused, his shoulders slightly stiff. He tightly holds his Mr. Deer against him, his fingers gripping the toy's legs as if letting go would cause everything to collapse. A surgical mask covers the lower part of his face, his eyes wide open, glistening with contained emotion.
The room is quiet, bathed in soft light. The only sound is the faint hum of the radiator and Harry's slowed breathing, asleep under a light blanket, his forehead beaded with sweat. As Louis approaches, Émilie places a hand on his back to encourage him, saying nothing.
Harry blinks his eyes open. He blinks several times, still half-asleep, then a tired smile stretches across his lips when he sees Louis near him. He doesn’t speak right away. He seems happy just to see him there, like a promise kept, even when everything hurts.
Louis steps up to the edge of the bed, then crouches down a little. Carefully, he places Mr. Deer beside Harry’s head, on the pillow, and gently adjusts one of its ears to ensure it is not crumpled.
His voice is soft, nearly a whisper:
“I can’t stay long… but I had to give you this. You need it more than I do.”
Harry turns his head slightly, his cheeks still flushed from fever. He looks at the toy, then at Louis, and his eyes shine with a mix of gratitude and tenderness.
They exchange a few quiet words — simple things, nothing significant. Are you feeling better? Did you get medicine?
Then Émilie approaches, her voice gentle yet firm:
“Louis, we have to go.”
The brown-haired boy doesn’t move right away. He continues to look at his friend, as if he wants to imprint his face in his memory, to make sure he will get better.
Then he exhales:
“Émilie told me I couldn’t keep the pain au chocolat until you were better… because it wouldn’t taste as good.” He lowers his head a little. “So I ate it.”
Harry gives a small smile.
Louis looks up and adds quickly, as if he wants to make up for it:
“But when you come back, I’ll let you have mine. That way, you can eat twice as much.”
Harry closes his eyes for a moment, the smile still there.
“Thank you, Louis.”
And this time, it’s Louis who seems to be able to breathe a little better. He straightens up, takes a final look at Mr. Deer snug against the pillow, then steps back, his arms by his sides.
Émilie extends her hand to him. He takes it. They step out together, and in the silence of the hallway, Louis walks a little straighter, a little lighter, as if he left part of his fear behind with his toy.
***
On the fourth day, the infirmary is calm. Harry still sleeps a lot, but his fever has dropped, his face has regained color, and the doctor, reassured, confirms that he will probably be able to reintegrate into the group the next day. Émilie, relieved, mentally checks off the box "Harry is better", but another, more silent worry has been following her since the morning like a tenacious shadow. Louis has not appeared in the game room, nor in the yard, and even in class, he has been reported remarkably quiet, not answering questions, not causing any trouble. The kind of silence that does not seem like just a day of fatigue, but something deeper, heavier. So Émilie goes out to look for him, not really knowing where she is going, driven by that familiar intuition that children give when you know them too well.
She finally finds him sitting alone on a wooden bench in the shade of the large chestnut tree, where almost no one goes, as if he wants to distance himself from all the noise, from the laughter, from the others. He is curled up, arms wrapped around his knees, his head resting against his folded knees, his gaze lost in the void. He does not cry, but the immobility of his small body speaks for him. Émilie approaches slowly, then sits down beside him, without a word, without forcing him to speak. She knows that with Louis, silence is often more eloquent than questions. He does not move, does not even turn his head toward her, but she feels that her presence is accepted, maybe even awaited. The bench creaks slightly under their weight, birds sing somewhere in the distance, and a light breeze makes the leaves above them dance, indifferent to the weight that has settled in this little corner of the yard. Louis is sad since Harry is no longer with him.
But Émilie knows that it is not just the temporary absence that is eating away at Louis. It is bigger. Deeper. It is not just four days in the infirmary, it is not just the flu. It is what lingers around him, what can be sensed without yet being said. It is what will come, later. It is the thought that has not yet found its place in Louis’s mind but one day will settle there. The thought that Harry will not stay. Not forever. Not after the summer. That one day, at the end of this school year, he will pack his suitcase again, take the plane with his mother, leave for the United States, and not come back. And Louis will remain here, with his memories, his evening silences, his bed that has become too big. He does not yet know that this moment will come. But when he learns this, Émilie senses, it will be a collapse.
So she softly inhales and places a gentle hand on his back, a tender gesture, without urgency.
"Do you want to tell me how you feel?"
He does not respond. He barely sniffles, weakly shakes his head, but she feels the tension in his body under her fingers, like a dam on the verge of giving way.
And she understands that she will have to help him. Not just now, not just for Harry's illness, but afterwards. For the day when Louis will realize what "leaving" really means. She cannot prevent him from hurting, but she can at least make sure that he is not alone to get through it. She is already thinking of ways, points of reference to establish.
Perhaps start gently introducing the idea, without scaring him. Maybe suggest writing, drawing to keep a connection.
Maybe talk to Anne, ask her if the boys could exchange letters, send each other cards, or even call from time to time, if the distance becomes too great.
Maybe… she doesn’t know yet. But what she knows is that she will not let Louis fall into a void without a helping hand.
She looks at him, still curled up, hair tousled, knees pulled against his chest, eyes shining with contained tears.
And then she murmurs, without trying to fill the silence, just so he can hear:
“You know… Harry loves you very much. Even if he’s not here. Even if one day he goes far away. That won’t change.”
Louis does not answer, but he blinks very quickly, as if he is struggling to maintain control, as if he is not yet ready to cry—or doesn’t want her to see him do it. And under her hand, Émilie feels again the small fragile beat of a child’s heart that, without really understanding, begins to be afraid of losing what is most precious to him.
***
The following morning, the sky is pale, streaked with gray, like a crumpled sheet too early. The atmosphere in the boarding house is calm, almost too calm. Émilie finishes distributing the instructions to another group when her gaze falls through the window on a familiar silhouette, sitting alone in the small activity room, bent over a piece of paper.
Louis.
He sits up straight, his back almost rigid, his brows furrowed, a felt-tip pen between his fingers. He doesn't speak, hardly moves, and his expression is so serious that she is momentarily taken aback. It’s not like him. Louis never draws. Louis is the one who runs before breakfast, who challenges the older kids to jump rope, who climbs trees despite the no-climbing rules, the one who gets called to order ten times an hour. Seeing him like this, absorbed, calm, almost withdrawn, is a sign. The last one she expected. The drop that confirms what she already knows: she can no longer stay passive.
So, she gently pushes the door, slips in quietly. Louis doesn’t look up right away. He is focused, intent on coloring the corner of a clumsily drawn heart, with a little figure inside. He only partially hears her as she approaches and asks softly, evenly:
“Who are you drawing for?”
Louis shrugs, still looking at the paper.
“For mom.”
Émilie subtly nods, places a light hand on the back of his chair, and waits for him to raise his gaze. When he does, she smiles a little wider and simply says:
“I came to get you. Do you want to come with me?”
Louis looks at her, a bit intrigued, his fingers still stained with ink, his head tilted.
“Where to?”
She pauses for a moment, then whispers:
“To look for your best friend.”
Louis's face lights up immediately. As if a light bulb has turned back on after several days of shadow. His gaze opens, his brows relax, and he leaps to his feet, heart racing. But as soon as he pushes his chair, Émilie gently stops him:
“Wait, let’s clean up first.”
Louis doesn't argue. He nods, almost too quickly, then starts picking up the pens, caps, and sheets of paper. He carefully folds his drawing—the one for his mom—and slides it into the inner pocket of his jacket, where he keeps the precious things he doesn’t want to damage.
Then, without waiting to be called, he dashes to Émilie’s side, his sneakers a bit untied, his steps lighter than they have been in days.
They walk down the hallway side by side, Émilie calmly, Louis picking up speed, his feet tapping on the floor as if he can no longer contain all the pent-up impatience of recent days. As they near the infirmary, his heart pounds in his chest, and Émilie, seeing him ready to bounce at any moment, tries to slow down the whirlwind.
“Slow down, Louis…”
But it’s too late.
He doesn’t even hear her.
He pushes the door with an impatient, almost brutal gesture, which gently slams against the wall, and enters as one comes home, without embarrassment, without fear, without restraint.
In the room, Harry stands, bending towards the floor, putting on his shoes, his blanket folded on the bed, still a bit wrinkled from the nights spent alone in this white room. There is even Mr Deer. The doctor is there too, explaining to Harry the instructions for the last days: a few medications, a bit more rest, but everything is fine.
But Louis looks at neither the doctor, nor the bottles, nor the papers.
He only looks at Harry.
And in one second, he crosses the room like an arrow, without warning, without hesitating, and literally jumps on his friend. Harry, surprised, forgets his shoes and lets the half-tied lace drop. He doesn’t need words, he doesn’t even need to think. His arms open instinctively, naturally, as if the whole week had been a long, colorless dream, and finally, the world becomes alive again.
They cling to each other with the strength and fragility of two children who have been afraid. Afraid that the other wouldn’t come back, afraid of being alone too long, afraid of no longer having someone to whisper to in the evening, or laugh with at the table, or chase after in the yard. They say nothing, or almost nothing, just small strangled laughs, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, cheeks pressed against each other's shoulder.
The doctor, a bit surprised, falls silent for a moment, and Émilie gives a tender smile. She watches the two children in their embrace, and feels a gentle warmth rising to her heart, like an ancient relief. There is in this scene something stronger than all the words she could utter, something pure, almost sacred: two small boys battered by life, each with their wounds and lacks, but who, together, seem to find a balance, a quiet strength, a rampart against abandonment.
And in the light silence of the room, while Harry’s arms tighten a little more around Louis's neck, Émilie thinks that no matter how many times she does this job, nothing will ever move her as much as this way children, sometimes, save each other.
***
Evening gently falls over the boarding school, wrapping the hallways in an almost muffled calm, as if the walls themselves are breathing again after the day. The children sleep or are about to do so, the lamps are dimmed, and only a few discreet footsteps still resonate.
Émilie lightly knocks on the director's office door, then enters at his invitation. He sits at his desk, a steaming cup of tea placed next to some open files. He watches her in silence, sensing immediately that she does not come for formality.
She closes the door behind her, takes a seat directly, and inhales deeply before beginning. It is not uncommon for her to come to touch base at the end of the day, but tonight, her voice is tenser, more restrained.
"I wanted to talk to you about Harry and Louis."
The director nods, listening to her attentively.
"They are… inseparable. But more than that. It’s turned into a fusion. And I'm starting to think it might be a bit too much."
She pauses, carefully searching for her words.
"Since Harry got sick, I have seen Louis fade. Not just worrying like a friend. It was deeper. He ceased to be himself. He was… absent."
She looks up at the director, her gaze filled with sincere concern.
"And that scares me. Not for today. But for tomorrow. For after. Because we both know Harry won't stay. He will return to live with his mother; that has been planned from the beginning."
The director nods slowly, his expression serious.
"And Louis doesn’t know yet. He hasn't realized. And when he understands..."
She presses her lips together, briefly averting her gaze.
"He is going to fall hard. Very hard. I know him. He has already lost far too many balances for his age. And losing Harry will be like… losing what keeps him grounded."
She inhales again, her fingers clenched together.
"And there is the other risk. The one we all dread. The phone. The call. If one day his mother..."
She doesn't need to finish the sentence. The director closes his eyes for a moment, runs a hand across his forehead. They both know that day may come. That it might happen. That they need to prepare for it.
"We need to think of solutions, transitions, buffers."
She continues, more composed:
"Maybe start separating them a bit. Not all the time. Not abruptly. But at least in certain activities. So they learn to do things one without the other. So we give them reference points elsewhere. Other support."
The director does not respond right away. He takes time to think, weighing the options. Finally, he nods slowly.
"You are right. We can’t prevent their attachment or their bond. And we certainly do not want to break it. But we can guide. Prepare. Create a balance."
He writes down a few ideas in an open notebook.
"Separate certain activities, occasionally have them work in different groups. Offer them individual time. Perhaps even bring in the school psychologist to assess how Louis might react to a change. And speak to Anne. See if a connection can be maintained later."
Émilie nods silently, relieved that he understands, that he takes the matter seriously.
They cannot prevent the pain from coming, neither can the other. But they can soften it. They can, at least, try.
***
At the end of May, the sun shines a little harder on the yard, and the air already smells of the approaching holidays, but for Harry and Louis, the atmosphere is quite different. Ever since the adults started separating them for certain activities, a small rebellion has taken hold—silent, non-violent, but stubborn, like only seven- and eight-year-olds know how to be.
Louis refuses to go to athletics group if Harry is in dance class. So, instead of running as he loves to do, he accompanies the curly-haired boy to the studio, sitting in a corner, arms crossed, sulking through every flexibility exercise. And Harry, for his part, eats less than usual if Louis isn’t sitting next to him at the table, pushing his plate away or barely picking at his food, as if meals have lost all flavor without their chatter.
The psychologist, Émilie, the principal… everyone tries. They talk, explain, invent bridges to gently prepare for the separation to come. But the two boys won’t let anyone pry them apart from each other. And for now, to avoid completely shattering the fragile balance that keeps them together, the adults have ended up giving a little ground.
Harry has therefore given up dance class—which he didn’t really like, even if he didn’t dare say it—and joined Louis in athletics. And, against all odds, he, who had never excelled in sports, is surprised to keep up. Initially clumsy and often breathless, he gradually finds his pace, aligning with Louis’s rhythm and that of the other fast boys.
The PE teacher, attentive, quickly notices his potential: good legs, a surprisingly steady breath, an unfaltering stride. Harry may not yet have Louis’s power, but he has this consistency that impresses.
So, together, they start training with a new determination, almost solemn, as if the last day of the month—the day of the race—has become their secret mission. In the yard, on the track, on the paths around the boarding school, they run side by side, breathing in sync, pushing each other to accelerate even further.
And deep down, even if the race is only one race among many, for them, it’s more than that: it’s a challenge they have decided to take on together, not leaving each other, as always.
***
When the day of the cross-country race arrives, the boarding school takes on the appearance of a quiet celebration. Colorful ribbons flutter in the breeze, tables are set for the post-race snack, and the air smells of freshly cut grass. A few parents come, their voices mingling with the laughter and excitement of the children. One can feel in the atmosphere that blend of the end of the year and the beginning of summer, like a promise of upcoming vacations.
But in the crowd, there is neither Harry’s mom nor Louis's. The two boys know it, but it does not discourage them. Not today. Today, they are together, and that is enough. Their warm-up feels almost like a ritual: a knowing look, a few awkward stretches, a smile that replaces all words. They are ready.
When the starting signal is given, they launch forward among the other children. The first few meters are a racket of footsteps and heavy breathing, but very quickly, Harry sets his pace to match Louis's. The training of the past few weeks has left its mark: they know their strengths, their limits, the way to push each other. Louis, faster, naturally takes the lead. Harry follows closely behind, driven by the certainty that they are achieving what they promised.
The final turn approaches. Louis accelerates again, his little legs flying like springs wound to the maximum, and he crosses the finish line first, before collapsing onto the grass, out of breath and with red cheeks. Applause erupts around them, coming from teachers, staff, and attending parents. Harry soon joins him, a big smile stretching across his face despite the fatigue, and he literally throws himself on him to give him a victory hug. They laugh, panting, dizzy from the effort and joy.
After a few minutes to catch their breath, the principal steps onto the small makeshift stage and announces the results. Each participant receives a shiny medal, and Louis receives a small trophy, which he takes with a mix of pride and shyness.
The principal, leaning towards him, asks:
“What were you thinking about during the race? You were extremely focused.”
Louis, still breathless but with sparkling eyes, replies without hesitation:
“It’s for my mom. I ran for her! So that she would be proud of me.”
A tender silence falls momentarily around them before the principal responds, his smile slightly clouded by emotion:
“I’m sure she is proud of you, Louis.”
***
On Monday morning, the boarding school gets back to its usual rhythm: the children are in class, the laughter fades down the halls, and the building seems to breathe almost slower. It is in this relative calm that Émilie settles at her desk, taking the moment to work on the less visible part of her job: calls, files, administrative follow-ups.
For several days now, she has been trying to reach the Tomlinson family. With each attempt, the ringing stretches into emptiness or goes to a voicemail that never calls back. She always finds an excuse for Louis, with that flexibility that conversations with children require: his mom is sleeping, she is in a meeting, she does not have her phone near her… But deep down, a dull worry begins to gnaw at her mind.
That morning, she dials the number again, the handset pressed between her fingers. Nothing. Then, lightly sighing, she decides to call the social worker in charge of Louis' case directly. Her voice is firmer, more professional, almost to mask the shadow that crosses her gaze. She explains the situation, asks for inquiries to be made, promises to pass on any new information.
It is at that moment that the door to her office opens gently. The director appears in the doorway, closes it behind him with almost discreet care, and waits for her to finish her call. When she sets down the phone, he steps forward, his face serious.
"I spoke with Anne Styles," he begins. "She has a date to come pick up Harry. It's official. He will not finish the school year here.”
Émilie freezes for a moment, her heart tight. She knew this day would come, of course, but hearing it said out loud gives this reality a different weight. A small pang crosses her chest at the thought of seeing this shy, reserved boy leave, who, thanks to Louis, has opened up to the world, laughed harder, run faster, dared to raise his hand in class.
“She will come in about ten days,” the director continues. “But for now, we don’t tell Harry. As long as nothing is a hundred percent certain, we avoid creating false hopes or unnecessary fears. It is at his mother’s request.”
Émilie nods, understanding the logic, even though part of her wants to gently prepare Harry, to avoid having the news fall like a guillotine. She remains silent for a second, then raises her eyes to him.
“And… Louis’ mother?” she asks. “His stepfather? I haven't had any news for several days.”
The director slightly furrows his brows, jotting something down in his notebook.
“We'll follow up on that. I’ll keep it in the back of my mind.”
But Émilie knows, just from the tone of his voice, that this back corner is already full of urgent priorities… and that this one could quickly become the most important.
***
The late afternoon sun still warms the yard a bit, but the air already smells like evening approaching. Most of the children play soccer or run around the covered play area, their shouts echoing between the walls. Harry and Louis, on the other hand, settle on the ground, in the shade of a tree, a small pile of colored chalk scattered around them.
Louis draws a large house with green walls and a blue roof, focused, his tongue stuck between his teeth. Harry, right next to him, draws a garden with a path connecting two houses. Their drawings naturally converge, as if they already know what they are building.
“Hey, Harry…” Louis says without taking his eyes off his roof. “We will always be friends, right? Like… forever and ever?”
Harry stops his green chalk, looks at him with a serious little face, and replies without hesitation:
“Yeah. Even if… even if we don’t live in the same place anymore, even if we don’t go to the same school, we’ll still be friends.”
Louis smiles, but insists:
“I never want you to not be my friend anymore. Even if you’re mad. Even if you don’t lend me your figurines.”
Harry laughs softly.
“And me, even if you do something really silly and get punished for a whole month, I’ll still be your friend.”
They pick up their chalk again, and Louis, in a cheerful tone, adds:
“When my mom gets better, we’ll live in the house right next to yours.”
Harry grabs the white chalk and draws a little sidewalk between their two drawings.
“Like that, every morning, we’ll race to be the first to school.”
Louis bursts out laughing.
“And if one day you’re scared, like during a big storm, I’ll open my window and throw Mr. Deer over the hedge to you.”
Harry draws a little clumsy deer next to the garden.
“And me, if one day you get sick, I’ll come read you a story every night. Even if I can’t read fast.”
They lean over their drawings until the houses are complete, connected by their colored path. In the chalk dust, with dirty knees and stained hands, they seal, without even knowing it, a promise of children who still believe that nothing, ever, can separate them.
But despite the bright innocence lighting the faces of the two little boys bent over their drawings, despite the quiet strength of a friendship woven from laughter, secrets, and whispered promises like certainties, there are things that even the pure love of a child cannot hold. Things bigger than them, silent and cruel, that advance in the shadows without them seeing them coming.
They still believe that the world will bend to their dreams, that two houses connected by a chalk path will be enough to keep them together. But soon, the wind, the rain, or simply time will erase the colors drawn on the ground, and with them, the sweet naivety that makes them believe that nothing can separate them. Because there are blows of fate that cannot be mended, absences that no promise can fill, and farewells that give no time to prepare.
The night has fallen a long time ago on the boarding school. The hallways are silent, only crossed by the distant creaking of a door or the breath of a radiator. In her office, Émilie finishes putting away some files, a cup of tea cold within reach. Everything is quieter since she has practically managed all the issues, that everything on her mind is checked off. Including Louis’s. The social worker called a few days before, saying that Louis’s mother was in intensive care; it doesn’t bode well, but it explains why she hadn’t been answering her son’s calls.
She gets ready to turn off the computer when the landline rings, breaking the silence.
It is 10 p.m. At this hour, calls are never trivial.
She hesitates for half a second, her throat already tight, then answers.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end is that of Louis’s stepfather. Deep. Tired. She recognizes the tone immediately, that way of speaking that precedes bad news. The words fall, quick, as if to get rid of them:
“This is Louis's stepfather. His mother passed away tonight.”
Émilie freezes, the receiver pressed against her ear, her heart beating so hard it hurts. The words resonate, smothering everything else. She doesn’t reply right away, unable to find a sentence that makes sense.
She thinks of Louis, of his laughter too big for his small body, of how he protects Harry as if guarding what he holds most dear, of his colorful stories to mask his worries. She also thinks of his childhood promises, the ones where he spoke about “when mom gets better.”
But tonight, there is no more “when.” Only an emptiness. An emptiness she doesn’t yet know how to tell him about without breaking him.
***
The hardest part of working in a boarding school is not just managing schedules, homework, or playground disputes. It is having to offer children support that they do not always know, becoming for them a substitute parent, a solid shoulder to cry on, a heart big enough to hold their sorrows and joys. Some are here because their parents can no longer take care of them, others because life has disrupted their home: financial difficulties, illness, death, distant work… So we learn to console them, to restore their confidence, to fill in, as much as we can, the absence of those they miss. But there is one moment that nothing prepares you for, a moment that goes beyond all rules and routines: the moment when you must put simple words to the unthinkable and tell a child that their mother has died. In those moments, the job becomes a weight that one carries in the pit of their chest, and each heartbeat feels heavier than the last.
***
The morning light filters into the room as the educators draw the curtains, letting in the fresh air and the scent of the hallway. Harry blinks slowly, still groggy, and his first action is to turn toward Mr Deer to give him a kiss. Every night, the stuffed animal sleeps next to him, and each morning, he returns to Louis's bed, as a small ritual they never miss.
The curly-haired boy turns around, his eyes already fixed on his friend's bed… but it is empty. Not just empty: disheveled, the sheets wrinkled, the pillow at an angle.
Harry furrows his eyebrows, feeling a knot in his stomach. He scans the room, searching the corners, but there is no Louis. No slippers by the bed, no belongings strewn around as usual.
He gets out of bed, his bare feet on the cold wooden floor, and goes to open the wardrobe. Nothing. No shoes. No blue and red backpack.
An educator approaches him softly from behind.
"Hey, buddy, it’s not the time to rummage around, we’re going for breakfast."
Harry turns toward him, still with his brows furrowed.
"Louis’s backpack isn’t here… Where did he go?"
The adult hesitates for just a moment too long before responding, a somewhat strained smile on his lips.
"He’s with the adults. Come on, we'll figure that out later. Let’s go eat while we wait for him."
Harry lowers his gaze to Mr Deer, which he holds tightly against him. He feels that something is off, but he doesn’t know what. So, he just nods silently, places Mr Deer in his bed, and follows the educator to the dining hall, his steps slower than usual.
Louis isn't there at breakfast, and this greatly upsets Harry, who generally eats better when his friend sits next to him. This morning, he barely picks at his bread, staring without truly seeing it. Once the meal is over, he rushes to wash up, lingering a bit under the hot water, as if to occupy his mind and chase away the strange feeling settling in his stomach.
When he exits, fully dressed, his hair still damp, he suddenly stops. Right there in front of him, a figure he knows by heart.
"Mum?"
Her hair is a bit longer than he remembers, her smile enormous, radiant, nearly overflowing from her face. Beside her, Émilie and the director exchange a knowing glance.
Harry drops everything he has in his hands and runs, throwing himself into her arms. The scent, the warmth, the softness of her hands in his curls… everything comes rushing back as if the months of waiting dissolve away.
"You've grown, my baby…" she whispers, holding him tighter, as if she will never let him go again.
And Harry, with his heart swelling, snuggles against her, convinced that nothing in the world could be more beautiful than this reunion.
Anne pulls back a little, her hands on her son's shoulders, gazing at him as if she wants to imprint every detail of his face in her mind. She keeps her broad smile and says to him in a gentle voice,
"It was a surprise... but you’re leaving the boarding school today. We’re going to pack your things and head home together."
Harry's bright smile fades immediately, replaced by a small wrinkle of confusion on his forehead.
"We can't leave now."
Anne furrows her brows.
"Why?"
"Louis isn't here. But he'll be back." His voice is full of a child's certainty, as solid as an absolute truth.
Of course, this is exactly what Émilie and the principal feared. They had already warned Anne about the situation, about this friendship so strong that it risks making the departure even more painful, especially since Louis has gone to join his family after his mother's passing.
So Anne makes a decision. She slips her hand into her son's and says softly:
"Come… let's talk a little."
All together — Anne, Harry, Émilie, and the principal — they go up to the boys' room, where Louis's bed remains unmade, as if frozen in a morning that has not seen his return.
Anne sits Harry down on his bed, then kneels in front of him to be at his level. She takes his hands, gently encloses them in hers, and remains silent for a few seconds, as if searching for the right words.
"My lion… do you know what death is?"
Harry nods slowly.
"Yes… like Grandpa."
Anne offers a sad smile, gently stroking his fingers.
"Yes, like Grandpa. Do you remember… when we said goodbye to Grandpa, it was for good. He couldn't come back, couldn't speak to us anymore… but he stays in our hearts."
She takes a deep breath, her eyes shining with emotion.
"Tonight… Louis's mom… she has gone too. She was very sick, and her body… it no longer had the strength to keep fighting."
Harry stares at her, looking lost, as if he is trying to understand a foreign language. He connects the word cancer with the word death all by himself in his head.
"She won't come back?"
Anne shakes her head gently.
"No, my angel. She won't come back. Louis can't be here today because he's with adults who are taking care of him. He won't be back right away, and we won't see him before we go to our new home."
A long silence settles in. Harry's eyes brim with tears. His small voice eventually breaks the air between them:
"Louis… he didn't get to tell her he won the cross-country for her…"
He lowers his head, his curls falling in front of his eyes, and a discreet sob escapes him. Anne feels her own heart tighten so much that she struggles to breathe. She glides her hands against his cheeks, gently lifting his face to meet her gaze.
"I know it hurts… I know you wanted to be there for him. But sometimes… we can't. Sometimes… things happen that we can't stop. And it's not your fault."
She holds him in her arms for a long time, as if to offer him all the warmth he won't be able to give Louis today. Then, in an attempt to provide him a little light in this heavy sky, she whispers against his hair:
"You know... we're going to a beautiful house in the United States. We're going to start a new life, you and me. And you'll always be able to think of Louis, always keep your memories, we'll stay in touch and I'll ask his stepdad to video call us so you can see him."
But Harry doesn't respond. His hands remain clenched in his mother's sweater, and his heart is caught on one single pain: he is leaving without seeing his best friend again.
While Émilie and the principal pack the suitcase, carefully folding each piece of clothing, Anne gently asks him:
"Do you want to go say goodbye to your friends?"
Harry shakes his head, his face buried against her.
"No."
Because it’s not them he wants. It’s Louis.
And the thought that he won't be able to hold him in his arms, that he won't be able to say goodbye when his mom has just died… is a wound that, at seven years old, seems impossible to heal.
***
The days pass, and Harry remains enveloped in a sad mist that does not dissipate. A child should not know melancholy at seven, but leaving his life in England, abandoning his habits overnight, being torn away from the boarding school and especially from Louis... all this is a burden far too heavy for his small shoulders.
Anne spends these first days trying to reassure him, to distract him, to fill the emptiness. Sometimes it works. Sometimes a timid smile appears, lighting up his face for a moment. But at night, everything becomes heavier again. The sobs are louder, deeper. There is neither Mr. Deer to snuggle against him, nor Louis to whisper that it will be okay. Just the darkness, the distance, and the absence.
On the plane, however, Anne manages to coax a few laughs from him. She points out the landscape through the window, the clouds that look like mountains of cotton, the tiny cities passing by beneath them. She promises him that this new life will be better, that she will be able to spend more time with him here, that she will work during the day but that the evenings and weekends will be just the two of them, nothing but them. And for just a moment, that is enough for him.
Anne has always raised him alone. Harry's father has never acknowledged him, and she has had to juggle her obligations and her role as a mother. She is convinced that this move is worth it, that this sacrifice taken from her son’s childhood will eventually turn into a sweeter life.
When they finally arrive at the house, Harry explores each room, his gaze still a bit wary but curious. Atlanta, Georgia. The trees are different, the air is warmer, the streets stretch wider. And despite everything he has left behind, something about this city already pleases him — maybe the promise that here, at least, he will never be separated from his mom again.
His mother has planned everything so that the arrival is gentle, so that her son feels immediately that this house can become theirs. Harry's room is bigger than his in London, bathed in light, with a large double bed and decorations chosen to make it “big boy” while still remaining warm. She places the last bags retrieved from the boarding school on the carpet, and they both start to unpack together, talking about the school he will soon discover, the garden where they can play on weekends.
Harry regains a bit of his enthusiasm, opening his things one by one… until his fingers land on something familiar. His smile freezes. Then his eyes widen, as if reality has just shattered with a sharp snap.
“Oh no… no, no, no!”
Anne looks up immediately, worried.
“What? Harry? What’s wrong?”
But he has already pulled the object from the suitcase. Mr. Deer. The little brown cuddly toy that still carries the reassuring smell of the boarding school, the sheets of Louis, his arms. Harry immediately starts to cry, clinging to the stuffed animal with desperate force.
“Why is Mr. Deer here?… It’s Louis’s teddy bear! He… he’s going to be sad without it… No, mom… we have to bring it back to him!”
His voice breaks amid the sobs, the words get stuck in his throat. Anne tries to calm him, to explain that they will find a way to send it, that she will even write to Louis with him if that will soothe him. But she knows, deep down, that there is no simple solution to this kind of pain.
Because it is not just a forgotten toy. It is a whole bond, a whole friendship torn away, which, from a distance, risks crumbling until it becomes a blurry memory. And no plane, no package, no promise can really fix that.
***
Days go by, and Anne multiplies ideas, outings, and little attentions to lighten the constant burden that seems to weigh on her son's shoulders. She knows Harry doesn’t talk much about Louis, but she clearly sees, in his silences and gestures, that his absence is always there, like a shadow that no ray of sun from Atlanta can dispel.
In early afternoon, while he has fallen asleep on a deckchair in the garden, his head slightly tilted, Mr. Deer still nestled against him, Anne returns on tiptoe. In the living room, she dials the boarding school number, fully aware that with the time difference, it must be a little past eight o’clock there.
Émilie answers; her soft voice is immediately recognizable. Anne takes the time to exchange a few updates: their settling in, the fact that Harry still has difficult moments but that, since their departure three weeks ago, the crying fits have become rarer. Then she comes to the reason that truly pushes her to call:
"While packing, we inadvertently took Louis's stuffed toy; I would like to send it to him soon... I’m preparing a package that should arrive next week."
A brief silence follows, and Émilie’s voice changes, becoming lower, almost pained.
"Anne... Louis is no longer at the boarding school."
Anne feels a knot form in her throat.
"Why? Where is he?"
Then Émilie explains. After the funeral, Louis’s stepfather refused custody. He was not his biological father. And Louis... Louis has become an orphan. He has been placed in foster care.
Anne feels her fingers tighten around the phone.
"Is it... is it possible for me to have his address?"
But Émilie shakes her head, even though Anne cannot see her.
"It’s not possible... For the time being, given the court's decisions, he is not allowed to have outside contact like that. It would have to go through monitored letters, authorized visits, several times a month, to maintain a connection."
Anne shuts her eyes. She understands what this means: Harry probably will never be able to see Louis like before.
Her voice breaks a little when she dares to ask,
"Have you seen him? How... how is he?"
A sigh crosses the line, heavy, resigned.
"I've seen broken children… But Louis… Louis is one of those I tell myself will have a hard time recovering from the life he’s been given. An unfair, painful life… I only hope that in this family, he will find a little sweetness."
Anne doesn’t answer immediately. She looks out the window, towards Harry’s sleeping silhouette in the garden, and she knows that what she is preparing to tell him, one day, can only break his heart a little more.
Children like Louis are children scarred by life before they’ve even had the time to understand it, children who carry burdens far too heavy for their age on their small shoulders. They haven’t had the luxury of a sheltered childhood, haven’t had the time to be carefree. Their nights are often filled with fears they cannot name, their days marked by absences that no toy, no fleeting caress can truly remedy. They move forward nonetheless, because it must be so, because life goes on, even when it hurts, and they cling to the one thread we offer them: a hand resting on their shoulder, a gaze that says, “I’m here,” a promise, however fragile, that they are not completely alone. But there is always this brutal injustice hovering above them, this fierce desire to protect them from all the world's hardships, knowing all the while that we can never completely spare them from it. So they learn to live with the scars, to smile despite the absences, and to believe, however poorly, that a different future is still possible.
***
Harry is thirteen now. Five years have passed since the boarding school, since England, since Louis. He has grown, changed, learned to live elsewhere. He has blended into this new life in the United States, with his middle school friends, his afternoons on the sports field, his laughter in the hallways. That day, his room is full of voices and the sounds of controllers, the sun filtering through the curtains and illuminating the focused faces on the screen.
Until one of his friends, getting up to grab a drink, notices something on the bed.
"You're still sleeping with a teddy bear?"
The sentence is thrown out in a teasing tone, almost lighthearted, but it ricochets in the air like a slap.
Harry turns his head. The image on the screen blurs, his part of it fades away, but he no longer pays attention to it. He gets up, crosses the room in a few strides, and gently takes Mr. Deer from his friend's hands. His fingers tighten a little more around the plush toy, as if to protect it.
"Please… don’t touch it."
His voice is low but firm.
He places Mr. Deer back on the dresser, where it has been for years. His friend shrugs, almost amused.
"It’s kind of babyish, though."
Harry tightens his lips. His heart beats a little faster, not out of shame, but from a strange mix of anger and sadness. He slowly opens the drawer of his bedside table, places the stuffed animal inside, and closes it gently. His movements are measured, as if a loud noise could shatter something invisible.
And for a second, the room fades away around him. The laughter, the controllers, the sounds of America. Only the image of a little boy with blue eyes remains, standing in an English dormitory, holding out that stuffed animal with a smile that meant "I’m here." A smile he has never seen again.
And Harry feels, deep in his chest, that some absences do not age. They stay there, untouched, even five years later.
***
And somewhere, far from the United States, in a London countryside where winters always seem longer than summers, another boy grows up. A boy to whom life leaves nothing but the scars of everything it has taken from him. His mother, first, consumed by a cruel illness. His best friend, lost in a departure he never understands, without a last glance, without a last word. The boarding school, which had been more than a home, torn away as well. His comfort object, the last vestige of a time when he still believed he could be saved, gone into other hands. And, along with all this, the little self-esteem that barely holds on, crushed under the weight of loss.
He grows up with anxieties as others grow up with brothers and sisters: always present, always there to remind him that he is alone. With this muffled, sticky fear that he will be abandoned again. With those icy nights, spent with eyes wide open waiting for a noise that never comes. With those nightmares that return, tirelessly, to show him everything he has lost. And above all, with this gaping hole, this void that no outstretched hand can fill.
So, when adolescence arrives, it is not a mere passage. It is a descent, brutal, irreversible. Foolishness becomes dangerous. Laughter is replaced by hastily rolled joints behind crumbling walls, by evenings spent hanging out to forget. Angers explode into blows, into violent fights in dark parking lots, at barely fifteen. By seventeen, he discovers the bitter taste of first experiences given too quickly, too poorly, just to prove to himself that he still exists. At eighteen, he feels the metallic scent of blood after a scooter accident that could have taken him away. At twenty, he experiences the cold humiliation of a cell, the sharp slam of a door behind him.
And all this time, he continues to live with the pain that never diminishes. A pain embedded in every fiber, in every heartbeat, like a blade plunged too deeply to be withdrawn. A void that gnaws at him, a sorrow that has frozen with him, and that, even after twenty-five years, leaves him no respite. Because he never knows how to heal. Because you do not truly heal from the childhood that has been stolen from you.