🇬🇧 Where No Heroes Come — 07 —

CHAPTER 7 Two Faces The days begin to settle into a routine that, from the outside, seems completely normal, with mornings that start at the same time, quiet breakfasts at the table with Durim and Estamia, and a comfortable silence that anyone could interpret as stability, as if little by little everything were returning to its place, although for Urame that feeling does not truly exist, because even if his surroundings have recovered a recognizable shape, he no longer fits within that same normality. He sits at the table every morning and answers when spoken to, nods his head, maintains eye contact for just the right amount of time, and uses an appropriate tone of voice, without standing out, without seeming distant, doing exactly what is expected of him without making mistakes, building a way of acting that is not born from habit but from the constant observation of what works and what does not. Durim tries to get closer with simple questions, looking for a way to keep contact without invading, asking about school or how he is feeling, keeping that kind tone that makes it clear he wants to help, even though he is not sure how to do it without breaking something he does not fully understand. Urame always answers. Short answers. Correct. Enough. He does not lie. But he does not say more than necessary either. And that is what keeps everything in balance. Estamia does not ask as much, but she observes more, keeping a distance that is not disinterest but analysis, noticing the details that do not fit, the absence of mistakes, that way of being that should show cracks but does not have them, which makes her remain silent longer than usual, as if waiting for something to break at some point. Urame notices it. Not because they tell him. But because he perceives it in the way they look at him, in the small changes of attention, in the silences that stretch long enough to have meaning, which makes him adjust his behavior even more, not consciously in every gesture, but as the result of a continuous process of adaptation. School continues at the same rhythm as always, with classes moving forward without changes and students maintaining their usual dynamics, although now the looks directed at him are more frequent, more direct, more aware of who he is and what happened, something he does not need to be told because he feels it in every interaction, in every pause, in every conversation that stops when he approaches. Urame does not respond to that. He does not confront it. He does not move away in an obvious way. He simply continues. Observes. Listens. And learns. He begins to notice patterns that used to go unnoticed, small variations in the way people react depending on who they are with, changes in tone of voice when they want to appear to feel something different from what they actually feel, gestures that do not match words, details that, when repeated often enough, stop being coincidences. He does not need to ask. He does not need to confirm it. He understands. And that allows him to move with precision, responding in the right way at every moment, adjusting what he says and how he says it in order to fit in without standing out, staying within what is expected while keeping everything else hidden. At home, the same thing happens, with conversations that follow a predictable rhythm and silences that have more meaning than words, allowing him to anticipate what will come next, responding before it is necessary, maintaining that image that does not create questions. It is not something he has decided to do. It simply happens. As if his way of thinking had changed without him causing it, organizing information differently, giving meaning to things that did not have it before, creating a distance between what he observes and what he shows. That distance grows. And it becomes necessary. Because what happens when he is alone cannot become part of what others see. At night, in his room, he repeats what he has discovered without making noise, keeping the door closed and the light dim while he watches the fire appear in his hand with greater stability than at the beginning, responding to his concentration without going out of control, allowing him to slowly understand how far he can go without losing control. Strength is harder to measure, because it does not manifest visibly until he uses it, which forces him to be more careful, to control every movement, to avoid automatic responses that could expose him, learning to hold himself back even when his body reacts before his mind. And there is something else. Something he still does not fully understand. That sensation that appears when the air changes, when objects move without him touching them, something more subtle, more unstable, that does not always respond but is there when he concentrates enough, as if it were a part of him he has not yet learned how to use. He does not force it. He does not show it. He only observes it. Keeps it hidden. Like everything else. One night, he remains in front of the mirror longer than usual, watching his reflection while the light in the room illuminates his face, analyzing every detail without changing his expression, as if searching for a visible difference that confirms what he already knows. Red hair. Pink eyes. The same image. But it is not the same. From the outside, there are no changes, no signs that something has happened, nothing that distinguishes him from any other child following his routine without problems, but inside, the difference is clear, a separation that keeps growing between what he shows and what he truly is. He cannot allow both parts to mix. He cannot let what happens inside him be reflected on the outside. Because if that happens. If someone sees it. If someone understands it. Then everything changes. And he will no longer be able to go back. Urame keeps his gaze on the mirror for a few more seconds before turning off the light and lying down in bed, fixing his eyes on the ceiling while his breathing steadies, maintaining that calm he has learned to hold even though everything inside him continues to move. Because now it is clear to him. There are two parts. One that the world sees. And another that the world cannot see. And keeping them separate… is not an option. It is a necessity.