THE LITTLE THINGS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER THREE
Sheffield, United Kingdom
“Sheldon! Where are you?! Sheldon!” Rose’s voice echoed through the hallways as she rushed from room to room, panic rising in her chest. The house stood silent—towering, old, and watching.
Their home was a Victorian marvel, its tall brick frame cloaked in ivy and moss, hues of verdure and deep purple spreading like veins across the walls. The garden bloomed wildly with roses, dandelions, and creeping vines. A narrow stream curled through the grass like a silver serpent. The place looked like something from a forgotten painting—timeless, lonely, regal.
Beautiful, after all these years, the house still stood tall like a church on a hill.
It had endured for generations. Built of brimstone and aged brick, it was once a rumored royal retreat—where monarchs would sup and sleep before slipping back to the mainland. Rose's late husband, David Leister, a decorated soldier with the British Special Forces, had inherited it through a long line of servicemen: his father, Baron Leister; his great-grandfather, Arthur Leister—all men molded by war, all gone too soon.
David’s death during a covert operation in the East left a silence no voice could fill. Rose tried—through wine, through men—but the void only grew deeper.
Sheldon hated how she clung to one man after another, looking for something to dull the ache. Most of them tried to play father to him, but Sheldon never entertained the act. He’d smile politely and remain distant, quietly resenting the way they tried to stand where his dad once stood.
No one could replace David.
On Sundays, they used to play football together, then grab lunch at the pier. On better days, they'd take rifles to the hills to hunt deer and rabbits. Sheldon loved it—loved how alive he felt beside his father, the bonding, the pride. They’d bring home their game, and Rose—when she was still whole—would cook rabbit stew or seared venison, infusing the house with warmth and spice. She had been a brilliant chef, now reduced to preparing meals for a local mayor by day and numbing herself to sleep at night with gin and grief.
Her current boyfriend, James, leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, indifferent.
“He’s probably out playing with friends,” he said.
Rose turned sharply. “Have you even been paying attention? Sheldon doesn’t have friends.”
Outside, twilight settled over the garden like a hush. Rose grew frantic, pacing through overgrown hedges and beneath rustling branches. Meanwhile, deep in the woods behind the house, Sheldon crouched low beneath a veil of leaves and twigs. His breath was slow. Focused.
In his blood-slick hands, a rabbit twitched weakly—its fur damp, its life fading.
He’d made the kill with his handmade bow and arrow. Now, he worked with methodical calm, slicing open its belly with his father’s old Swiss knife, studying its insides like a boy scientist. The woods were his escape, his way of coping—silence, solitude, and small acts of violence.
The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time he returned. Rose ran to him, eyes wide, heart racing.
“Where were you?!” she shouted.
“I was just taking a walk,” Sheldon said quietly.
She grabbed his arm. “Is that blood?”
“I scraped myself climbing a tree,” he lied.
She held his gaze for a moment, suspicion flickering in her eyes—but said nothing. Instead, she pulled him into her arms, holding him tight, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“Go wash up.”
He nodded and slipped past her, heading upstairs.
She stood in the hallway alone, arms wrapped around herself. Sheldon was drifting further away, slipping through her fingers like sand. He barely spoke anymore. Therapy wasn’t working. Nothing was.
And the house—once full of laughter and warmth—now creaked and groaned like it, too, was grieving.
Rose didn’t know how to save her boy.
And she was terrified of what he might become.
CHAPTER FOUR
Five years later
Sheldon sat next to his sickly mother brooding, hunching over the hospital bed holding her arm tightly as if holding on to his dear life. Rose had been diagnosed with stage four cancer and was now spreading into her brain. The hospital smelled of rubber and a thick scent of sterilization liquid.
The weather was raining outside, it was cold like his mother’s hand. Small mists formed as she breathed in and out, bandages covering her head like a solemn crown. She had gone for three surgeries now but all the more the tumor burrowed indignant and continued to grow.
“There is nothing we can do.”
“She will be dead in three weeks.”
“Pay your respects, she won’t make it.”
All the doctors said.
Sheldon’s eyes gleamed white and slippery as tears started form on the eyelids. His hair was wet filled with dew like wild flower in the morning sun. Rose’s breathing was slow and sauntered as the life support machine beeped on and off like a sign of hope thought Sheldon.
The nurse would come in and out giving her some food, bland, thought Sheldon and also to replace her fresh blood and green fluids on the IV.
Rose’s checks had become hollow and harrowing. Her skin was pale as the moon that now glimmered into the room like sparkling star dust almost appearing translucent and leathery.
She would not speak as tubes covered her mouth to give her fresh oxygen and all sorts of tubes would pump blood and green liquids into her veins- fragile, breakable thought Sheldon. She slept as Sheldon watched over her like an unsung guardian sentinel.
He wept.
They moved to London for a more comprehensive diagnosis. Now while in London her health seemed to deteriorate tenfold. Unable to speak and was pumped with all sorts of sedative medications.
Sheldon, now an adult was forced to work at a nearby deli and could not afford basic food let alone the extremely high medical bills. He would sometimes sneak in the hospital cafeteria to get some food and sleep in one of the toilets to save up for the mother’s bills.
All seemed in vain as the doctors cautioned him that his mother’s health would continue to worsen if he kept on insisting on her living on the life support machine and not going to surgery as recommended by the doctors.
There were times she would wake up and talk in some ancient language filled with confusion and disarray. Her eyes dancing on her eyelids, unfocused.
“The cancer has spread into her brain.”
“She will be dead in three weeks.”
The words from the doctors still ringed in his head like church bells announcing a funeral.
Present Day
“Hello Sheldon. Good morning” said Margaret his therapist.
“Good morning” said Sheldon reluctantly.
He had been going for the therapy more than six months now and he was tired and exasperated. Nothing seemed to be working. All he could think about was his father David Leister who died while on tour in Iraq. His mother had found his husbands’ Swiss army knife in Sheldon’s room covered in dried blood and reported it to his therapist without him knowing.
Margaret’s bony fingers clenched her clipboard as she read wellness questions to him. All routine checks.
“How are you sleeping?”
“Are you eating well?”
“How is school?”
Sheldon answered them all non chalantly.
Her black hair seemed to hover above her head as he stared into her black obsidian eyes. Sheldon snapped out of his trance as she put the brown clip board down. She looked at him disgruntled and disappointed.
“It has come to my attention Sheldon that you are not taking your medication as prescribed” said Margaret now interlocking her fingers and resting them on her scrawny knees.
“You might-”
“I am sorry” interjected Sheldon.
“Please don’t take me away from home!” cried Sheldon.
“That is not our intention Sheldon” said Margaret assuredly.
“But you did sign a waiver with the school to keep on coming to therapy and be consistent with your medication,” said Margaret.
Sheldon looked down at the Burgundy carpet, looking at the patterns as if deciphering the secrets of the universe. Again, he snapped out of the trance by a knock on the door.
“Come in” said Margaret as her assistant whispered something to her ear.
“Unfortunately, we will not be able to continue with the session,” said Margaret.
“Please take our sessions seriously. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for your mother” she said her words heavy like a rock as he looked down again.
“Okay” said Sheldon stuttering.
CHAPTER FIVE
Five Years Later
St. Peter’s Cathedral
The church of St. Peter stood tall like a tower of grief. Its well-crafted walls told stories of the ancient world. Outside the church, pigeons flocked the old church hovering over the congregation like flying vermin.
The walls of the church were old and covered with moss, around it they were decorated with all sorts of beautiful flowers from dandelions to hibiscus. Cars were parked outside as the ceremony went along.
The choir in the church sang hymnals and missals of the Passover feast of Jesus and his resurrection. Their voices echoed through the walls in a low soothing and humming sound.
The clergy were dressed immaculate with black and white vestments, some white like a virgin and some black as night. There heads shaved clean. They all stood over the altar like some acolytes giving a sacrifice to some dark and ominous god. The priest was a well-built Caucasian man, he put on his blurry glasses on and read the final verses from the Bible with great eloquence and precision.
He then proceeded to give a short sermon on the resurrection of Christ Jesus. He did it with great reverence and splendor while looking at the congregation in between the reading and the sermon cutting through them sharp like ice. He seemed warm and benevolent a contrast to how he looked.
He was pale white with a hooked nose; his skin was old and wrinkly and his hair was white as snow. He hovered both of his hands over the Bible as he gave his great speech in a well demeanor filled with confidence.
The walls of the cathedral were covered with monuments of the Virgin Mother Mary and Christ Jesus towering over the congregation like silent sentinels. They seemed to have some sort of life. They looked as if they were breathing from a distant. Their eyes sharp as steel.
At the top of the cathedral was a beautifully painted picture of Michael the Archangel towering over a devil like creature piercing his heart with a spear. His hair golden brown adorned with bright and shiny armor while the daemon was covered in satin red with hooves on his head – a grotesque sight.
On the windows were hand crafted key moments of Jesus Christ. Each window told the story of Christ, His birth, His suffering, His end. Even the Son of God had surrendered to death. How then, Sheldon thought bitterly, could his mother ever have been spared?
On the dais rested the coffin. His mother, dressed in flowing white. Her folded hands clutched a purple rosary, beads glimmering faintly beneath the lantern glow. Her eyes were closed as if drifting into a long and dreamless sleep. For a moment he thought his mother was still alive for a micro second.
But she did not move.
Cancer had devoured her from the inside, leaving her weaker each day. She had fought fiercely, clinging to life with trembling hands, until at last she had slipped away into the cold arms of the angel who takes without asking. The bells of the cathedral began to toll. Each toll felt like a nail driven into the coffin, each echo a cruel reminder that the moment was final.
“Go forth,” the priest intoned, his voice echoing against the stone. “The Mass has ended.”
He paused, letting the silence settle like dust.
“May the peace of the Lord be with you.”
The congregation responded in unison; voices heavy, weary:
“And with your spirit.”
They all left the church with their heads hung low and heavy. The tall pallbearers composed of his uncles and close relatives carried the casket to the cemetery. Some of his relatives were crying uncontrollably consoling each other.
Sheldon followed closely, every step a battle against the weight inside his chest. At last, they reached the open grave—a raw wound in the earth, its dark mouth waiting. He wanted to scream. But no words came. Only silence.
The priest appeared again at the foot of the grave, his black vestments stirring faintly in the wind. He opened his book, his hollow voice rising against the gray sky.
“From dust you came,” he read, “and to dust you shall return.”
The first handful of dirt fell, striking the coffin lid with a sound sharper than any bell.
Thud.
A sound that carved itself into Sheldon’s bones.
One by one, mourners stepped forward, dropping their white roses into the grave. The flowers fell silently, their petals brushing wood like whispers. Soon, the coffin was buried in a fragile bed of white.
Sheldon’s hand trembled as he approached. For a long moment he stared into the grave, into the impossible truth. He bent slowly, pressing the rose to his lips before letting it slip from his fingers. It tumbled downward, landing among the others with a soft finality.
The earth would take her now.
And Sheldon, standing on the edge of the abyss and felt as though it might take him too.
THE LITTLE THINGS
CHAPTER SIX
Sheffield, United Kingdom
Five Years Later
Sheldon had returned to Sheffield carrying nothing but his despair. The funeral was over, the condolences spent, and now silence sat heavy on his shoulders. His mother—the one person who had been his anchor—was gone, and the world felt hollow. His emotions churned like a storm: hate, despair, depression, and an ache so deep it left his eyes sunken, his skin pale and bloodless. He looked like a man unmoored from life.
He unlocked the door to his mother’s house, and the moment he stepped inside it was as though a ghost had opened the door with him. The air felt colder, stale, like the walls themselves were grieving. Her absence was everywhere—in the quiet halls, in the muted hum of the fridge, in the faint smell of her perfume still clinging to the curtains. He could not accept she was gone. His mother, his beacon, his last constant, was now buried in the earth and resting with angels.
The kitchen told the story of her final moments. Pots and pans lay abandoned in the sink, batter crusted in bowls. Half-baked pancakes remained in the oven, lifeless and forgotten. The television flickered muted images in the living room, a strange, surreal theater with no audience.
Grief struck him like a blade. In the middle of the kitchen, Sheldon broke. He fell to his knees, his sobs echoing against the cold tiles, tears streaming down his face like a fountain unleashed. He whispered her name into the empty air, as though the walls might whisper it back.
Before she had fallen sick, he had managed to get a small job at the local supermarket as a shop assistant. Now, on the kitchen counter lay the proof of his unraveling life—bills spread out like a grim deck of cards: foreclosure notices, electricity arrears, hospital charges. His meager salary would never cover them. Staring at the papers, a dark thought crept in—a thought he hadn’t allowed himself in years. Suicide.
He began to pack. Clothes, a few supplies, his father’s old Swiss Army knife. He could no longer breathe in the house that had once been a home. The walls pressed in on him with memories, and anxiety wrapped itself around his throat. He retreated into the woods, chasing freedom—or oblivion.
Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. The forest did not soothe him. Its silence became a mirror of his isolation. Even the wind in the trees could not reach him anymore. Depression consumed him whole. One night, sitting by his campfire, he whispered into the flames:
“I shall join you, Father.
I shall join you, Mother.”
His voice cracked in the empty woods.
There was a bridge to the north, spanning a ravaging waterfall. That night he rose with a strange calmness, as though fate had already taken his hand. His boots crunched softly on the damp earth as he walked, checking the shadows out of habit. There was no one.
The roar of the waterfall grew louder, a monstrous heartbeat calling him forward. He reached the edge and looked down. The water smashed itself into jagged rocks below, mist rising like cold ghosts. His backpack slid from his shoulders to the ground, and he stepped closer.
His heart pounded like a drum of war. Sweat clung to him like a second skin. Every nerve screamed, yet he felt numb.
This is the end, thought Sheldon.
THE END
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