I was invisible. I was the girl who topped off your mug, the girl who remembered you liked your rye toast dry, the girl whose name you forgot the moment the door chimed behind you.

Then came the boy. And with him, the silence that would eventually shatter my entire world.

 I didn’t know it then, but the moment I placed that first plate on his table, I was pulling a thread that would unravel a tragedy—and a glory—far bigger than this small town could hold.

He couldn’t have been older than ten.

He was small for his age, with shoulders that hunched inward as if he were trying to occupy as little space as possible in the universe. He had careful eyes—watchful, dark eyes that seemed to intake everything while revealing absolutely nothing.

He chose the corner booth, the one farthest from the door, tucked away in the shadows where the overhead fluorescent light flickered and buzzed. A backpack, far too large for his slight frame, was propped beside him like a shield. A book was always open on the table.