Where Dume Belongs

The scent of baking bread, warm and comforting, wafted through the house, a smell Dume usually loved. It was the smell of his mum’s kitchen, of laughter and flour dusted on her apron. But lately, it just made his chest ache. He sat on the porch swing, his knees pulled up to his chin, watching the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun. The world outside kept spinning, birds still sang their cheerful tunes, and the leaves on the ancient oak tree rustled in the breeze. Everything was the same, yet nothing was. It was a cruel trick the world played, making things look normal when inside, Dume felt like a shattered piece of glass.

He’d been sharp with Fen yesterday, snapping when she’d asked if he wanted to help plant the new rose bushes. He’d mumbled something about not liking roses, a lie that tasted bitter on his tongue. His mum had loved roses. Her garden had been a riot of pinks and reds, a place where she’d taught him about the delicate petals and the sharp, protective thorns. Now, Fen and Fen were trying to fill the empty spaces in his life, but Dume felt like a ghost, drifting through their kindness, unable to grasp it. He wanted to shrink, to disappear into the shadows, to be as invisible as he felt.

Inside, Fen hummed a soft tune as she kneaded dough. The rhythmic thud of her hands on the floured surface was a steady beat in the quiet house. She glanced towards the window, a gentle worry creasing her brow. Dume had been so withdrawn lately, a tightly wound spring of sadness. She knew grief was a tangled path, and Dume was navigating it alone, pushing away the very hands trying to guide him. But she wouldn’t give up. She remembered the bright spark in his eyes before, the way he’d chase the butterflies in the meadow, his laughter echoing through the trees. That boy was still in there, she was sure of it, buried beneath the layers of pain.