The afternoon breeze was cool against my face, and though the sounds of football drifted from nearby, I heard nothing but the music in my headphones. My gaze was fixed on the face I'd sketched five years ago in my sketchbook – a face that fueled a bitterness I clung to.

Closing the book, I twisted a blade of grass between my fingers, the memory of my father's death, a well-planned burglary, still sharp. That sketch, drawn days before, had been dismissed then. Now, it was a ghost in my mind, a testament to the ‘gift’ that had turned my life into a headline.

“Freak,” someone muttered as I walked past the footballers. I didn't spare him a glance. It was always the same, no matter how many schools, how many towns. My mother had tried to smile this morning, saying, “Things will be different.” I’d just nodded, knowing better. The clock on my wrist read 4:30 PM, but my mother wasn't here yet, and the sweet, sad lyrics of ‘down like silver’ couldn't bring tears to my dry, hollow eyes.