The Boy Who Didn't Cry

This isn't just a story. No—it's a memory. One of those that hide deep in your chest, tucked between what was and what might have been.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived among the vineyards.

His world carried scents etched into each season: the sweet-sour crush of grapes in autumn, firewood crackling through winter nights, his father’s shoes always stained with red earth. The pop of a wine bottle opening during Sunday lunch. His mother’s hands—forever smeared with paint or clay.

And the house—old, the kind that breathes stories—creaked under the weight of secrets. In the halls, proudly hung paintings. On the cracked walls, more than just dust lingered—dreams had made their home there. In the kitchen, a tuneless song often danced among the pots and pans—other times, the most beautiful voice in all of Tuscany.

His mother was a spectacle all her own.

She sang opera while doing the dishes—sometimes off-key and glorious, other times so pitch-perfect it felt like she belonged on stage. She painted canvases no one bought, but which the boy believed more precious than anything in Florence’s museums. She sculpted crooked vases that, in her hands, looked like masterpieces. She recited Dante and Petrarch to the chickens in the yard, because no one inside the house was listening.

They were an ordinary Italian family, the kind built on simple traditions.

His father—a man with a greying mustache and eyes that smiled before his lips did—taught him how to taste new wine, grimacing whenever it was too sour. He taught his son the value of honest work.
"Wine, like life, needs time and care," he’d say, pruning the vines side by side with the boy. After all, one day the boy would inherit the family vineyard.

Vinícolas Moretti—as old as memory itself. Passed down from father to son, generation after generation. A tradition. A legacy.

His mother, always in paint-stained clothes, taught him that beauty wasn’t in perfection, but in passion.
She painted sunrises on the chicken coop roof. Scribbled poems on napkins. Danced alone in the living room to the crackle of static radio, often pulling the boy into what she called “Artistic Expression.”

But his personal ray of sunlight was his little sister—barefoot, always with a secret to share. Too small for so much life, as loud as the birds at dawn. Two years younger, a thousand times braver. Partner-in-crime for everything from stealing grapes from the barrels to vowing they’d find buried treasure in the Tuscan hills.

On Sundays, when the church bells rang over the red rooftops, the Morettis indulged in small luxuries:

– American films at the cinema, poorly dubbed
– Gelato melting too fast in the Piazza della Signoria
– Endless walks until the golden sun swallowed the vineyards

Were they poor? Yes.
Happy? Unquestionably.

Until the day the men came to collect.

They didn’t knock. The door exploded into splinters of old wood.

The boy dove behind the couch—the same one his mother slept on when the wine spoke louder than his father. A tablecloth flew over him as his mother, fast as a cat, shielded his sister behind her stained dress

And then the boy saw it.

Tucked in her apron, strapped to her back: the handle of a kitchen knife.

The men shouted. One of them, voice coarse like stones scraping concrete, called his father names the boy had never heard.

— CRACK —

The slap across his mother’s face sounded like a gunshot.
The boy moved before thought caught up.
He hurled himself at the intruder—small, wild, like a wolf cub.

The reply was merciless.

A punch folded him in half, a knee to the face threw him against the wall. His head struck one of his mother’s crooked vases, the ceramic shattered into a thousand shards,
just like his world.

Hot blood trickled down his temple, clouding his sight. But even through the haze, he saw:

His mother’s trembling hands pulling the knife
The men laughing as it slipped from her fingers
His sister being dragged by the hair—
like a lamb to slaughter

Her screams: "Mommy! Luca! Papa, please!"

And in the darkest corner of the room, still as a marble statue, stood the father.

Silence.

The boy sank into the darkness before the answer could reach him.

✦ ✦ ✦

Strangely, the men never came back.

But the boy’s world had lost its color—as if someone had washed Tuscany with dirty water. Where once there was golden sunlight over the vineyards, now only endless grey remained.

His parents insisted that his sister had "gone off to study in Milan," fragile lies that dissolved in the air like cobwebs.

Luca knew the truth. He knew those hollow words served more to protect his parents from their own guilt than to shield him from pain.

Time didn’t heal…Time decayed.

The once-melodic home, filled with songs and laughter, now echoed with:

His mother’s sobs behind closed doors

The creak of an empty rocking chair on the porch

His father’s shouts: "It was you! You’re the witch who ruined us!"

His mother’s whispers: "I should’ve listened to my parents. I lost everything when I chose to marry you—my life, my dreams… my daughter!"

Until, one particularly cold winter—on his eleventh birthday—Luca found the dining table scattered with open pill bottles, tablets strewn like macabre confetti, and his mother collapsed on the floor, arms outstretched like Christ in the Pietà.

Her lips were blue, her breathing shallow and jagged, her eyes glassy, not recognizing her own child.

The boy called the ambulance with trembling hands, the digits burning into his fingers.

The paramedics arrived just in time. They dragged her back from death’s edge with oxygen masks and icy fluids coursing through her veins.

When she grabbed Luca’s wrist, her fingers were as cold as grape clusters in winter.

"Why didn’t you let me go? Why? I was so close to seeing her again." Her voice sounded like spoiled wine—sweet and sour all at once.

That night, his father never came home.

But Luca spun stories to fill the void:

His father had gone to find his sister.

His mother would get better if he was good enough.

Everything would go back to normal when the grapes ripened again.

He lived in that waking dream for months.

He became caretaker of a woman who was no longer a mother—only a ghost in a paint-stained dress. He stopped her from throwing herself down the stairs, took knives from her shaking hands, counted her pills and hid the belts.

But deep down, in the place where the truths more painful than bruises were kept, he knew:

His father wasn’t coming back.

He had the same hollow gaze as the men who haunted the city's darker corners.

His mother was already gone—her body just hadn’t caught on yet.

Until, one wine-colored dusk, she simply… vanished.

The police combed the area with the mechanical indifference of someone looking for a lost pet. It was the workers at the old vineyard who found her:

At the bottom of the dry well—the one that had once nourished the vines—she lay. She wore her favorite dress, the blue one faded by time.

Around her neck: a nylon cord, the same kind she used to hang laundry. Her bare feet still held faint stains of green paint—the very color of the hills she used to paint.

When the boy saw her body, he didn’t cry. He only looked down at his hands: covered in dirt, fingertips raw with fresh cuts.

In that moment, something inside him broke. He didn’t feel his heart grow heavy. Nor did it feel lighter.

Only… empty.

✦ ✦ ✦
With the help of the police, the boy’s maternal family was located. He was taken in by his mother’s sister and her husband.

Unlike his biological parents, the couple couldn’t have children—she was infertile. And so, they welcomed the boy as their own, offering him love, warmth, and a sincere effort to help him understand he wasn’t alone.

They were a different kind of family. Humble in spirit, yes—but materially well-off. They lived in a spacious apartment. His aunt was a celebrated author; his uncle, a successful surgeon.

They gave him the best education, enrolled him in an excellent school, showered him with books, toys—everything a boy could want.

But for some reason, his chest remained hollow.

Still, he saw how hard they tried. And so, he played the part of the perfect son.

He smiled at the right times. Answered politely. Brought home grades that hung on the fridge like trophies. His new parents beamed with pride at family gatherings, while he stood beside them, immaculate—clean hands, polished shoes.

But there was one thing.

His smile never touched his eyes.

It was like there was glass between him and the world—clear, but unbreakable.

✦ ✦ ✦

His adoptive parents noticed. How could they not?

He was sociable, but made no friends.
Athletic, but never celebrated victories.
A genius in chemistry, but spent hours poring over the properties of poisons with a fascination that bordered on the macabre.

They changed therapists.

The new one was different.

Dr. Matteo Bianchi didn’t push him to “talk about feelings.” Didn’t hand him drawings to color. Didn’t ask about his mother. Or his father.

Instead, he pulled a biochemistry book from the shelf and asked, “Do you know why cyanide kills so fast?”

For the first time in months, Luca raised his eyebrows.

And just like that, it began.

✦ ✦ ✦

Dr. Bianchi’s office became their secret lab:

They explored the chemistry of emotion (how dopamine lies to us)
Mapped the human brain (and all its design flaws)
Studied real-world cases (from poisonings to degenerative diseases)

Luca devoured it all.

It was knowledge. It made sense. And slowly—without even noticing—he started answering the questions the doctor slipped in between formulas:

“If you mix these two compounds, what happens?”

“Explosion.”

“Like when we bottle up anger for too long?”

“…”

✦ ✦ ✦

Then, five months in, the doctor asked: “Why don’t you get close to anyone?”

Luca didn’t hesitate: “Why should I? In the end, everyone leaves.”

The doctor didn’t challenge him. Didn’t quote statistics. He just opened a drawer and pulled out a card with a handwritten code.

“Give it a try. Paths of Ragnarok.”

“Why?”

“Because in the game, when you die, you respawn. And the NPCs? They never care.”

Luca looked at the card, then at the man. “That’s a terrible metaphor.”

“No,” the doctor smiled. “It’s an experiment.”

That night, Luca created his character. And learned that sometimes, even in digital worlds— there are real players.

✦ ✦ ✦
In the game, the boy was what many would call addicted—but with boundaries. His grades remained stellar, and he still went out with his adoptive parents now and then.

What kept him coming back wasn’t pure escapism. It was curiosity. The endless list of potions, items, and effects stirred something deep in him—a constant need to learn, experiment, push the system.

The game, though fantastical, had its own form of realism. Some classes were even parodies of real-world professions. Among them, one stood out: the Scientist class.

Unlike Alchemists—who worked with predefined formulas and systems—Scientists had something rare: true creative freedom. They could invent.

New items. New effects. Experiments with unpredictable outcomes. Because that’s what scientists do. Of course, the trade-off was complexity. To master it, you needed deep knowledge in real fields… or a ton of in-game currency.

Luca had both.

So when something didn’t exist in the game yet, he’d suggest it to the developers. Weeks—sometimes months—later, there it was.

He became one of the most active voices in the player forums, constantly pointing out inconsistencies between real-world and in-game logic.

"Why can’t you make a vinegar and baking soda bomb?"—he’d ask, repeatedly.

And then, the effect the young “doctor” had been looking for… began to take shape.

He started socializing more. Not by choice—by demand.

Thanks to his unique skills as a Scientist, other players started seeking him out. At first, he wanted to decline. But he knew: some missions were impossible to complete solo.

He preferred to be alone. To use people when needed, nothing more. Every interaction was a transaction. He always left first—before anyone else could leave him.

Because if you walk away first, it doesn’t hurt. Right?

Then one day, he met someone different. Or maybe… someone exactly like him.

Another lone wolf. A player who, despite mandatory group missions, ranted on the forums about how the game should allow solo options.

Luca agreed. Though deep down, he knew better. The game had diversity for a reason. Different classes. Complementary items. Enemies designed to require cooperation.

In his mind, he was the realist.
The other boy—the idealist.

But beyond solitude, they shared something else: obsession.

Luca spent hours crafting items and potions. The other player loved building meta-breaking loadouts, combining bizarre gear in strange ways. His ideas were often unviable, even ridiculous—but he never stopped trying.

And so, a transactional bond was born:
One crafted the tools.
The other brought rare materials—and wild ideas.

Sometimes, they ran missions together, just the two of them, avoiding others who never really got it.

They didn’t use voice chat, only emojis.Because playing an MMO in silence, communicating with nothing but symbols, wasn’t for just anyone.

Outside of missions, they had a peculiar system for messaging: They created a private thread in the game’s official forum. No words, just emojis, a secret language. That’s where they left each other notes. Directions. Inside jokes. Always quiet. Always meaningful.

Until one day… the other boy just stopped showing up.

They had never added each other as friends. There were no messages. No way to know if he’d quit or was just… avoiding him.

And for the first time, something weighed inside Luca. The emptiness in his chest… wasn’t quite so empty anymore.

At first, he didn’t understand why it hurt. But as the days passed, solo dungeon runs piling up, emojis posted without reply,the truth quietly settled in.

That’s when he finally understood Dr. Bianchi’s experiment.

Some connections hurt precisely because they can't be replaced.

And the boy who, for the first time, understood what it meant to have a friend…

His name was Luca Moretti.

✦✦✦

“Young lord… shouldn’t we turn back?” The servant’s voice trembled, thick with unease. “There’s still time to reconsider.” His gaze was locked on the mountains ahead, his entire body shaking at the sight of the jagged range.

“I agree with Remington,” came a second voice—deeper, worn by age and experience. “The Blackspire Mountains are called the Range of Eternal Darkness for a reason, young Lord Elijah.”

The man adjusted the heavy cloak that trailed at his heels. “Fools who try to cross them unprepared, rarely return.”

“Yes, thank you, Jareth,” Remington sighed. “And let’s not forget there’s a very real chance we might end up, by sheer misfortune, in the Demonic Forest before even reaching our destination...”

“The Demonic Forest is sealed,” a third voice cut in—soft, but laced with arrogance. He was wiping fresh blood from a whip with a detached air. “There’s a magical barrier watched over by Dracknum. No one gets in except through official gates.”

He flicked the blood off casually. “Though there are rumors of cracks in the seal, the odds of stumbling across one by accident are infinitesimal.”

“Even so,” Remington pressed on, “just the Black Forest is crawling with Class 3 to 5 beasts… and there have been sightings of Class 7s—maybe even 8s.” He dropped to one knee before Elijah. “Young lord, please. Think this through. We can speak with Grand Duke Valentine, search for another path—”

In that world, kneeling before a child wasn’t unusual. But perhaps—even on Earth—anyone would kneel… if the child in question was seated atop a mound of slain beasts, hands drenched in blood, and eyes cold as tempered steel.

“If you want to turn back, go,” Elijah said flatly, without even looking up. He sat casually—one knee raised to support his arm, the other resting atop the dead. “I never asked for company.”

Then he looked up—directly at Remington. One glance was enough to crush the atmosphere; a wave of killing intent radiated from his piercing green eyes.

“And never speak that name in front of me again.”

“Ugh…” Jareth, a level 4 mage, flinched reflexively. Without meaning to, he slipped into a defensive stance. The pressure was suffocating.

“Hish…” hissed the whip-wielder with a crooked smirk. “Someone’s triggered the young master…” He watched the moment unfold, silent and calculating. ‘Lord Valentine… what the hell did you do to carve that stare into Elijah’s face…?’

“But… he’s your father, young lor—”

“ENOUGH!” Elijah roared. The weight behind his gaze exploded outward, searing the air.

“I will cross that damned mountain. Whatever waits on the other side—monsters, demons, or death itself—I’ll face it. And when I reach Dracknum…”

His fists clenched, breath steady, the metal of his rings and bracelet catching the light. “I will bring her back.”

He locked eyes with Remington. “It’s your call, Remington. Stay here… or come with us and help bring her home.”

“Whistle woo,” the whip-man gave a low, teasing whistle, stepping forward. “You heard the young lord. Orders have been given.”

“Your word is law,” Jareth murmured, tense and shaken, still processing the resolve of a child half his size.

Elijah turned toward the looming mountain range ahead. His eyes, clouded with thought, stared into the horizon with a fierce blend of pain and resolve.

“Dal… No. Alexander…” he whispered. “Why do you still insist on being alone?"

His gaze hardened.