When he was thirteen, the only light in his life was the music his grandfather shared with him.
It was never loud. Just a quiet hum, a soft strum, or the slow dance of fingers over ivory keys. His grandfather's old piano sat in a dusty room at the back of the house, nearly forgotten by the rest of the family—but not by him. Not by Aiden.
His name was never said with love. Not by his father. Not by his mother. They'd scowl at the soft echoes of music drifting through the cracked door.
But his grandfather smiled.
"You've got music in your soul, kid," the old man would say, tapping his chest. "Don't let the world crush it."
For a while, Aiden believed he wouldn't. Until the day the old man's cough turned into blood, and his smile faded forever.
They didn't even play a song at his funeral.
After that, everything changed.
The piano was locked away. Aiden's room was stripped bare. His father found the old guitar under the bed and broke it in two.
"You want to play music?" he snarled, gripping Aiden's shirt. "Play it in your head."
His mother said nothing. She never did. Just turned her back and walked away as if she hadn't heard the sound of the boy crying into his pillow.
The village wasn't kinder. Whispers turned into sneers. The "weird boy" who still hummed tunes under his breath. A freak. A failure. A disappointment to his family name.
Day after day, week after week—it was fists, silence, cold meals, and colder nights.
Then the food started to taste bitter.
Then it hurt to get up.
His body thinned, his skin paled, and the fire in his chest dimmed to an ember. When he collapsed on the cold kitchen floor, his parents stared at him like he was a broken toy.
They took him to the hospital—but left before the doctors could even speak.
Seven days.
That's how long he stayed there. Hooked to fluids. Alone.
The nurses whispered about how no one had come to visit. The doctors shook their heads. No insurance. No signatures. No treatment.
Just time ticking down.
On the seventh night, as moonlight slipped through the cracks in the blinds, he stood up. Weak, dizzy, barefoot.
He walked through the empty hallway, IV stand dragging behind like a ghost.
The doors hissed open into the dark, cold air. He felt free, even if just for a moment. For the first time in years, he hummed. Quietly. His voice cracked, but it was music.
Then the headlights came.
And the world turned white.