He had no birth certificate. VIDEO
Didn’t know who his own father and mother were.
Not in the way orphans speak of absence—with photographs tucked in drawers, names whispered at bedtime, a hollow space where love should have been. No, Kym’s unknowing was deeper, more absolute. He had no birth certificate. No hospital bracelet. No lullabies hummed in a voice he could recall. He’d been left on the steps of a shuttered church in a town that no longer existed on maps, wrapped in a blanket stitched with no initials, no symbols, no trace of origin. The note pinned to his chest read only: “He listens too well.”
That was his first name. Listens Too Well.
The nuns who took him in gave him Kym—a name with no history, no lineage, no weight. Mûryer came later, borrowed from a gravestone he’d seen as a boy during a rare field trip to the county cemetery. He liked the way it sounded: sharp, final, like a door closing.
He never searched for them. Not out of indifference, but because he understood early that some silences are not meant to be broken. Some roots are better left buried. What mattered wasn’t who had left him, but what they’d left behind: the unbearable clarity of being unwanted, and the terrible gift of hearing everything the world tried to hide.
The five had known that kind of silence too.
The mortician had been raised in a home where love was conditional on obedience, and obedience was enforced with belts and Bible verses. The librarian’s mother had sold her to a man for a month’s rent. The soldier’s father had vanished the night his daughter was born, leaving only a pair of dog tags and a bottle of cheap whiskey. The boy had been shuffled between foster homes so often he stopped learning the names of the people who fed him.
They hadn’t unalived because they were monsters.
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