Noah didn't cry at the funeral. He stood between two wooden coffins, his hands tucked into the pockets of a jacket that was slightly too big for him. The toy gun he had chosen just days before was hidden inside, silent now, dim, and forgotten. Everyone around him was crying: his classmates, his teachers, neighbors whose names he didn't know, and even Oliver's Navy buddies, who normally never showed emotion and now had red-rimmed eyes.
Noah just stared. He felt still and heavy. He didn't understand why everything around him seemed to be moving both too fast and too slow at the same time. Everyone wanted to hug him or tell him it would be okay when clearly it wouldn't. His parents were gone, and they weren't coming back.
The apartment didn't feel like home anymore. It was quiet in the wrong way— not peaceful, but hollow. Emy's slippers were still by the bathroom door. James's mug sat by the sink, half-washed. Their coats still hung by the door.
Oliver had offered to pack them away, but Noah said nothing. So, they stayed.
Noah didn't speak much for the first few days. He didn't touch his toys or turn on the TV. He ate only when prompted and never finished what was on his plate. He didn't cry in front of Oliver, and he didn't ask questions. At night, he sat at the edge of his bed, looking out the window as if expecting someone to come walking down the street. He often fell asleep without meaning to, still in his clothes.
Oliver watched all of this silently. He didn't know how to help. He had buried friends and shipmates, but burying your own son and daughter-in-law? There wasn't a manual for that. So, he cooked, kept the lights on, changed the sheets, and waited.
On the sixth day after the funeral, Oliver found Noah in his room, holding a small photo. It was from a beach trip two years ago, where Emy was lifting Noah above her head mid-laugh. James had seaweed on his shoulders, pretending to be a sea monster with a serious expression.
Oliver didn't say anything; he just sat next to him.
"I don't remember what her laugh sounded like," Noah said after a while.
"You will," Oliver replied. "You just have to be patient with your own memory. It's still in there."
Noah nodded slowly and carefully set the photo back on the nightstand.
The next day, Noah returned to school. He didn't want to, but he didn't resist either. He walked in quietly, with his bag on his shoulders and his hoodie up. Every hallway felt too loud, and every classroom felt too quiet once he stepped inside. Some students stared, and a few whispered.
A teacher touched his shoulder gently and said, "If it's too much, just let someone know." He nodded and continued walking. No one talked to him at lunch—except one kid, Ava. She sat down across from him without asking and began solving a Rubik's Cube.
"You don't have to say anything," she said, "but if you do, I won't tell anyone." He didn't answer, but he didn't move away either.
That night, Noah opened his laptop—not to play games or do homework—but to search for "How to fight back." The results were a mess: military ads, self-defense classes, and a wikiHow article with cartoon illustrations. He closed the tab, but the idea stayed.
The next morning at breakfast, he finally spoke.
"Grandpa?"
Oliver looked up from the pan. "Yeah?"
"I want to learn martial arts."
Oliver paused. "Since when?"
"I saw a video. Some kids at school do it too. I just think it'd help."
Oliver studied his face. There was no spark of excitement, no fake smile—just a flat calm.
"Alright," he said slowly. "But you have to earn it."
Noah tilted his head. "How?"
"You need to get top grades. No shortcuts. If you want to train your body, you have to train your mind first."
Noah nodded once. "Okay."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Oliver wasn't convinced, but he didn't argue. He didn't think Noah would stick with it more than a month. But he did.
Noah started waking up early. Before school, he did small circuits of push-ups and stretches. After school, he studied hard. Subjects he used to barely scrape through—now he dominated. He read through textbooks as if they were manuals for something bigger. Within three months, he was at the top of his class.
Teachers sent glowing notes home. "Extraordinary focus." "Unusually mature." "Seems to thrive on structure."
Oliver signed the martial arts forms without hesitation. He still thought Noah just needed an outlet. He had no idea that the outlet was becoming a blueprint.
—
What Oliver didn't know was that Noah hadn't signed up for just one program.
In the mornings, he trained in MMA, focusing on strength, striking, and endurance. In the evenings, he participated in Krav Maga under a false name, learning brutal, real-world self-defense and disarmament techniques. The Krav instructors remarked that he was "small, but scary smart."
Noah didn't waste time. He didn't joke around or act like a kid. He absorbed everything he was taught. He got knocked down, got back up, and repeated the process—again and again.
In addition, he started learning to code. Using his mom's old laptop, he discovered free cybersecurity courses, tutorials, and forums filled with people speaking in acronyms and discussing firewalls. Initially, he struggled to understand any of it.
But like his martial arts training, he learned by doing. He practiced, practiced, and practiced some more. Some nights, he forgot to sleep, and he didn't care. He wasn't building strength just to survive; he was building it to hunt.
One night, Oliver stood outside Noah's door and listened— not to music, but to silence. Inside, Noah sat cross-legged on the floor, red pen in hand, mapping symbols and faces on blank sheets of paper. He wasn't crying or talking, but there was something burning behind his eyes.
Oliver considered knocking but ultimately decided against it.
By the time Noah turned six and a half, he was running laps before breakfast, achieving top grades in math and science, and training alongside teens twice his size without flinching. He still never spoke about that night—not to Oliver, not to his teachers, and not even to himself.
However, some nights, he'd lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, whispering, "I'll find you." With each repetition, the whisper grew quieter, but the certainty of his resolve grew louder.