The next day, the lessons felt heavier, the air thick with anticipation. As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the day's classes, the teacher stepped forward with a measured calm.
"Students," she began, her voice carrying over the restless murmurs, "you will be given the next week off from regular lessons to prepare for the upcoming tests. Use this time wisely."
A ripple of whispered excitement and anxiety passed through the room. Some of the noble children exchanged confident glances, while others seemed uncertain.
Simon sat quietly in his usual seat, his fingers tightening around his notebook. The thought of having time to study was both a relief and a challenge. He knew it meant more hours of solitude, more moments alone with his fears and hopes.
Outside the classroom, the corridors felt different—emptier but heavier with expectation.
Back in their small room, Simon's mother waited as always, a faint smile softening her tired eyes.
"Time to prepare," she said softly.
Simon nodded, his resolve steady. They had one week. One chance.
And he would make it count.
By daylight, Simon helped his mother in the kitchen—carrying heavy buckets of water, chopping vegetables with steady hands, and scrubbing pots until they gleamed. His small frame moved tirelessly, never shirking from the tasks that kept their fragile existence afloat.
The kitchen was alive with noise and gossip, but Simon kept his head down, letting the clatter of daily work drown out the doubts that sometimes crept in.
When the sun dipped low and the world grew quiet, Simon returned to their small room, worn books spread before him beneath the flickering oil lamp. His mother sat nearby, sometimes watching silently, sometimes guiding him through difficult passages, her hands steady on his shoulder.
Night after night, he studied with fierce determination—writing, reading, memorizing every lesson he had learned, and every lesson yet to come.
Fatigue settled deep in his bones, but he pressed on.
Time moved forward relentlessly, and before Simon knew it, a full week had passed. The day had finally arrived to return to school and face the tests that would mark the first real measure of his efforts.
The stone halls felt colder than before as Simon entered the classroom. The noble children took their seats up front, the servant children, including Simon, filed quietly to the back. The teacher stood at the front, her expression sharp and unreadable.
After the first three lessons passed in tense silence, the teacher reached beneath her desk and brought out two neat stacks of papers—one labeled for the nobles, the other for the servants. Her voice cut through the murmurs.
"Put away your books. Only your stationery remains on your desks. No notes, no papers, no cheating. I will remind you once: cheating will not be tolerated."
A hush fell over the room. Hands fidgeted with pencils and erasers. Some children exchanged worried glances; others simply stared at the papers as if they might shift answers into view.
She passed the papers down the rows with deliberate care, watching each child carefully.
Simon's fingers curled tightly around his pencil as the paper settled before him. The questions were familiar—language, history, math—everything he had spent nights learning in that small room with his mother.
As the clock ticked, some children furrowed their brows, scratching their heads or hesitating at difficult problems. But Simon's hand moved steadily across the page, answers flowing from memory and practice. The fruits of his labor began to show in his neat handwriting and confident marks.
When the teacher finally called time, Simon leaned back, a quiet satisfaction warming him from within. He hadn't just survived the test—he had met it head-on.
After all the papers had been collected, the teacher's voice rang out clearly across the room."The results will be announced three days from now. Until then, lessons will continue as usual."
The students returned to their seats, the weight of anticipation settling quietly over them. As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the day, they gathered their books and belongings and filed toward the door, the low murmur of conversations mixing with the scrape of chairs on stone.
Simon walked the familiar path home, the shadows lengthening as dusk crept in. When he entered their small room, his mother was already there—pacing slowly, her eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds, nerves etched deep in her posture.
Her gaze locked onto Simon the moment he stepped inside. "So," she asked, voice trembling slightly, "how did it go?"
Simon's expression remained neutral, unreadable.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears. Her worry intensified, the thought that he might have failed creeping in and tightening like a knot in her chest.
Then, just as she was about to speak again, Simon's lips curved into a small, confident smile."It went really well," he said softly.
Her breath caught, and relief flooded through her like warm sunlight breaking through cold stone. Without hesitation, she crossed the room and lifted him into her arms, holding him tight.
She set him down gently, the smile still etched across her face, eyes gleaming with pride."You go wash up," she said softly, brushing his hair back. "I'll get something from the kitchens to celebrate."
Simon nodded and moved to the small basin in the corner, while she slipped out quietly into the night.
She returned ten minutes later, holding a modest pot cradled in her arms. From inside came the rich, fragrant scent of stew, the soft steam curling around her as she stepped into the room. She placed everything carefully on their small table: a bowl of rice, the stew, and—wrapped gently in cloth—a small piece of apple pie.
Simon's eyes widened slightly at the sight. "Mama…"
She just smiled and waved him over. "Sit with me."
He did, and she filled a plate with rice and stew, then began to feed him with careful, tender hands, one spoonful at a time. He tried to take the spoon from her at one point, but she shook her head. "Not tonight," she whispered. "Tonight, let me take care of you."
When the stew was gone, she unwrapped the apple pie and split it down the middle—only to slide the larger half onto his plate.
"Mama, we can share—"
"I am sharing," she said firmly, placing the fork in his hand. "Now eat."
With a small laugh, he took a bite and then, without a word, fed her the next one. She rolled her eyes playfully, but accepted it. They fed each other like that until the plate was clean, the last bite tasting sweeter for the company.
The room glowed with a soft, calming warmth—not from any fire, but from the quiet joy between them. The weight of their world seemed a little lighter tonight.
After the meal, she gathered the dishes and tucked them away while Simon pulled the blanket over their small bed. When she returned, he was already lying down, waiting.
She slid in beside him, and he curled close. Her arms wrapped around him, holding him the way she had since the day he was born—as if the world outside couldn't touch them here.
Under the thin sheets, wrapped in each other's warmth, their breathing slowed.
And in that small, fragile room, they drifted off to sleep with full bellies, quiet hearts, and the feeling—for just one night—that everything might be okay.
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Hey guys , from here on out I'm thinking about you people suggest titles for the chapters, after you've read them, and then I'll pick one of those for the chapters . Just mention the titles in the chapter comments.
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