I had always known Hugh Apiston to be the quiet sort—reserved, with a calm demeanor that seemed to hide something deep within him. He was the one who tended to the bees, his peculiar ability allowing him to communicate with them in a way that fascinated everyone. His presence was gentle, almost ethereal, as though he belonged to a world of buzzing wings and golden sunlight.

That afternoon, I had gone looking for him. The house was its usual maze of creaking floorboards and whispering walls, and I had wandered into his room without much thought, drawn by an inexplicable feeling that I might find him there. The door was ajar, but the air inside felt different—charged, heavy with something I couldn’t place.

I pushed it open, and there he was.

Hugh sat on the edge of his bed, his back hunched, hands trembling in his lap. His face was buried in his hands, his body shaking with quiet sobs. It was a strange sight, seeing him like this—his usual serene expression replaced with something raw and vulnerable. His room, usually so orderly, seemed to reflect the chaos of the moment: books scattered across the floor, an overturned jar of honey dripping slowly down the side of a bookshelf.

For a moment, I stood frozen in the doorway, unsure of how to react. Hugh, the calm and composed protector of the bees, the one who had always seemed untouchable, was crying. The soft, almost imperceptible sound of his distress made my chest tighten. It was the sort of thing I hadn’t expected, but then, in a house full of peculiar children, there was always more to each person than met the eye.