A glimmer of Kindness(Cole's POV)

The servant quarters were a world away from the main house, even though they were just a short walk across the manicured lawn. For me, they were a refuge, a place where the air felt lighter and the shadows of Zane's cruelty couldn't quite reach. Mr. Patrick, the gardener was a kind man, his smile always warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. He never asked about my days at school, never questioned why I spent my afternoons reading dusty books by the mango tree instead of playing with Zane.

It was a quiet afternoon, the sun shining lazily in the sky. I was engrossed in a worn-out copy of Treasure Island, the adventures of Jim Hawkins, a welcome escape from monotony. A rustle in the bushes pulled me from my book. My heart pounded. Had Zane followed me? Was he about to launch another one of his "pranks"?

Instead, a small, familiar figure emerged, her bright eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and defiance. It was Zye. Almost 13, she was a wisp of a girl with a fierce spirit that often surprised me. She was Zane’s opposite in every way, a quiet ally in a house full of silent enemies

"Cole!" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the chirping of crickets. She clutched a small, brightly colored butterfly net in her hand.

My stomach churned. "Zye, what are you doing here? You know your mother will be angry if she sees you."

Her lower lip jutted out stubbornly. "I don't care. I want to be here." She padded softly across the grass, her bare feet silent.

I sighed, a mix of frustration and a strange, hesitant warmth. "You'll get me in trouble. If your mother finds out I was talking to you out here, or that you followed me..."

"She won't," Zye interrupted, her gaze unwavering. "I was just playing in the garden. She won't know." She sat down on the bench beside me, her legs swinging idly. She didn't press for conversation, didn't ask what I was reading, or why I was out here alone. She just sat, content in her silence, her gaze fixed on the dance of ants on the path.

That was the beginning of our secret friendship. Our non-verbal conversations- often no more than a few murmured words. Sometimes she’d bring a small, brightly colored flower she’d picked, placing it carefully on my open book. Other times, she’d just hum a little tune, her voice soft and melodious, while I lost myself in the pages of another adventure.

She never said anything about Zane's bullying, but I knew she saw it. I’d catch her watching him sometimes, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Once, I saw her standing by the living room window, her small face pressed against the glass, as Zane "accidentally" knocked my school bag off the porch swing, scattering my homework across the wet grass. She hadn't said a word, but her silent presence felt like a shield, a silent protest against his cruelty.

The next day, it was the same. After school, I headed straight for the servant quarters, the familiar weight of Zane's taunts still clinging to me like dust. He'd "misplaced" my math textbook during lunch, forcing me to spend the first ten minutes of class frantically searching for it. When I finally found it, tucked neatly inside his locker, he'd just grinned, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

I settled under the mango tree, pulling out a book on ancient Egypt. The heat of the afternoon was beginning to fade, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above me. Soon enough, I heard the familiar soft footsteps.

"Hey, Cole," Zye whispered, appearing from behind a bougainvillea bush, her hair a tangled mess of curls. She held a magnifying glass to her eye, squinting at a tiny beetle crawling on a leaf.

"Hey, Zye," I replied, a small smile touching my lips. It was a comfort, her quiet presence. A small anchor in the storm that was my life.

"What are you reading today?" she asked, her voice hushed.

"I am reading a book about mummies and pyramids," I said, holding up the book so she could see.

She leaned closer, her eyes wide with fascination. "Are they real?"

"They were real people, a long, long time ago," I explained, pointing to a diagram. "They believed in an afterlife, and they preserved their bodies."

Zye nodded slowly, her brow furrowed in thought. "That's sad. To be so lonely for so long."

I looked at her, surprised by her depth. "I guess so," I murmured. "But they believed they'd wake up again."

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustling leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Zye occasionally pointed out a particularly interesting insect, or a bright flower, her finger tracing its delicate petals.

"Cole," she said suddenly, her voice low. "Why does Zane act like that?"

I tensed. This was new. She usually avoided talking about him. "Act like what?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

She looked at me, her young eyes surprisingly knowing. "Mean. He's always mean to you."

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "That's just Zane. He's older."

"What about my mother? Is she mean to you because she is old?" She asked.

"I...I don't know." I did not want to open this specific pandora box.

Zye shook her head, her curls bouncing. "No. They should treat you kindly. I know you are adopted but...Mom..." She trailed off, her gaze drifting to the main house, looming from a far.

"Don't worry about it," I said. The words felt heavy in my throat. I wanted someone to care. But expecting Zye to go against her family would be a bad bet. 

Zye frowned, a deep crease appearing between her eyebrows. "That's silly. I worry. You're my brother. You live here. We go to the same school."

A small, genuine laugh escaped me. "Yeah, I guess I do." The warmth of her simple logic was a balm to my aching heart.

"I don't like it when they are mean to you," she continued, her voice firm. "I usually tell Zane not to disturb you."

My eyes widened. "You do?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He just ignores me. But sometimes… sometimes he looks surprised." She paused, then added, "I can't ask mom because...you know why."

I felt a surge of warmth, a feeling I rarely experienced. It was a small, fragile hope, a tiny flicker of light in the constant darkness of my encounters with Zane. "Thank you, Zye," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Thank you for trying."

She just smiled, a small, shy smile that transformed her face. Then, as if the conversation had never happened, she went back to observing a ladybug slowly making its way across a blade of grass.

Our secret garden meetings became a ritual. It was our sanctuary, a bubble of peace in the storm. Sometimes, her parents would be home early, and Zye wasn't be able to slip away. On those days, I felt the absence like a dull ache.