The Invisible Boy (Cole's POV)

The sun, relentless and unforgiving, beat down on the dusty path leading from the servants’ quarters to the main house. I was ten, and the path was etched into my memory, every pebble, every crack. It was a route I knew intimately, yet one I was rarely allowed to fully explore. My world was largely confined to the small, neat rooms behind the imposing mansion, a world of hushed conversations and the ever-present scent of cleaning products and warm food.

My name is Cole Junior. Morison had named me Junior as they did not know my second or third name. I was not a "Wyatt," like Zane and Zye. I knew I was different. Different enough to be kept in the shadows, while the Wyatts lived and dined in the light.

Ten years. Ten years of wondering why. Why was I always given hand-me-down clothes, sometimes a little too big, sometimes a little too small, always with the faint scent of Zane’s perfume still clinging to them? Why were my toys always second-hand, chipped and worn, while Zane’s latest gadgets arrived in pristine boxes? Why did I eat my meals in the quiet hum of the kitchen, or sometimes, if I was lucky, with Morison in the servant's quarters, while the Wyatts’ laughter echoed from the grand dining room?

I remember when Zye was born. I was barely two, a toddler myself, and the excitement in the house was a palpable thing, even in the servants’ quarters. A new baby! A sister! I’d pictured myself playing with her, showing her my worn wooden truck, making her laugh. But then came the stern warnings, delivered by Mrs. Cecilia, the head house help, her voice low and serious. "Cole, you must never go near the madam’s baby. Never play with her. You understand?" I hadn’t understood. Not really. Only that a wall had been built, thick and invisible, between me and the tiny, squeeling bundle that had arrived in a flurry of pink blankets.

Mrs. Wyatt never treated me like a mother unless we were out of the mansion and in public. There was a memory about her mistreatment that was burned deep into my brain. I must have been four or five. Zye, a tiny whirlwind of energy, was calling her "Mama!" Her voice, high and sweet, resonated through the hallway. And in that moment, a childish impulse, a longing to belong, seized me. I saw Mrs. Wyatt walking past, her silk dress rustling. I opened my little mouth and called her,"Mama!" My voice had been small but hopeful.

She had stopped and turned slowly. Her face, usually so composed, was a mask of cold fury and disgust. Her eyes, usually dismissive, were sharp, piercing. She knelt, just slightly, bringing her face closer to mine, but there was no warmth in the gesture. Her voice, usually soft in public, became a chilling whisper that I’ve never forgotten. "You are never to call me that. Do you understand clearly, Cole? I am Mrs. Wyatt. Not your mother. I can never be." Her grip on my arm was surprisingly strong. I’d nodded, tears stinging my eyes, unable to speak. The message was clear: I was not hers. I was not family.

The public appearances were a different case altogether. These were the times when the illusion of the philanthropic Wyatt family had to be maintained. When there were important visitors, powerful friends of Mr. Wyatt, I was allowed in the mansion. I would be cleaned, dressed in new, custom fit clothes, and brought out like a carefully selected prop. "This is Cole," Mr. Wyatt would say, a huge smile on his face, a hand often resting on my shoulder. "A fine young boy we've taken under our wing." I’d been taught to smile, to nod, to say "thank you, sir" and "thank you, madam." In those moments, I was part of their perfect family portrait. But the moment the door closed behind the last guest, the mask would drop. I’d be sent back to the quarters, the custom clothes packed back, to be sent to the nearest orphanage.

Morison was like a quiet uncle. He never spoke much about my past, but his eyes held a sadness whenever he looked at me. He’d teach me how to oil the gate's hinges, wash the cars, how to recognize different types of bird calls, how to count the stars. He never explicitly said they treated me badly, but his small acts of kindness – an extra piece of fruit, a quiet story told under the moonlight, a knowing glance when Mrs. Wyatt’s sharp words echoed – spoke volumes. And then there was Mrs. Cecilia, the head house help. She was stricter, focused on rules, but there was a hint of maternal affection beneath her stern exterior. She’d always make sure I had enough to eat, even when I wasn’t hungry. She’d inspect my clothes, muttering softly about their fit, sometimes even mending a loose button with a sigh. They were my true family, in all but name.

The only normal thing in my strange existence, was school: I attended the same prestigious school Zane and Zye went to. Mr. Wyatt was the one who enrolled me. He did not want people talking, speculating about why the Wyatt family’s adopted son wasn’t at the same elite institution as his own children. So, five days a week, I shared a school with Zane and Zye.

At school, the rules were different. There, away from the mansion’s suffocating atmosphere, I was just Cole. A student. A boy who was surprisingly good at maths and loved reading. Here, I had friends. Other boys who didn’t care about my unknown parentage, who just saw Cole. They were a lifeline, a glimpse into a world where I could be just me.

Zye was also different. She was sweet and bright-eyed. She was two years younger than me, but even now, at eight, she radiated a quiet compassion that warmed me to the core. We couldn’t be close, not with Zane’s hawk-like gaze always ready to report any interaction to his parents- but her small, fleeting smiles in the hallway, a quick nod of acknowledgment, a shared glance of understanding when I was having a bad day, warmed my heart. She often left small drawings or notes tucked into my locker, or in my schoolbag, little bursts of color and kindness. A silent rebellion against the unspoken rules of our home.

Sometimes, after school, if Zane was distracted, Zye would linger near the main gate. Morison, bless his heart, would find an excuse to be busy nearby. Zye would talk, her voice soft, about her day, about her dreams of far-off places. I’d listen, offering quiet observations. Those moments, few and far between, were oxygen. They reminded me that not everyone in the world, not even in that house, saw me as an infection of poverty.

However, the questions still gnawed at me. Why was I here? Who were my parents? Why the secrecy, the whispers, the constant fear of being cast out if I stepped out of line? I tried to piece together fragments of conversations I’d overheard, things about a "spring morning" and "the gate." But it was all a jumbled mess, like trying to assemble a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

I often dreamt of a woman with a kind face, a blurry image that felt both familiar and impossibly distant. My real mother? Was she alive? Did she think of me? The idea was a dangerous one, a spark of hope that could easily be crushed by the harsh reality of my existence.

Today, after another day of school and another terse exchange with Mrs. Wyatt about something Zane had falsely accused me of doing, I walked the familiar path back to the quarter. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in fiery hues, a stark contrast to the quiet ache in my chest. I was ten, and I was Cole Junior, the invisible boy of the Wyatt household. But somewhere, deep down, a tiny flame of defiance flickered. I might not know the truth now, but one day, I would. One day, I would find out why. And then, maybe then, I wouldn't be invisible anymore.