TICKETS

“Tickets—those most neglected, inconsequential scraps of existence—how often have you witnessed their fate? Carelessly discarded the moment they fulfil their purpose, trampled beneath indifferent feet, ground into the dust by the relentless march of time. A fleeting glance at a wristwatch, a hurried step forward, and the remnants of passage are left to decay upon the road, their wrinkled, battered forms tormented by the ceaseless rhythm of footsteps. And when the rains descend, they are washed away into the gutters—forgotten forever. Yet, without these seemingly worthless slips of paper, the journey itself would have been impossible. Such is the nature of existence in this universe: the voyage is remembered, but the means are always forgotten.”

“Fascinating. Is that your essay for the English class today?” Oliver inquired, tilting his head as he peered at the neatly written pages in the notebook of the boy, seated opposite to him in the bus that wound its way through the mist-laden valleys.

Arthur—such was his name—belonged to Oliver’s class at the St. Peter’s. They were not the best of friends, nor even particularly close, yet fate had bound them together as companions on this daily ride. Closing his notebook with deliberate care, Arthur removed his small, round spectacles and looked up. “So? What do you think?”

“A masterpiece!” Oliver declared, his eyes alight with admiration.

Oliver Storm- yes, that’s our protagonist- a boy of twelve, fair complexion, his curly brown locks ever unruly, his bright, mischievous eyes betraying a soul teeming with restless energy and the old school uniform- pale and tattered at places. Do not be deceived by his cherubic appearance—for this was, perhaps, the most incorrigible child ever to have set foot upon the earth. A master of mayhem, a harbinger of disorder, he was the scourge of every teacher, the terror of every prefect. There was scarcely a day when he was not summoned to the principal’s office, yet no punishment, however severe, had managed to bend his indomitable spirit.

“Why is it that I can never write such essays?” Oliver mused aloud, his gaze drifting past the window, where the emerald thickets of the valley stretched endlessly.

Arthur smirked, adjusting his glasses with the air of one about to deliver an undeniable truth. “The answer is simple, Oliver. A mind brimming with mischief has no room left for knowledge. Do you never get tired of your antics?”

Oliver turned to him with a feigned look of innocence. “I am grievously misunderstood, Arthie. I’m not as they claim. Those old tyrants at school are weaving fables about me. What have I done to them?”

“What have you done?” Arthur’s voice carried the weight of exasperation, each word drawn out as if to ensure Oliver felt the full force of his accusation. “You stole Miss Natalie’s spectacles last week, and when she finally discovered them—abandoned in the washroom, no

less—they were shattered beyond repair. And last month—oh, let’s not even dredge up that catastrophe—you nearly reduced the entire school building to ashes.”

“It ought to have burnt it down,” Oliver remarked nonchalantly, his gaze wandering to the passing landscape outside. “What do those dull-witted lectures teach that life itself doesn’t? Sitting within four dreary walls, suffocated by uniforms and buried under books—it is a prison of the mind, Arthur. I detest it.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head in resignation. “Then perhaps, I’ve got some news that’ll make you happy. The school shall remain closed for the entire next week.”

Oliver’s eyes sparkled. “Wow. I mean, why?”

“The annual feast in the town. And speaking of which— my family has been invited there like every year. It’ll be fun- lots of delicacies! The great Mayor has himself invited us. Come, let’s get down. Our stop has arrived.” He turned to Oliver with a knowing glance. “Shall I be the one to pay for the tickets again, or will you?”

Oliver feigned a look of distress. “Ah—my wallet! I must have forgotten it at home.”

Arthur knew with absolute certainty that it was a lie, but he merely sighed and handed a few coins to the conductor. “As always,” he muttered under his breath.

By the time they reached their classroom, the English lesson was already underway. At the front of the room stood Miss Natalie, clad in a magenta coat that stretched over her ample frame, her chalk tapping insistently against the blackboard. She cast the late-comers a stern glance but allowed them to slip into their seats without further question.

“You’ll behave today, won’t you?” Arthur murmured under his breath, side-eyeing Oliver with suspicion. “Tell me you’ll at least try, Oliver.”

Oliver’s lips curled into a mischievous smile, but he nodded all the same.

Miss Natalie’s voice rang through the classroom. “Paper boats!” she declared grandly. “Today, we shall discuss synonyms. Who among you can offer a progression of increasingly complex words? Come now, challenge your minds.”

A beat of silence followed, until a single voice shattered it. “Fibrodysplasia!” Oliver proclaimed triumphantly.

A ripple of laughter spread through the room, students clutching their sides in amusement. Even Arthur had to bite back a grin.

Miss Natalie, lowering her spectacles with deliberate suspicion, peered at Oliver as though he had just revealed the secret to some ancient mystery. “Paper boats,” she repeated, her tone measured. “Where did you unearth such a word, Storm? Or—dare I ask—have you been stealing books from the forbidden section of the library again?”

Miss Natalie possessed the air of a shadowy figure from a dime novel—a character with secrets lurking beneath her composed exterior, her sharp eyes hiding a world of untold stories behind

the veneer of her fair skin. And Oliver, ever the agent of chaos, knew precisely how to stir the depths of that intrigue.

“No, ma’am,” Oliver replied, his voice bearing an innocence that was, by now, suspect. “I simply came across it.”

“Oh, did you?” Miss Natalie drawled, narrowing her sharp eyes upon him. “Curious, indeed. Words of such refinement rarely deign to come across rats of your sort, Sir Oliver Storm. A coincidence, then, of the most peculiar kind. Well, let me dwell upon it.”

She removed her spectacles and, with the dignity of a queen descending upon her throne, moved to settle into her chair—only to let out a shriek of piercing agony.

“Paper-boats!” she cried, her voice echoing through the walls. Her hands clutched at her gown as she shot back up, eyes blazing in fury. The culprit was revealed at once—a single, sharpened pencil standing upright upon the seat, its tip affixed with a wad of chewing gum.

Arthur turned to Oliver, his expression caught between incredulity and exasperation. “When?” he hissed.

“Yesterday,” Oliver admitted, his lips curving into an impish grin. “Before we left. The old Natalie needed a good lesson.”

The next scene, dear reader, you must already have foreseen—yes, the Principal’s office, yet again.

The man seated before them, Mr. Thomas, was no stranger to strictness. His iron will was known to bend neither for excuses nor for sentiment. And yet, when it came to Oliver, something within him wavered.

“Why, child,” he began, his voice heavy with both frustration and weary affection, “why must you take advantage of my weakness for you? You know how dearly I once loved Mary—who now happens to be your mother. For the sake of those cherished days we had spent at Yorkshire, I have endured your mischief, time and time again, but there are limits, Oliver. Even for you.”

Oliver, for once, had no retort. His head was lowered, his fingers twisting the hem of his uniform. “I am sorry, sir,” he murmured. “It will not happen again.”

“Do you swear it?” Mr. Thomas demanded, his voice balancing between a lingering fondness and an undeniable ire.

“Yes, sir,” Oliver said, his tone softer now.

The principal sighed, rubbing his temples before gesturing toward the door. “Very well. Return to your class. And I expect you to offer Miss Natalie a proper apology. Remember one thing always, forgive and you’ll be forgiven.”

Oliver left without another word.

But just as Mr. Thomas pushed back his chair to rise, he felt something pull at his feet. A sharp cry tore from his throat as he stumbled and fell, arms flailing, crashing onto the floor. His lace—his shoe laces—had been knotted together.

A moment of stunned silence. And then— “Oliver!” His furious bellow rattled the very walls.