the prize

he won a prize at school, a small trophy for an essay he wrote about his favorite book. he didn't tell his father, didn't want to hear him say 'that's nice' in that tone he always uses. the one that means 'i'm not really listening'. he put the trophy on his shelf, next to the picture of his mother. it's an old photograph, one that's starting to fade. he looks at it sometimes, trying to remember what she looked like. the shape of her face, the color of her eyes. but it's all just a blur. he gets up from his bed, and walks over to the window. the sky is a deep shade of blue, almost purple. he can see the rooftops of the houses across the street, the chimneys and the antennas. it's a familiar view, one that he's seen countless times before. but today, it feels different. maybe it's the trophy, or maybe it's just the way the light is falling. he stands there for a long time, lost in thought. the world outside is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a car driving by. he feels a sense of peace, a sense of being alone in the world. it's a feeling that's both comforting and unsettling. like the way the trophy feels in his hands, solid and weighty. but also fragile, like it could break at any moment.