Tom was seventeen. Sharp-eyed and clean-cut, he had the kind of look that could’ve made him popular—if he’d cared to be. But he didn’t. At school, Tom kept to himself, head down in the hallways, never stopping to chat or share in the laughter and chatter of teenage life. While others went to parties, cheered under Friday night lights, and flirted through chemistry class, Tom stuck to a strict rhythm: school, then home. Nothing more.
He lived with his grandmother in a quiet Oregon suburb, in a weathered but tidy house surrounded by neat lawns and white picket fences. Their garden bloomed with roses and vegetables, a labor of love they tended to together. Now and then, neighbors would catch sight of the pair—she in her sunhat, he with a basket of carrots—but they never lingered. Tom wasn’t the talkative type. He rarely returned greetings, sometimes offered a nod, and often didn’t acknowledge people at all. Eventually, folks stopped trying.
Well—most did.
A group of boys from the block, loud and full of energy, played baseball in the street every evening. They made a point to invite Tom each time.
“Hey Tom! Wanna play?”
He never did. But every so often, he’d flash a small, almost shy smile, or lift a hand in a faint wave. That was enough for the kids to keep asking.
Then, one day, something changed.
Mrs. Langford—Tom’s grandmother—vanished from view. No more rose pruning, no more tomato-picking. Days stretched into weeks. Tom still showed up at school, still walked like a ghost through the halls, but now he was out late. Some nights, no one saw him return at all.
The neighborhood started whispering.
“I heard she died, and he buried her out back,” someone said.
“No way. She left. Probably couldn’t handle that weird kid anymore.”
“I heard from my cousin’s friend—he drained her bank accounts and kept the house for himself.”
The gossip spread like wildfire. Parents pulled their kids off the streets. They gave firm warnings:
“Don’t go near that boy.”
“He’s not like the others.”
Even the baseball crew—those loyal little fans—were told not to call out to him anymore.
Tom didn’t react. Not at first. Not until the day a shiny silver BMW appeared in his driveway. Brand-new. Gleaming.
“That confirms it,” one woman muttered behind her blinds. “He stole everything.”
The stories turned darker, colder.
And then came one golden summer evening. The sky glowed, and long shadows stretched across the pavement as Tom drove home. Ahead, three boys stood in the middle of the road—gloves in hand, ball in the dirt, defiant and unafraid.
They raised their arms and flagged him down.
Tom eased to a stop, rolling down the window slowly.
“Tom,” said the oldest boy…