The Hive

Chapter 4
Chapter 3

Benjamin woke in a strange position—curled up in a ball, hugging his pillow. The sheets were bunched up, and there was a damp spot on the mattress from drool. "When was the last time I slept this soundly?" he wondered, not noticing that his pajama bottoms were sitting suspiciously low, as if he'd been tossing and turning all night.

He lay in bed, in no hurry to get up. Last night's conversation came flooding back. Tea without additives... bad nights... trembling hands wrapped around a glass—it all seemed almost ghostly now, as if it had never happened.

Benjamin rolled onto his back. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what was wrong with that boy. Too proper, too sarcastic, too... tired? Yes, that was it. In that eleven-year-old child was the weariness of someone who had lived a long, hard life. And that weariness was all too familiar to Benjamin.

"He's me, only smaller," the thought flashed through his mind.

Benjamin sat up in bed, automatically tensing in anticipation of the familiar pain. That morning "hello" from his lower back that had accompanied him for the past five years. The office curse—payment for hours spent hunched over a laptop.

But the pain didn't come.

Benjamin froze, not believing it. He turned left—nothing. Right—same. He bent forward, backward—his spine moved easily, without protest.

"Well, well," he exhaled. "Is the Hive really working miracles?"

Encouraged, he jumped out of bed. And immediately doubled over—sharp pain shot from his lower back to his knees.

"Ah, no, everything's fine!" he wheezed, grabbing the back of a chair. "I was worried I'd lost an old friend. Hello, sciatica, missed you?"

The bear sat watching with its button eye, as if saying: "What did you expect? Miracles?"

"Exactly, buddy. Miracles are for fairy tales. And you and I are too old for fairy tales."

Limping, he made it to the bathroom. On the shelf waited yesterday's toothbrush—yellow, with a cartoon bee on the handle. Next to it lay his own—worn, with frayed bristles, having served so faithfully that Benjamin couldn't even remember when he'd bought it.

"Seriously?" he asked his reflection. "They think I'm going to brush my teeth with this toy?"

He took the old brush. The bristles were stiff, matted in places. The toothpaste barely foamed on the worn fibers. But it was HIS brush. Familiar and reliable.

True, his gums bled slightly after brushing. And the aftertaste wasn't the most pleasant. But Benjamin stubbornly rinsed the old brush and put it back, pushing the cheerful bee far away.

"Let them know that Benjamin Wilson doesn't fall for cheap manipulations with cute toothbrushes," he muttered, getting dressed.

Going down to breakfast, he thought again about Lucas. What makes an eleven-year-old boy get up in the middle of the night, hide regular tea from the management, sit with a stranger guest in a dark kitchen? Loneliness? But this place was full of people. Duty? But this clearly went beyond job responsibilities.

Almost everyone had already gathered in the dining room. Michael was again enthusiastically sculpting right at the table—Sara hadn't managed to confiscate the clay yet. Robert was methodically stirring his porridge, counting the rotations of the spoon. Amelia was leafing through a bright picture book.

Lucas sat in the far corner, intently studying the contents of his plate. When Benjamin appeared, he glanced up quickly and looked away.

Taking a tray, he headed toward Lucas's table. The boy tensed but didn't look up.

"Good morning," said Benjamin, sitting across from him. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," Lucas muttered into his plate. "And you?"

The official distance again.

"Not bad. Slept especially well after the tea. Sorry I woke you up."

Lucas jerked, quickly looking around—had anyone heard?

"It won't happen again, don't talk about it so loudly."

"That's a shame. I enjoyed the company."

"Lucas!" Sara's sharp voice made them both jump. "Why hasn't the library been cleaned yet? I asked you yesterday!"

The boy jumped up, nearly knocking over his glass.

"Sorry, Aunt Sara, I'll do it right now..."

"It's my fault," Benjamin suddenly said. "I asked Lucas to show me the books yesterday. We stayed up late, he didn't have time to clean."

Sara turned her displeased gaze to him.

"Guests shouldn't distract staff from their duties."

"I apologize. I didn't think."

She pursed her lips but didn't argue with a guest.

"Lucas, clean up after breakfast."

"Yes, Aunt Sara."

When she walked away, Lucas looked at Benjamin with amazement.

"Why did you do that?"

"Well, we really could have stayed up late in the library. If you had been showing it to me."

A ghost of a smile flickered on the boy's lips.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

They continued eating in silence. The porridge was cloyingly sweet, but hunger took precedence. Benjamin noticed that Lucas's portion was noticeably smaller—actually, his entire breakfast consisted only of a bowl of porridge and half a cheese sandwich, with no jam or cinnamon roll at all.

"Listen, why do you only have porridge?"

"Oh, it's a new diet. It's called 'don't be a smartass and you'll get dessert,'" Lucas feigned a smile. "Very effective."

"They punish you with food?"

"They 'correct behavior through a reward system,'" Lucas mimicked an official tone. "Sounds better than 'starve him for having opinions,' right?"

Benjamin waited until Sara was distracted, quickly wrapped a roll in a napkin, and pressed it into Lucas's hands.

"What's this?" Lucas stared at the bundle as if it might explode.

"A roll. Round thing made of dough. People usually eat them."

"I know what a roll is!" Lucas hissed, but pocketed it. "Just... Why?"

"Because punishing with food is despicable."

Lucas opened his mouth for another sarcastic remark, but closed it. For a second, his carefully constructed mask cracked, and Benjamin saw a glimpse of something real—surprise, embarrassment, cautious gratitude.

"Well... thanks," Lucas mumbled, looking away. "Though it's completely unnecessary. I don't need..."

"Yeah, yeah, you're a tough guy who doesn't need anyone," Benjamin interrupted. "Message received. Now eat your porridge before Sara notices our contraband."

"Yes," he agreed quietly.

Breakfast was coming to an end when there was a loud clap of hands.

"Now it's time for creative activities! Today we're sculpting with clay," Sara announced cheerfully.

Everyone headed to the playroom. Michael practically ran, anticipating new materials for creativity. Amelia walked more slowly, but with interest. Robert simply trudged along, carried by the general flow.

"I'll pass," said Benjamin, stopping at the door.

Sara turned around, eyebrows rising.

"What do you mean 'pass'? Everyone participates in group activities. It's an important part of the recovery program."

"Thanks, but I'd rather take a walk. My head feels a bit heavy after breakfast."

"Benjamin," steel notes appeared in Sara's voice. "Creativity helps you open up, let go. You came here for help, didn't you?"

"Yes. But right now fresh air will help me."

They looked at each other—the stubborn guest and the displeased nanny. Finally, Sara sighed.

"Well. Everything comes with time. But tomorrow I expect you at the activities. Without fail."

"We'll see."

Benjamin went out into the garden, feeling her displeased gaze on his back. Lucas slipped past with an armful of aprons for sculpting, throwing a quick glance—a mixture of surprise and approval.

It was cool outside. The morning sun hadn't yet warmed the air, dew glistened on the grass. Benjamin wandered aimlessly, enjoying the silence. No Michael's enthusiastic exclamations, no Sara's lectures, no intrusive care.

The path led him to a distant part of the garden. Old apple trees grew here—gnarled, with spreading crowns. Under one of them, the grass was trampled—someone often sat here.

Benjamin lowered himself to the ground, leaning his back against the rough trunk. He closed his eyes. Silence. Only bees buzzing somewhere in the distance, and leaves rustling in the wind.

"Strange place," he thought. "Strange people. And that boy..."

A delicate cough made him open his eyes. Lucas stood a couple of meters away, shifting from foot to foot.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing. Are the activities over already?"

"No. I brought the aprons and said I was going for soap. I have about ten minutes."

He shuffled in place, clearly hesitating.

"May I... may I sit? Just for a bit. This is my secret place. I come here when I need to think."

"Of course, sit down. It's your place after all."

Lucas sat down beside him, pulling his knees up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the roll wrapped in a napkin. The same one from breakfast.

"Want half? They're from the bakery in town. No honey."

"No honey?" Benjamin accepted the offered piece. "Is that important?"

Lucas froze with the roll halfway to his mouth.

"Just... I don't really like honey. Too sweet."

They chewed in silence. The roll was fresh, with cinnamon. Ordinary pastry, but after the cloying porridge, it seemed like a delicacy.

"It's strange that there's honey everywhere here," Benjamin began. "Is it some kind of special diet?"

"No, it's not a diet, it's... The honey here... it..."

The boy cringed as if preparing for a blow. Opened his mouth, closed it. Opened again.

"Lucas," Benjamin looked at him. "Are you all right?"

The words clearly wanted to burst out, but something was stopping them. Fear? A prohibition? Lucas jumped up, brushing off his jeans.

"I have to go. Sara will be looking for me."

"Wait! You wanted to say something?"

"No. I mean yes. I mean..." he was clearly panicking. "I really have to go. Sorry."

And he ran off. Literally—took off and ran toward the house, leaving Benjamin sitting in complete bewilderment.

"What the hell?" he muttered, watching the figure flashing between the trees.

The half-eaten roll lay on the grass where Lucas had been sitting. Benjamin picked it up, brushed off the grass. Ordinary pastry. "No honey." As if it were important. Vitally important.

"Why was he so scared?" he thought, examining the piece of pastry. "Maybe food punishment isn't the limit?"

Benjamin sat under the apple tree for a long time, but no answers came. Only questions multiplied, like bees around a hive.

"The honey here... it..." Lucas's words spun in his head.

Getting up, Benjamin brushed grass from his jeans. Time to go back. Maybe Robert could tell him something—after all, he'd been here the longest. Or Amelia had noticed something unusual.

At the entrance to the building, right on the steps, sat Michael. In his hands was an old acoustic guitar, and he was clumsily strumming the strings, humming something under his breath. Colorful clay sculptures lay nearby.

Michael looked up and beamed:

"Oh, Benjamin! Can you play? I'm trying to remember... something from the past. I think I used to know how."

"A little," Benjamin admitted, though the last time he'd held a guitar was ten years ago, in college.

"Show me! Please!" Michael held out the instrument with such hope in his eyes that it was impossible to refuse.

Benjamin sat down beside him and took the guitar. His fingers found familiar chords on their own—something simple, from those songs sung around campfires. Uncertain at first, then more confidently.

"I know this song!" Michael exclaimed and began to sing along, mixing up the words but with such enthusiasm that Benjamin couldn't help but smile.

Others began to gather around them. Robert brought his pencils and settled down to draw. Amelia appeared with a book, but instead of reading, she listened to the music.

The anxiety caused by Lucas's strange words began to recede. It was hard to think about riddles and secrets when people around you were singing old forgotten songs in an off-key chorus.

"Do you know this one?" Amelia asked and hummed a melody.

Benjamin recognized it—an old children's song his grandmother used to sing. He picked out the chords, and Amelia began to sing—in a surprisingly pure, beautiful voice. A financial director singing children's songs? But somehow here it didn't seem strange.

The sun was setting, painting the hive and garden in golden tones. A thermos of tea appeared from somewhere (with honey, of course, but it wasn't irritating now) and a basket of cookies. The impromptu concert turned into a small picnic.

"I haven't relaxed like this in a long time," Robert admitted, showing his drawing—all of them sitting in a circle, with Benjamin and his guitar in the center. "Thank you."

"Yes," Amelia agreed, and her usually tense face looked relaxed. "I'd forgotten I could sing."

Benjamin felt something warm in his chest. When was the last time he'd done something just for fun? When was the last time he'd been part of something... good?

Sara appeared in the doorway. Benjamin tensed, expecting a remark—surely they'd missed some mandatory event. But she just smiled:

"What wonderful music! Don't stop, I'll just call Lucas—he loves the guitar."

A couple of minutes later, Lucas appeared:

"Aunt Sara, seriously?" he looked at her pleadingly.

"Sit down," Benjamin simply said. "Or are you afraid your reputation will suffer?"

"My reputation is the only thing I have left," Lucas snapped, but sat on the very edge of the steps.

Benjamin played an old Irish tune, and Michael jumped up and started dancing—awkwardly, funny, but so sincerely that soon others joined him. Even Sara was tapping her foot.

"Strange place," Benjamin thought, watching the dancing people. "Strange rules, strange boy with his secrets. But also..."

Robert moved closer, showing a new drawing—the hive surrounded by flowers and dancing bees.

"That's us," he explained. "Bees in their home. Happy bees."

"But also," Benjamin finished the thought, "the first place in a long time where I feel alive."

During the song, Benjamin watched the boy from the corner of his eye. At first, Lucas sat with a stone face, showing with his whole being how bored he was. Then his foot began to barely noticeably beat the rhythm. By the third song, he was silently singing along, thinking no one could see.

"Hey, Lucas," Benjamin called between songs. "Which one do you like?"

"I don't..." the boy began automatically, but met Benjamin's gaze. He was looking without mockery, genuinely interested. "'House by the Road.' If you know it."

"I know it."

Benjamin played the melody, and something changed in Lucas's face. The armor gave another crack. He began to sing—quietly, almost whispering, but his voice was pure and gentle as an angel's.

When the song ended, Lucas suddenly realized everyone was looking at him. The protective mask instantly returned to its place.

"What are you staring at? Yes, I can sing a little."

But Benjamin saw the light blush on his cheeks and how the boy studiously avoided his gaze.

"That was a wonderful concert," said Sara. "But now it's getting cold, and everyone needs to go inside."

With these words, the whole company gathered their modest belongings and headed inside the hive.

In the evening, lying in his too-soft bed, he could still hear echoes of the songs. His fingers ached pleasantly from the strings. On the nightstand stood a glass of milk—Sara had brought it, "for better sleep." Benjamin sniffed—honey, of course. But also cinnamon and something soothing.

"The honey here... it..." Lucas's words surfaced in memory, but they no longer frightened him as much. Whatever that boy was hiding, whatever was wrong with this place—today Benjamin had sung songs and danced for the first time in many years. Wasn't that worth a small risk?

He took a small sip. Sweet, warm, cozy. Like grandmother's milk with honey in childhood, when he couldn't sleep.

The bear settled comfortably beside him.

"You know what?" Benjamin whispered. "Maybe not all mysteries need to be solved. Maybe sometimes you can just... live?"

Crickets chirped outside the window. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Ordinary sounds of an ordinary night. But somehow here, in the "Hive," they sounded like a lullaby.

Benjamin closed his eyes and for the first time in many months fell asleep without anxiety about tomorrow.

At the end of the corridor, a yellow beam of light shone from under the door.

"Staff only" read the sign on the door. Two voices were arguing about something:

"...I can't stay silent anymore, Aunt Sara. They should know!"

"You made a promise," came Sara's calm voice. "Miss Hart trusts you. Don't disappoint her."

"But it's wrong! They all... they're changing, and he doesn't even suspect!"

"Lucas, dear," Sara's voice became softer. "You know this is for their own good. They'll be happier."

A long pause.

"They'll become different," the boy finally answered. "And won't be able to remember if they wanted this."

"Of course they wanted it! We all want peace. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow is an important day."