Exile by Zero

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Exile



The train ride north is long.

The boy sits by the window, arms crossed. He does not look at the passengers who share his carriage, nor at the shifting landscapes from the ochres of the South to the sterile greys of the North.

He already hates it.

At the station, his father’s grip was firm on his shoulder. "You’ll do as your uncles say," he had ordered. "No arguments. They know what’s best."

Do they? He doubts it.

His father has chosen to keep his baby brother home this year. It’s just him.

The boy watches the landscape dash past and remembers when he was the only child. He has visited the North before, but this time feels different.

Five weeks and he will be back in the South. Home. Just five weeks.

But the rumors of war are louder than anything else.



His uncle, Marcus, greets him with a nod, barely acknowledging him as he pulls him from the attention of an officer. The other, Vincent, watches him like a problem that needs solving.

And the men along the way watch him, too.

Southern. He is Southern like floods, like weeks of rainstorms and unforgiving suns. And every step, he carries it with him.

He has always been watched in this place.

But not like this.

His uncles are the same Northern men as he remembers—towering, built for labor, their heads shaved down to the barest stubble.

His late mother’s brothers.

"Your hair is quite long." Vincent ruffles his bangs. It is not a compliment.

The tension of looming war lingers between them.

"You know, they arrested a Southern soldier the other night."

A Southern soldier like his father.

It is the first time they speak of it, and it will not be the last.



Then, after dinner.

"We’re shaving you tomorrow."
The boy’s hand curls into a fist. "No."
Marcus exhales through his nose. "It’s not a choice."
"My hair stays," he says, defiant. "I’m Southern. I won’t be shorn like some Northern dog."
Marcus snaps. "Your hair marks you. You want to be dragged into the streets? Called a spy? Worse?"
"Let them try."
Marcus taps a finger against the table. "Your hair is a provocation. An affront."
"Now, Marcus," Vincent warns.
"You listen now, boy," Marcus leans forward, voice low. "This is not your father’s house. This is not the South. You will abide by our ways. And we’re shaving you."

The boy’s hands clench beneath the table. He wants to scream. His hair is his father’s. His brother’s. His blood. His home.

Marcus rises first, chair scraping against the wood. "At dawn."



The morning is silent. Cold air seeps through the cracks, biting at his skin.

A chair sits in the center of the kitchen, shears glinting on the table beside it. The boy stands by the doorway, unmoving.

"Sit down," Marcus orders. "Let’s get this over with."

He doesn’t move.

Marcus stares him down. "Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."
"It doesn’t need to happen at all," the boy spits.
Marcus grips his arm, fingers tightening like a vice. "Enough."

The boy clenches his fists, his breath sharp in the silence.

His scalp prickles as Marcus fingers through his hair, testing the thickness, the weight of it.

The first cut is deafening. A thick lock of hair tumbles over his shoulder, dark against the wooden floor.

Another snip. Then another.

Marcus gathers another fistful. The shears bite down. More hair falls.

And he keeps his head straight.

Vincent stands off to the side, arms crossed.

His gaze flickers to the pile of hair growing on the floor, then to the boy’s face. He does not speak.

The last long strands are severed, leaving uneven tufts. Marcus sets the shears down. "Hand me the clippers."

The boy stiffens as cold steel presses against his temple.

"Hold still," Marcus mutters before squeezing the handles.

The clippers chew through what remains, sending shorn strands cascading down.

The scrape of metal against his scalp is foreign, unnatural.

Each pass exposes more bare skin. He feels each stubborn patch sting as the clippers tear through, leaving only skin and bristles behind.

The air bites at the exposed skin.

He grits his teeth, staring at the floor, at the pile of dark hair that no longer belongs to him.

"Almost done," Marcus says, but it feels like a lie.

A final click of the clippers. Then silence.

Marcus steps closer, stropping the razor against leather. The sound slithers through the quiet.

"Tilt your head down."

The boy does not move.

Marcus grips the back of his head, fingers pressing against his skull, forcing his chin to his chest.

"This is for your own good," Marcus says, voice firm. "We have to keep you safe."

The first stroke of the razor glides from the base of his skull upward.

A shiver ripples down his spine.

The blade strips away the last remnants, leaving nothing but raw skin in its wake.

The scrape. The drag. The sharp pull where the razor catches. Again. And again.

By the time they are done, his reflection is unrecognizable. The face staring back is foreign—stripped, barren.

A Northern boy.

He turns from the mirror, storms off, jaw locked.



The North is cold. Its people speak in clipped tones, their eyes sharp, their judgments sharper.

In the market, he catches his reflection in a shop window. His father would not recognize him. His baby brother would not recognize him. He barely recognizes himself.

"You’ll get used to it," Vincent says.
The boy shakes his head. "I won’t."



Letters and calls from his father are scarce.

War looms. The South presses down on the North. Arrests. Orders. Laws.

One evening, Marcus speaks. "War will come here soon. When it does, you’ll have to choose."
The boy furrows his brows. "I don’t need to choose. I know where I stand."
Marcus only nods. "We’ll see."
Vincent punches his shoulder, a playful gesture, an attempt to disarm, deescalate "Whatever comes, nephew, the important thing is that you survive."

He does not understand what he means.

Not yet.



The letter arrives thin. No weight to it.

Previous letters held money, photos, his brother’s drawings.

He does not open it immediately. He runs his thumb over the wax seal—his father’s insignia.

Then he breaks it.

The words inside are precise. Unemotional. A message, not from a father to a son, but from a man tying up loose ends.

Your brother is well.
The North is where you will remain. It is for the best.
Do not expect correspondence. Do not expect return.

A single line stands alone at the bottom.

Your name is no longer spoken here.

His hands tremble as he folds the letter back into place, pressing it closed as if he could undo the words by force alone.

For the first time since arriving in the North, he understands.

This is not exile.

It is infanticide.



Vincent finds him behind the house.

The letter is gone, burned to ash.

"You knew," the boy says.

Vincent does not deny it.

"You let me believe—" His throat tightens. He cannot finish.
Vincent exhales, stepping closer. "I thought maybe he’d change his mind. Maybe you’d matter more than—" He stops. Shakes his head. "But I was wrong."

And the South has already buried him.



The market hums with sound and scent—fresh bread, molasses, the sharp tang of iron. Voices rise and fall, clipped and measured.

The boy walks beside Marcus, his steps reluctant.

His scalp still feels raw, fingers twitching toward the bare skin that should have held his hair.

They weave through the crowd—past merchants selling leather goods, dried meats, bolts of somber-colored fabric. The boy sees them everywhere—the shorn heads, the stripped-away individuality. Northern men all look the same, their hair clipped brutally short.

"It’s a rite of passage," Vincent says, voice warm. "Northern boys get their own shaving kit when they’re old enough. A sign of responsibility."

The boy is unmoved.

They stop at a stall lined with brass-handled razors, bone combs, small jars of shaving soap.

The vendor, an older man, glances at Marcus, then at the boy. His gaze lingers a second too long on the boy’s newly exposed scalp.

"New to shaving?" he asks, pulling a wooden box from the shelf.
"Almost sixteen, and I still do it for him," Marcus scoffs. "He needs to learn."
The boy scowls. "I don’t need—"
Marcus shoots him a look. "You do." He slides a few coins across the counter. "Something sturdy."

The vendor hums knowingly, unlatching the box. A straight razor rests inside, tucked in a dark leather sheath. A stiff-bristled brush. A tin of shaving soap. A small pair of silver-handled clippers.

The vendor pulls out the razor. "Well-balanced. Won’t slip in the hand. Good for a beginner."
"I’m not a beginner," the boy mutters, snatching the box from the counter.
Marcus raises an eyebrow. "Oh? When’s the last time you held a razor?"
The boy looks away, jaw tight. "That’s not the point."
"That’s exactly the point."

The boy grips the box tighter. He should throw it. Walk away. But he doesn’t.

Because Marcus is right.

They step away from the stall. Vincent speaks again, softer.

"It’s a tool, like anything else. You don’t have to like it. But you’ll learn to use it."

The boy exhales sharply, staring down at the box in his hands. It feels heavier than it should.

And he knows Vincent is right.



The razor gleams, its edge honed to cruel precision. The boy grips it awkwardly, fingers stiff.

A month later, he sits at the kitchen table. The fuzz on his scalp has started to grow in, uneven and defiant.

Marcus sits across from him, arms crossed. "Well?"
The boy glares at the blade. "I don’t see why I have to learn this."
Vincent sighs from the doorway. "Because you need to. They’ll clock you as Southern if you don’t."

The boy mutters under his breath but picks up the blade. It still feels foreign, unnatural in his hands.

He lathers. Then, he brings the razor to his scalp. Hesitates.

Marcus watches, unimpressed. "Short strokes. Not so fast. You’ll nick yourself."

The boy exhales sharply and drags the blade over his scalp.

The scrape of metal against skin sends a shiver down his spine.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches tufts of short hair fall into the basin.

Marcus nods once. "You’ll do this every few days. Keep it clean. Keep it neat. If I see you slacking—"
"I know," the boy mutters.
Marcus stands behind him, arms crossed. "You’re holding it wrong."
The boy scowls at his reflection. "Is this a cultural affront? Am I offending someone?"
"Stop gripping it like you’re about to gut a man," Marcus says flatly. "Keep your wrist loose, or you’ll slice yourself open."

The boy mutters under his breath and adjusts his grip.

"Short strokes," Vincent instructs. "Pull your scalp tight with your free hand. Unless you like bleeding."

The boy huffs but obeys. The razor scrapes over his scalp, steel whispering against flesh. The sound unsettles him.

Marcus watches, unimpressed. Repeats. "You’ll do this every few days."

The boy wipes the blade clean and inspects his work. His scalp gleams.

"Done," he mutters.
Vincent nods. "Not bad."
"Next time, do it without whining." Marcus adds.

They teach him every day—how to speak, how to move, how to shave.



The North does not move like the South.

He learns this through trial and error. The intricacies are minefields.

He stands too close when he speaks. He gestures too much. His words spill too fast, too impassioned.

Marcus corrects him with sharp looks.

Vincent does it with mockery.

"Are you trying to start a duel," Vincent asks, one brow raised, "or do you just enjoy breathing down the baker’s neck?"
"I was asking for bread," the boy mutters.
"You were invading his personal space."
"I was being polite."
"To whom?"
The boy exhales sharply. "What do you want me to do?"
"Watch."

Marcus tilts his head toward the square, where Northern men move. Their conversations are quiet. Their nods precise. Their gestures measured.

"That," Marcus says. "Not whatever affront you just attempted."
Vincent grins. "See? I told you. Irritating."

The boy does not punch him.

But it is a near thing.



The first time he gets into a fight with a Northern boy, it’s because of his accent.

"You talk funny," the boy sneers, stepping into his space. "Like your tongue doesn’t fit right in your mouth."

The boy doesn’t answer. His fists do.

They tumble into the dirt, arms swinging wildly. Blood drips from his nose. His knuckles split open.

Marcus has to drag him off. Has to shout at him. Has to not let him get away with this.

Later, Vincent finds him cleaning his wounds in the washroom. "You made a name for yourself today."
"Don’t care."
Vincent sighs. "That temper of yours will get you killed."
"Then let it," the boy mutters, pressing a damp cloth to his swollen lip.

Vincent doesn’t answer.

He only watches—like he recognizes something in the boy but cannot name it.

Northern boys do not back down from fights.

So he won’t.



"Hold still."

The boy does not.

"Stop flinching," Marcus mutters. "You're making it worse."
"Maybe if you weren’t trying to scalp me—"
"Oh, listen to him whine. Next, he’ll say we’re torturing him."
The boy scowls. "You are."
Marcus grips his chin, tipping his head back. "If you keep squirming, I’ll take your ears off."
Vincent chuckles from the doorway. "Still wriggling like a little boy." Vincent continues, unbothered. "Remember? That summer, when our sister brought him up North? We shaved him for the heat." He smirks. "Oh, how he cried."
"I didn’t cry," the boy snaps.
"You did." Marcus deadpans.
Vincent hums. "I remember. Squirmed and kicked and swore he was never coming back because his uncles were meanies."
The boy crosses his arms. "I was six."
"And now you’re not." Marcus runs the razor over his scalp with practiced efficiency. "But you’re still a child."
Vincent snorts. "Some things never change."

The boy glares at them both.

But when Marcus sets the razor down and brushes the clippings from his shoulders, the boy does not immediately pull away.

"Hey!" Vincent calls out in consolation. "Remember your mother was Northern like us—she’d be proud of you embracing our customs!"
Marcus exhales, wiping his hands on a towel. "Our sister did fall for some Southern man with pretty hair, didn’t she?"

The boy says nothing. He sits still as Marcus lathers his scalp, the scent of soap thick in the air.

He clenches his jaw, staring at the floor. He hates the ritual of it. The way Marcus’ hands press him into stillness, like he’s something to be shaped.

"You know," Vincent says, "Men in the South once shaved their heads in mourning."

A pause. The scrape of the blade.

Then silence.

"Are you okay?" Vincent asks, softer now.

The boy swallows hard.

Marcus straightens and cleans the lather from his neck with a damp towel. "Come on. Busy day ahead."

The boy leans over the sink, washing away the stubble and soap from his head and face.

Later, he passes a shop window and catches his reflection.

He does not flinch.



The days stretch into weeks, into months. He no longer thinks of the South when he wakes.

The scent of rain-soaked earth, the weight of humid air—these things have dulled, faded.

The first time he dreams of the South, when he wakes up, he finds it hard to breathe.

He does not know why.



It gets colder.

The boy has never experienced the Northern autumns and they’re the South’s harshest winters.

And conversely, the North gets warmer.

Campfires. Earthy meals. Ghost stories. Love ballads.

Even the icy wind hugs him on the gentler days. The boy watches as both his uncles grow out their hair to a dark dense bristle for insulation.

They both have his late mother’s hair.

No one ever told him.

He also has his mother’s hair.

And he has his mother’s temper and her laughter and her smile and her heart.

And no one ever told him.



The war does come.

The first signs are in the streets—whispers growing sharper, uniforms appearing in greater numbers.

Southern troops move North.

Then the papers, heavy with reports of border clashes, names of men lost. Then the summons, sealed in wax, delivered to their doorstep.

Vincent presses his lips into a thin line as he hands it over. "It was always going to happen."

Marcus opens the envelope and reads. He exhales sharply.

Vincent’ name is listed among the conscripts.

Vincent stares at it for a long moment, then lifts his gaze to his Marcus. "When do I leave?"
Marcus watches him carefully. "Two days."

The boy feels his heart mute in his chest.

Northern men do not back down from fights.



The morning of his departure, Marcus clasps his brother’s shoulder as he passes. "Keep your head down. Fight well."

Vincent, for once, says nothing. Just looks at him, something unreadable in his expression.

He hugs his brother. Then, he hugs the boy. He hugs Vincent harder than he expected.

His head on his uncle’s chest, his uncle’s hand on his shaved scalp and the boy almost says it: Stay.

But he does not say it.

His uncle shoulders his pack and leaves.



The house is quiet after Vincent leaves.

That night, the boy cannot sleep. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence.

Weeks pass. The war swallows men whole, and the North does not back down from the fight.

One evening, a letter arrives.

The boy watches as his Marcus sets his jaw, his fingers trembling just slightly as he pushes back from the table and stands.

The next morning, Marcus starts packing for both.

The boy help his uncle as he carries both their bags downstairs the last night.

Whatever comes, the important thing is that they have to survive.

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