For several days, the teachers had been observing the odd behavior of 9-year-old Max with growing concern. Every day after school, he would head to a secluded part of the playground, a spot that was rarely visited by anyone.
There, without fail, Max would kneel down and start digging with his bare hands. He didn’t seem to mind the dirt under his nails or the scratches on his skin as he dug for about ten minutes. Once finished, he would carefully place something in the hole, cover it back up, and smooth the soil over as if nothing had ever happened. Then, he would walk away, leaving the area undisturbed.
At first, the teachers assumed it was just some strange, childish behavior. After all, kids can be unpredictable at that age. But Max’s actions had a strange methodical quality to them—he did this every single day, at the same time, in the same spot, with precise, repetitive movements. This wasn’t just play.
One day, a teacher could no longer contain her curiosity. After the school bell rang, she quietly followed Max, keeping her distance and hiding behind the trees. As expected, he headed straight for his usual spot in the back of the yard. He crouched down, dug up a small patch of earth, pulled a plastic bag from his backpack, and carefully placed it in the hole before covering it up again.
Unable to hold her silence any longer, the teacher stepped forward and called out:
— Max… what are you doing here?
Max flinched at the sound of her voice. For a moment, he didn’t respond, his eyes filled with fear, as if he had been caught doing something forbidden. Then, in a soft voice, he whispered:
The teacher’s heart sank as she listened to what he said next.
— I’m hiding…
— Hiding what?
He hesitated, then pointed at the ground, his voice barely audible:
— Schoolbooks… I bring them here every day and bury them, so my dad won’t find them.
The teacher knelt down beside him. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
— Why don’t you want your dad to find them?
Max’s voice trembled as he spoke, his words heavy with sadness.
— He… he gets mean when he drinks. One time, he ripped everything—my books, my notebooks. He told me not to study, but to clean the floors and cook. But I… I want to learn. I love school. And if he rips everything again, I won’t be able to.
The teacher’s heart broke as she listened to the boy’s story. He sat there, so small and frail, with scratched hands, as if it were the most ordinary thing to say. He spoke as though it was nothing, as though he had accepted it as his reality.
Speechless, she pulled him into an embrace, her heart aching for him. She promised that he would never be alone again, that she would do everything in her power to make sure he was safe.
