All They Had Was Money

The Mortlocks owned everything—except warmth.

Their home, if you could call it that, was a polished palace of silence sitting atop Silverpine Hill, overlooking a city that sparkled on the surface and rotted underneath. The walls were glass, but nothing was ever transparent. Not feelings, not words. Not love.

Inside were rooms upon rooms—library, theater, bowling alley, even a private concert hall with a Steinway no one had touched in years. A gardener maintained plants no one smelled. A chef cooked meals no one sat down to eat.

The youngest, Milo Mortlock, lived in a wing the size of a museum. He had every gadget known to man, every streaming service, every limited-edition collector’s item. But he’d never been hugged goodnight. Never had a story read to him. Never heard his parents fight, or laugh, or cry. They were shadows, always in meetings, always in the clouds—figuratively and sometimes literally.

One evening, the world fell silent.

It started with a flicker. Then the whole city went dark. No lights. No phones. No noise.

For a moment, Milo thought it was just another simulation—something his VR system dreamed up. But the silence wasn’t programmed. It was real.

He wandered the halls, calling for the house AI. Nothing. The hallways, once lit with soft, guiding LEDs, were pitch black. Panic fluttered in his chest. Not because the lights were gone—but because he didn’t know how to exist without them.

Then, something unexpected: the sky.

He stepped out onto the balcony, and for the first time in his life, he saw stars. Not app-filtered, not through a telescope lens. Raw, endless stars.

Drawn by instinct more than thought, he left the mansion and wandered down the hill, past the security gate that no longer glowed red. Down to the edges of the city where buildings leaned and lights had long since stopped trying.

That’s where he found them—kids, maybe ten or twelve, huddled around a barrel fire. They were laughing so hard one fell over backward. They passed around a bag of stale popcorn like it was gold. Someone had a harmonica and wasn’t very good at it, but no one cared.

He stood there, watching, unsure if he belonged.

A girl looked up, squinting. “Hey! You lost, fancy boy?”

“I… no,” he said, then paused. “Maybe.”

They looked him over. Designer hoodie, sneakers that cost more than most rent. They could’ve mocked him. But they didn’t.

“Come on,” she said, scooting over. “Fire’s warm. World’s off. Might as well be human with us.”

Milo sat. He didn’t say much. Just listened. They talked about school, about their favorite street vendors, about how they used to make kites out of newspaper and thread. They talked like they knew each other’s stories by heart—and added new pages every day.

“Your hands are shaking,” the girl said, offering him a half-melted marshmallow on a bent coat hanger.

“I’ve just… never done this before.”

“Roasted a marshmallow?”

“No. Sat with people. Like this.”

She blinked, then smiled gently. “Damn.”

They didn’t ask for his last name. They didn’t care. They just let him be.

Hours passed. The fire dimmed. The sky began to lighten.

In the distance, the hilltop house blinked back to life. Lights returned. Screens hummed. Security systems rearmed themselves like sleeping beasts waking from slumber.

Milo stood, brushing ash from his pants.

“You going back?” the girl asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’ll forget this happened.”

He shook his head. “I hope not.”

As he turned to leave, she called after him, quiet and steady:

“Y’know… some people are so poor, all they have is money.”

He stopped. The words sat in the air like something sacred, something bitter and true.

And for the first time in his life, he felt the weight of his wealth. Not as power. Not as privilege.

But as poverty.