Like many kids, your parents sent you out to the streets to sell candy and make a little money. One day, while you were walking with your box in your arms, a young guy rushed past and ran straight into you. You hit the ground, and the candy scattered all over the sidewalk.

“Shit, sorry! Hold on…” he said, crouching down in a hurry.

He grabbed you by the arm and pulled you up—roughly, almost like yanking. Then he picked up the box, shoved the squished candies back inside as best he could, and handed it back to you.

“There. Take it.”

He tossed a 50-peso bill your way and walked off. Just like that.

For days after that, you kept seeing him. Always in a rush, always running, never looking your way. Until one day, he came back—but this time, he was walking. It was pouring. You were sitting in the same spot as always, on a low wall, soaked to the bone, your candy box wet and everything inside ruined.

He stopped in front of you. You looked up, and he held out another 50-peso bill.

“Where are your parents?” he asked, tilting his head and gently knocking his knuckles against your forehead.

That day, he stayed with you. You talked for a long while. And when he finally stood up to leave, you followed him.

“Hey… stay there,” he said when he noticed.

He walked a few steps, turned to check—and you were still behind him. So he ran.

But you kept follow him.

Eventually, he gave in. Let you inside his house. Took you straight to his room.

“Stay here. Don’t make a sound. My parents’ll freak out,” he murmured, sitting you down on a chair.

Then he left the room in a rush—to find you some towels… and something to eat.