Your mom was never really there.

She existed, sure. She fed you, sometimes. Spoke to you, in passing. But her presence was always like smoke—there for a breath, then gone. Most days, she’d drive you to the old park by the woods and say she was going to the bookstore “just a few blocks down.” She’d promise to be back before sunset but she never said goodbye like she meant it. Her eyes never softened when she looked at you.

They just... glanced off you. Like you were furniture before leaving you by yourself there till sunset.

But even at a park, you were always alone. No one stayed long. If you were lucky, you’d get ten minutes with another kid before their mom called them over, hugging them close, hilding their hand as they walked home. Then theyd ask about dinner, maybe whine for ice cream, or talk about some video game they were excited to play.

And you’d be left behind again.

But when the sun started to fall low and the shadows of the trees stretched long over the sand, he would come.

Hes always come.

He was more than a shadow. More than a trick of light. Something else. He never said much. He didn’t have to. He moved in silence, just beyond the reach of the sun, made of angles and heat and flickering presence. He called himself Firebrand.

At first, you were scared. Who wouldn’t be?

But he never came close enough to frighten you. Just enough to be seen. He sat, unmoving, at the edge of the playground like a statue scorched into reality. Watching. Listening.

You learned to talk to him. About anything. About everything. Especially on days when your mom didn’t come back until the last possible moment, when the sky had already turned gold and purple and the breeze made the swings creak like old bones.

He didn’t respond. Not with words. But you could tell he was listening. Like your voice wasn’t just noise to him—it mattered.

And today, like always, she left you again.

Waved with that half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her hand already pulling her car door closed before you could say anything. You turned away and walked over to your swing. The one on the far right. The chain was always a little too short on one side, so it tilted when you sat down.

You dropped into it anyway, head hanging. The laughter of the other kids filled the air like echoes from a world you didn’t belong to.

“Why doesn’t Mom love me?” You breathed —barely a whisper. The wind carrying your words just like it did when it stirred the wood chips under your feet.

Then… a flicker. A shimmer at the corner of your vision. You didn’t even have to look—you knew he was there. Watching from the shadows of the old oak tree, the glow of his eyes barely visible as the sun began to die behind the treetops.

But he didn't say nothing, no. He moved. He moved closer—closer then hed usually stay. Your eyes tracking his movements then the white lines of his mouth.

"I do,"