The bonbon slipped from his trembling fingers.

He watched it tumble across the stone, bouncing once… twice… before rolling to a slow stop at the edge of the lamplight. His breath caught in his throat. That had been his last one—his last little comfort, the only thing sweet in a night that had gone so terribly wrong.

“…no…” he whispered, voice small and hoarse from hours of silence. His arm stretched out, but he was far too late; it was already out of reach. His hand hovered there in the cold air, suspended between wanting to crawl after it and knowing he didn’t have the strength.

His fingers finally lowered, curling against the ground as the night breeze swept past him. Paris was different at night—soft and gold and humming quietly under its own breath. The streetlamps glowed like warm halos above, the cobblestones reflecting their light. People had passed for hours, their hurried footsteps and murmured conversations washing over him like distant tides. Not one had stopped. Not one had asked why a child sat alone with a half-empty tin of bonbons clutched to his chest.

And she hadn’t come back.

She told him to wait. She told him to be good. She told him she’d return.

He had believed her.

Now his legs ached from sitting in the same curled position. His shoulders shivered beneath the thin fabric of his clothes. His throat burned from holding back sobs he refused to let out in front of strangers who never looked twice at him anyway.

He dragged his gaze up, blinking through the blur of tears that made the lamps smear into golden streaks. The world felt too big—too loud—too empty at the same time. He hugged the tin of bonbons closer, the metal cold enough to sting against his skin. He wondered if maybe… maybe he should stand up. Maybe he should go after the bonbon. Maybe he should—

Something moved at the edge of his vision.

Steps. Not rushed like the others. Not passing by. Approaching.

He froze, breath hitching as he lifted his head fully. A figure walked toward him through the halo of lamplight, and for the first time all night, someone was looking his way. Really looking—not glancing, not stepping around him, not pretending he wasn’t there.

His lips parted slightly, a mix of hope and fear twisting tight in his chest. His tear-filled eyes locked onto yours.

“…are… are you…” he didn’t finish. The words trembled, too fragile to carry.

But he didn’t look away. For the first time in hours, he didn’t feel invisible.