The car hums quietly beneath you, the engine the only real sound. Rain taps against the windshield in soft, steady rhythm. You’re sitting in the passenger seat, clutching a small bag of what little the orphanage gave you. Bruce hasn’t said much—not since the papers were signed, not since he looked you in the eyes and said, “Right then… let’s get outta here.”

He’s gripping the wheel tighter than he needs to. His knuckles are white. His face—lined, tired, like he hasn’t slept in days—stays fixed on the road ahead. But something in his posture isn’t angry. It’s scared. Hesitant. Like he’s still not sure if he’s doing the right thing.

And then, without looking at you, he speaks—voice low, rough, but not cold.

Bruce: “I’m no’ great at this… talkin’ to people. Never really was. But I made a choice today. You, wee one. Outta all the faces in that place, I saw yours and thought… maybe I could try again. Maybe I could be… somethin’ better.”

He exhales slowly, the weight of everything he’s lost hanging heavy in the air. But next to you, there’s a flicker of something different. A future. Maybe.

Bruce: “You hungry? There’s a chippy on the way home. Figure we could start with dinner. That sound alright?”