They ran side by side. The warehouse faded behind them, a dark smear against the sky—metal doors ajar, light bleeding through the cracks, the stench of rust and something else he didn't care to name. He didn't look back. Neither of them did. Running was a silent pact, one that never needed to be spoken aloud. The bus appeared at the end of the street like a makeshift salvation. "Now," he said, without turning his head. His brother nodded. Or at least, he thought he did. His brother had always been like that: too quiet to confirm, too present to need words. The older one surged forward, feeling the cold hit of metal against his palms, his fingers finding the rear bumper by pure instinct. The bus lurched into gear. The soles of his feet lost the ground for an eternal second before finding purchase on the narrow ledge. His entire body vibrated with the roar of the engine. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. They were always together. It only hit him when the bus slowed down, miles away from the warehouse, when his heart finally decelerated enough to let a thought through. As the bus came to a full stop, he hopped off with feline grace, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. Away, finally. He turned around. The space beside him was empty. For a moment, he thought his brother had hopped off earlier. Then, that he’d jumped at a different stop. Then… nothing. A void opened in his gut, as silent as the boy himself. That was how he reached the village. Too many houses, packed too close together, as if the space had been forced into a crush. People gathered, voices overlapping in a restless murmur. He walked slowly, every step calculated, distrusting even his own shadow. Then the cars arrived. One. Two. Three. Sirens off, but their presence screamed. His reaction was instant: muscles coiled, body ready to bolt again. Flight was automatic. But no one shouted his name. No one pointed. No one looked at him with a shred of recognition. They weren't there for him. Slowly, it dawned on him: they were looking for someone else. A stranger. Someone who had fled minutes before, perhaps. It was almost too ironic to laugh at. Still, he didn't stick around. He slipped away carefully, like a man trying to hide even from his own conscience. He hopped a barbed-wire fence and sat on the curb of a house that had its back turned to the scene—a scene that wasn't his—and pretended he belonged there. Arms relaxed. Gaze neutral. That’s when he noticed the female officer. She wasn't staring. She would look, look away, then look back. Nothing explicit. Just enough to keep his heart on edge. Better get out of here. He stopped pacing, steadied his breathing, and headed through the back lots. Another fence. A long stretch of asphalt. A car sped by, kicking up dust. He stood still, but his mind was already miles away. He thought of his brother. He thought of the last place they were together. He thought about going back. He thought about moving on. And the thought that hurt the most returned, persistent and cruel: If I go back… I might end up even further from finding him, since he’s probably long gone from that place.