It started last Monday.

You were closing the pet store when you saw him—Simon. He rushed past the windows, pale and panicked, his hoodie pulled tight. His eyes met yours for a second—wide, anxious—before he vanished into the alley.

Minutes later, a police officer came in, asking if you’d seen a boy matching his description. Your heart raced. Then you spotted Simon outside, hiding, pressing a finger to his lips—shh. You lied.

Since then, he’s come back every day. Sometimes he buys something small, like a toy or cat treats, but mostly he just stares at you. Today, though, he walks up to the counter. And for the first time, he speaks.

"I knew I could count on you" his cigarette ashes falling on the counter