The boy’s name was Aren.

  He didn’t say it immediately.

  When Samye asked him that night—after pulling him back from the edge of the bridge—the boy hesitated, staring at the ground as if the answer itself might disappear if spoken aloud.

  “Aren,” he finally whispered.

  Samye nodded once, as if fixing the name firmly into the world.

  They walked back to the hut in silence.

  Aren followed closely, always a step behind, like he was afraid Samye might vanish if he looked away. When they reached the hut, Samye lit a small fire and shared what little food he had earned that day.

  Aren ate slowly. Carefully. Like someone who wasn’t sure when the next meal would come.

  That night, Aren spoke.

  Not all at once—but in fragments.

  His parents were field workers. They were taken by the Breakers during a night raid, six months ago. His father had knelt and begged. His mother had tried to shield him.

  They promised they’d return.

  “They always say that,” Aren muttered bitterly, staring at the floor.

  At first, Aren waited. Then he searched. Then he stole food to survive. Then the waiting turned heavy—too heavy for a twelve-year-old to carry alone.

  “The bridge wasn’t the plan,” Aren admitted quietly.

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  “I just… ended up there.”

  Samye understood.

  Sometimes breaking points don’t announce themselves.

  Aren slept that night curled up near the wall, clutching his knees. He startled awake once, breathing hard, until Samye quietly said, “I’m still here.”

  That was enough.

  Morning came softly.

  Sunlight slipped through the cracks in the hut’s wooden walls. Aren woke up confused at first—then remembered. He sat up quickly, panic flashing across his face, until he saw Samye preparing to leave for work.

  “You’re not leaving, right?” Aren blurted out.

  “I’m coming back,” Samye replied.

  Aren nodded, embarrassed.

  But he waited by the door until Samye returned.

  Days turned into weeks.

  Weeks into months.

  They settled into a routine neither of them planned, but both needed.

  By day, Samye worked—lifting loads, repairing fences, helping farmers. Aren followed sometimes, pretending to help more than he actually did. He talked too much. Asked too many questions. Complained endlessly.

  “Why do you wake up so early?”

  “Why do you train when you’re already tired?”

  “Why do you eat the burnt parts?”

  Samye ignored most of it.

  But sometimes—rarely—he answered.

  At night, Samye trained. Aren sat nearby, counting his repetitions incorrectly on purpose, just to annoy him.

  “That was forty.”

  “That was thirty-seven.”

  “You’re cheating.”

  Samye caught himself smiling once.

  Just once.

  Aren developed habits.

  He hummed quietly when nervous.

  He kicked stones absentmindedly while walking.

  He insisted on fixing the hut, even when it didn’t need fixing.

  He called Samye “brother” by accident one evening.

  Samye froze.

  Aren’s eyes widened. “I—I didn’t mean—”

  Samye turned away, staring into the fire.

  “…It’s fine,” he said after a long pause.

  Aren didn’t say it again.

  But he thought it.

  They had small moments.

  Sharing stolen fruit.

  Laughing when Aren fell into the river.

  Watching the sky during clear nights.

  For the first time since his parents died, Samye felt something unfamiliar.

  Not happiness.

  But relief.

  Like breathing without pain.

  Six months passed.

  The town remained broken. The Breakers were still whispered about. Heroes still never came.

  But in the hut outside town, life felt almost normal.

  Almost.

  Samye knew better than to trust it.

  Peace, in a world like this, never lasted.

  And somewhere beyond the roads and fields—

  Something was already moving.