He woke up cold.
Not the cold of icy air, but the cold of the ground. Of earth stealing heat slowly. He opened his eyes and stayed still for a few seconds, trying to remember where he was before his body complained properly.
The cabin.
The crooked roof. The cracks. The weak light coming in at an angle.
He turned his face slowly, looking for the entrance. The gourd was still hanging. The line still taut. Nothing had fallen during the night.
"Okay…" he murmured, more to confirm it than to speak.
It took time to sit up. Not because of pain, but because his small body always seemed to need extra time to obey. When he managed, he stayed there, hugging his knees, feeling his stomach complain softly.
Hungry again.
That was becoming routine way too fast.
He scanned the cabin, like he always did. There wasn't much to see, but he looked anyway. The darker wall in the corner. The folded cloth. The mark in the wood. All the same. Same was good. Same meant no one had touched anything.
He stepped outside.
The neighborhood was already awake. People walking by, talking quietly, some laughing. Children running. Others sitting, far too still. He took a few steps, just to see better, without mixing in.
He always did that now.
He watched who walked with whom.
It was almost automatic to notice that no one stayed alone for long. There was always someone bigger nearby. A youth, a thin adult, someone who looked like they were in charge without ever saying so.
The children followed.
But not all of them.
He saw a boy sitting near a wall, holding a metal plate. Small. Dirty. Looking at the ground, but lifting his eyes every time someone passed.
Alone.
He looked away and went back to the cabin.
He sat on the floor again, back against the wall. Closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath.
Thinking made him hungry.
But it was that or doing something stupid.
He wasn't going to write anything. Not even pretend he was writing. Just organize. The way he always did, even before. Even when he was an adult. Even when he didn't notice it.
He thought about the port first.
The image came of him trying to carry a crate.
He made a face just imagining it.
I'd fall.Not "maybe." Fall for real.
He imagined his thin arms shaking, the crate slipping, someone shouting. Imagined falling into cold water, the weight pulling him down.
I'd drown like an idiot.
Even if he didn't die, he imagined the pain. His back. His hands torn up. Twelve hours on his feet, earning almost nothing.
"Shit…" he whispered.
Port work was for people with bodies. Or for people with no choice at all.
Did he have a choice? For now, yes.
He thought about the games.
Low table. Coins. People staring hard. People smiling wrong.
If I win, they'll think I cheated.If I lose, they'll want to collect another way.
He looked at his own hands. Small. Thin fingers.
"They'd break this easy…"
He didn't even need to imagine much. He had already seen worse.
He thought about the fights.
The image came too fast, and he pushed it away almost immediately.
He didn't want to think about kids hitting kids. Didn't want to think about adults watching and betting.
That's not work.That's sick people stuff.
He stayed silent for a while.
None of it fit.
Not him. Not now.
Alone, everything felt wrong. Everything felt too big. Too heavy. Too dangerous.
He opened his eyes.
The cabin looked smaller now. Or maybe he was thinking too big for the space.
He remembered his past life without meaning to.
The office. The desks. People always talking about teams, departments, groups. Nobody did anything alone. Not even the boss. There was always someone below, someone above.
Alone doesn't work.
The phrase didn't come as a nice idea. It came as an annoying fact. Like a balance sheet that wouldn't close no matter how many times you redid it.
He stood up again and went to the cabin entrance. Looked outside.
The children.
Again.
Some moved around in little groups. Others stopped to listen to someone older talking. He noticed how they looked up when someone ordered them. How fast they obeyed.
And he noticed, again, the ones who had no one.
The ones begging.
The ones who stood still for too long.
They weren't weak. They were just alone.
He felt a tightness in his chest and didn't like it.
It's not pity, he thought quickly.It's just… logic.
A child alone doesn't last.
A child with someone lasts longer.
Even if that someone isn't good.
He rested his forehead against the cabin's wood for a second. The wood was warm from the sun starting to rise.
"I'm not going to make it alone…" he murmured, almost without realizing he'd spoken.
It wasn't a plan. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't anything pretty.
It was just that.
He needed more people.
The thought stayed there—still, heavy, without a conclusion.
And the chapter in his head ended exactly there.