PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Eight: A New Boy
Lucia was seventeen when she met him.
Old enough to understand danger in theory, young enough to still believe kindness could be simple.
It happened on a morning she should have been in school.
Margret had been ill all night—fever rising and falling, her breathing shallow and uneven. By dawn, she was finally asleep, her body slack with exhaustion. Lucia sat beside her for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall, counting each breath until her own shoulders relaxed.
They had run out of bread the night before.
Lucia hesitated only a moment before slipping on her jacket and stepping outside.
She hated leaving Margret alone, even for a short time. But hunger was becoming another enemy—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore. She moved quickly, head down, alert to every sound, every face.
The small market was only a few streets away.
She was studying the prices, mentally calculating how far the few coins in her pocket would stretch, when she noticed him standing beside the fruit stall. He looked about her age. Tall. Neat. Too calm for someone lingering with nothing to buy.
"Those are cheaper over there," he said casually, nodding toward another stall.
Lucia stiffened.
"I didn't ask," she replied, instinctively defensive.
He raised his hands slightly, palms out. "Just saying. I come here a lot."
She studied him quickly—the careful distance, the relaxed posture, the lack of insistence. Nothing about him felt immediately threatening. Still, Margret's voice echoed in her head.
Don't trust anyone.Never tell anyone where we live.
Lucia picked up two bruised apples and paid, ignoring him.
He didn't follow.
But when she turned to leave, she noticed him walking in the same direction, several steps behind. Her pulse quickened. She changed pace slightly. He matched it.
She stopped abruptly.
He stopped too.
"Look," he said quickly, lowering his voice. "I'm not following you. I live that way." He pointed to a different street. "I just… recognized you."
That made her uneasy. "From where?"
"Here. Around. You don't come often, but when you do, you always look like you're carrying the weight of the world."
Lucia frowned. "You don't know anything about me."
"No," he agreed. "But I know that look."
She should have walked away.
Instead, she said, "What's your name?"
"Eli," he replied after a pause. "Yours?"
Lucia hesitated, then gave only her first name.
They walked in silence for a short distance before Eli spoke again. "You skipped school today."
That stopped her cold.
Her hand tightened around the bag. "How do you know that?"
He shrugged. "I go to the same school. I've seen you around. You're usually there."
Lucia felt heat creep up her neck—not embarrassment, but fear. Being noticed was dangerous.
"My mother is sick," she said flatly. "That's all."
Eli nodded. "Mine too. Was. Before she passed."
The words were quiet, unadorned. Not an attempt to gain sympathy—just a statement.
Lucia didn't know what to say.
"I used to skip too," he added. "To help her."
Something in her chest loosened against her will.
They parted at the corner. He didn't ask where she lived. Didn't press for more. Just said, "See you around," and walked away.
Lucia watched him until he disappeared.
She didn't tell Margret.
Not that day. Not the next.
But she saw Eli again—at the market, at the bus stop, once near the school gates when she came only to collect homework. Each time, he kept his distance. Each time, he greeted her with the same quiet familiarity.
"How's your mum today?" he asked once.
Lucia hesitated, then answered honestly. "Not great."
He nodded. "If you ever need help carrying groceries or something… I'm around."
"I don't need help," she said quickly.
"I know," he replied. "Just saying."
What unsettled her most was that he never pushed.
No probing questions.No curiosity about her address.No insistence on meeting her mother.
Just presence.
Margret, however, noticed the change.
Lucia came home quieter than usual, thoughtful. She stared out the window more. Sometimes she smiled faintly at things Margret couldn't see.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" Margret asked one evening, her voice weak but alert.
Lucia stiffened. "No."
Margret studied her daughter's face carefully. "You know the rules."
"I know," Lucia replied too quickly.
Margret let it go—but unease settled in her chest. She had taught Lucia to be cautious. Maybe too cautious. Or maybe not enough.
One afternoon, Lucia returned home later than usual. Margret was sitting up, pale and shaking, fear flashing in her eyes.
"Where were you?" she demanded.
Lucia froze. "I—I helped someone carry groceries."
Margret's voice sharpened. "Who?"
"A boy from school," Lucia said, then quickly added, "He doesn't know where we live. I didn't tell him anything. I swear."
Margret closed her eyes.
Fear surged—not of Lucia lying, but of the world noticing her daughter. Of connections forming. Of threads being pulled.
"You must be careful," Margret whispered. "Kindness is not always what it looks like."
Lucia nodded. "I know."
But she wasn't sure anymore.
Because Eli had never crossed a line.
Never asked too much.Never offered too much.Never seemed dangerous.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous thing of all.
That night, Lucia lay awake, replaying their conversations. His quiet understanding. His shared experience. The way he listened without prying.
She didn't know that elsewhere—far beyond this city—other conversations were happening too.
Questions being asked.Names being mentioned.Eyes turning toward the places Lucia moved through every day.
She thought she had found a safe presence.
She didn't yet understand that safety, when you are being hunted, is often only an illusion.
And that some kindness comes with a purpose you don't see—until it's too late.