CHAPTER 4 — THE DREAM
He was sitting on the ground behind the old building, knees pulled to his chest, face buried in his arms. His shoulders shook every few seconds, the way they do when someone is trying really hard not to cry but failing anyway.
He didn't hear the girl at first.
He only noticed her when her shadow fell across his shoes.
"Hey," she said, a little breathless, like she'd been running. "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer. He didn't even look up. He hoped she would go away.
She didn't.
Instead, she crouched down right in front of him, leaning forward like she was trying to peek under his arms. "Why are you crying? Did you fall? Did someone push you? Are you hurt?"
He shook his head, still hiding his face.
"Oh." She paused. "Then why are you crying?"
He didn't know how to answer that. He didn't want to answer that. So he stayed quiet.
The girl sat down beside him without asking. She crossed her legs, picked up a small stone, and rolled it between her fingers. "My dad works here," she said casually, like they were already friends. "He says I'm not supposed to run around the back, but it's boring inside. Everyone talks too much."
He sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
She glanced at him. "What's your name?"
He shook his head again.
"You don't have one?" she asked, genuinely confused.
He let out a tiny sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.
She brightened. "So you can make noise. Good. I thought maybe you were a ghost."
He lifted his head just enough to look at her. She grinned at him, wide and unbothered, like she wasn't sitting next to a crying stranger.
Her hair was messy. Her knees were scraped. She looked like the kind of kid who climbed things she wasn't supposed to.
She waved. "Okay, fine. If you won't tell me your name, I won't tell you mine either."
She nodded firmly, as if she'd just made a very important rule. "That's fair."
He blinked at her.
"But," she added, "I'm still going to talk. Because I talk a lot. My dad says I talk too much, but I don't think that's possible."
He stared at her for a moment, then whispered, "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you talking to me?"
She shrugged. "Because you're sad. And you're alone. And I don't like when people are alone."
He looked away again, embarrassed.
"So why are you here?" she asked. "You don't look like you're supposed to be here. You look like you're hiding."
He stiffened.
She noticed. "It's okay. I hide sometimes too. Mostly when my dad brings boring people to talk about boring things. I sneak out and run around. One time I climbed the fence and—"
She kept talking. About her dad. About the building. About how she wasn't supposed to be outside alone. About how she didn't care. About how she once saw a squirrel steal someone's sandwich.
Her voice was soft but lively, filling the quiet space he'd been drowning in.
He didn't understand why she was talking to him. He didn't understand why she wasn't scared of him. He didn't understand why she wasn't leaving.
But he found himself listening.
After a while, she nudged his arm gently. "Do you want to come inside? I can show you the big room. It echoes when you shout. But don't shout too loud because my dad says it's disrespectful , but I don't know why."
He shook his head. "I can't."
"Why not?"
He hesitated. "I'm not supposed to be here."
She shrugged. "Me neither. But I'm here."
He almost smiled.
She leaned closer. "Did someone make you cry?"
He swallowed. "No."
"Then why—"
"Hey!"
The voice cut through the air sharply.
The girl turned. A woman was hurrying toward them — tired eyes, worried face, hands trembling slightly. She looked like she hadn't slept.
The boy's breath caught. "Mama…"
Her expression softened when she saw him, but there was fear behind her eyes. "There you are," she whispered, kneeling beside him. "You can't wander off like that."
The girl looked between them, confused. "Is he in trouble?"
The woman forced a small smile. "No, sweetheart. He just… needs to come with me."
The boy's fingers curled into the dirt. "I don't want to go."
His mother's voice wavered. "I know. But we have to."
The girl frowned. "Can he stay a little longer? He was crying."
The woman's eyes glistened. "I know he was."
She reached for her son's hand. He hesitated, looking at the girl — the first person who had talked to him like he mattered.
The girl gave him a small, hopeful smile. "Maybe I'll see you again."
He didn't answer. He didn't know if he would.
His mother gently pulled him to his feet. He looked back at the girl one last time, wanting to say something — anything — but the words wouldn't come.
The girl lifted her hand in a tiny wave.
He lifted his just a little.
Then his mother led him away.
The girl watched them go, her head tilted, her mouth pressed into a small, puzzled line.
And then the dream ended.