His foot caught something in the darkness, and he went down hard, his small body hitting the forest floor with an impact that drove the breath from his lungs. Sharp stones bit into his palms, his knees scraped against something rough and unforgiving. The taste of dirt filled his mouth as his face met the earth.
For a moment, he just lay there sprawled among the fallen leaves. Every part of his body hurt with a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his racing heart. His face was a map of scratches from the branches that had whipped at him during his desperate flight. His clothes were torn to rags, hanging from his thin frame in tatters that barely covered his small body. His hands were bleeding from a dozen tiny cuts, dark stains spreading across his torn sleeves.
And Grandpa was still dead.
The grief hit him all at once, like a physical blow to his chest. Yang curled into a ball right where he'd fallen and began to sob. Deep, wrenching cries that seemed to come from the very core of his being, echoing through the silent forest around him.
He cried for Grandpa Chen, who had died protecting him from those terrible men with their cruel laughter and merciless hands.
He cried for their little hut that would never be home again, now probably nothing more than ash and broken memories.
He cried for the safety he'd lost and would never get back, for the happiness that had been torn away in a single horrific night.
He hated himself for howling like a child, hated the weakness in his voice, but the grief tore through him anyway, raw and unstoppable.
He cried until his throat was raw and his chest ached with the force of his sobs. Until no more tears would come and he could only make dry, gasping sounds that shook his small frame like autumn leaves in a fierce wind. His whole body trembled with the aftermath of terror and exhaustion.
Finally, when there was nothing left inside him to pour out, when his heart felt as empty as his stomach, Yang forced himself to sit up. His movements were slow and careful, like those of an old man rather than a child of eight years.
The forest was quiet around him now. No more howling from whatever creature he'd managed to avoid in his panicked flight. Just the normal night sounds, insects chirping, and small creatures going about their business. The moon had moved across the sky while he'd been running. He must have been stumbling through these woods for hours, though time had lost all meaning since he'd watched Grandpa fall.
I can't go back, Yang thought dully, the realization settling over him like a heavy blanket. There's nothing to go back to. Nothing but death and destruction.
He had to keep moving. Had to find somewhere to hide until he could figure out what to do next, though his mind couldn't begin to imagine what that might be.
Yang struggled to his feet, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his scraped knee. His legs felt like water, weak and unsteady, but he forced them to carry him forward step by agonizing step.
He walked for what felt like forever through the maze of trees, stumbling through the darkness, catching himself on rough bark when exhaustion made him sway dangerously. His small body wanted nothing more than to collapse again, to curl up among the roots and leaves and simply disappear. But Yang knew he couldn't stop. Not yet. Not when those men might still be looking for him.
The sky was starting to lighten when he finally saw it, painted in the soft gray of approaching dawn. A small opening in a rocky outcropping, barely big enough for a child to squeeze through.
The entrance was hidden behind a curtain of hanging moss and twisted vines. Yang approached carefully, his bare feet silent on the damp earth.
It was a cave. Tiny and shallow, carved into the hillside by years of water and wind. The opening was so small that no adult could possibly fit through it.
Even Yang would have to crawl on his hands and knees to get inside.
Yang dropped to the ground and crawled through the opening, his torn clothes catching on the rough stone edges. The passage was narrow, but after a few feet it opened into a small chamber.
The cave was cramped but thankfully dry. As his eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness, he could make out small bones scattered across the floor, picked clean by time. The walls were rough stone, but they blocked the outside world completely and provided a kind of safety.
This is as safe as I can be, Yang realized with a mixture of relief and despair. No one can follow me here. No one can hurt me in this small, dark place that barely qualifies as shelter.
His body made the decision for him before his mind could protest. The exhaustion he'd been fighting for hours finally won its battle, and Yang collapsed onto the uncomfortable cave floor. He didn't care about the dirt that coated everything, or the animal bones that pressed against his ribs, or the hardness of the stone beneath his aching body. He was beyond caring about comfort now.
He was alone. Completely, utterly alone in a world that had just shown him exactly how cruel it could be to people who dared to be kind, who tried to help others, who believed in goodness.
The loneliness pressed down on him like a physical weight, heavier than the stone above his head.
But he was alive. His heart still beat in his chest, his lungs still drew air, and his mind still held memories of Grandpa's gentle smile and patient lessons. Whatever else had been taken from him, whatever else had been destroyed, that at least remained.
And somewhere in his eight-year-old heart, beneath all the grief and terror and crushing loneliness, a small flame of determination flickered to life. It was tiny and fragile, barely more than an ember, but it refused to be extinguished.
Grandpa had died to give him a chance to survive, had used his last breath to shout a warning that sent Yang running into the forest. That sacrifice meant something. It had to mean something.
Yang wasn't going to waste it. Whatever came next, however impossible the future seemed, he would find a way to honor Grandpa's final gift.
He would survive. He would live and thrive.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him at last, his small body finally finding rest.