As Arin walked, he couldn't help but think back to Leo's playful tackle that morning. The boy's strength, even at this age, had left his ribs a little sore.
'If he gets any bigger, he'll be knocking me flat every day,' Arin thought with a chuckle.
The idea of hitting the gym crossed his mind, not out of vanity, but simply to keep up with his son's growing energy. He pictured his own figure: average build, not overweight, but certainly not sculpted. Hours hunched in front of screens at the office didn't exactly breed fitness.
He sighed, remembering how many times he had promised himself he'd start working out. Each time, overtime hours had piled up and pushed the plan further away.
Still, he whispered a firmer promise to himself: 'One way or another, I'll begin soon. Not just for me, but for them.'
He continued along the narrow street lined with red brick houses and flower boxes spilling over with colour. Passing the bakery, he nodded to the baker setting out warm loaves before heading toward the bus stop. The ride carried him east through the morning bustle, past shopfronts rolling up shutters and schoolchildren trailing in noisy clusters. When his stop arrived near Island Gardens, he stepped off and stretched his legs, the strap of his bag biting gently into his shoulder as he joined the steady stream of commuters.
The entrance to the Greenwich Foot Tunnel soon came into view. He descended into the cool, echoing passage, where every step rang against tiled walls and the air smelled faintly of damp stone. Emerging on the Isle of Dogs side, he adjusted to the sunlight again and followed the flow toward Canary Wharf, its glass towers glittering ahead. The journey felt routine by now, with its cycle of walking, riding the bus, and walking again, yet it grounded him, a daily rhythm that connected his small world to the vast machinery of the city.
Halfway across the square at the tunnel's exit, a pigeon in front of him froze mid-step. Its head jerked once, then moved again as if nothing had happened.
Arin frowned, confusion knitting his brow. "Weird," he muttered, then added under his breath with a half-smile, "like a game glitch, paused for a second like some NPC." Shaking his head, he kept walking, unaware that the ordinary morning was already fraying at its edges.
...
By the time Arin reached Canary Wharf, the glass towers shimmered in the soft light of mid‑morning. He slowed for a moment, remembering his first time here for an interview, fresh out of university, clutching the degree he had scraped together through part‑time jobs and sleepless nights. Back then, stepping into this place had felt like stepping into a different world. Even now, with years behind him, that memory still carried weight. He told himself the job in IT support at a logistics firm wasn't glamorous, but it was steady, and for someone who had grown up without a safety net, that steadiness mattered.
'It keeps the lights on, keeps food on the table. That's enough… right? ', he thought.
The familiar smell of coffee and printer ink greeted him as he stepped inside the office. People rushed past carrying folders or half‑finished cups, the usual soundtrack rising around him: phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the constant hum of machines. His desk waited in the back, tucked away like always.
Sometimes he felt invisible there until something broke. And sure enough, the morning unfolded in the same rhythm: resetting a password for one colleague, digging through folders to find a missing file for another, then setting up a headset for a third. Each request was quick, mechanical, followed by the same distracted "thanks" before he slipped from their minds again. It was the role he had accepted, the quiet hand that kept things moving while his thoughts strayed elsewhere, wondering what life might be like beyond this cycle.
At lunch, he unwrapped a sandwich at his desk. His phone buzzed. A message from Lina: Photo: Greenwich Park. Mira was sitting cross-legged on the grass, her sketchbook open, tongue sticking out as she concentrated. Beside her, Leo was halfway up a short railing, grinning like he was on a mountaintop.
The picture made Arin smile, but also ache. He wished he were there instead of here. He put the phone down and turned back to his computer.
The screen flickered...
For a heartbeat, faint blue symbols spun in a perfect circle on the monitor. Then they vanished. The desktop looked normal again. Arin blinked at it. "Weird graphics bug," he muttered, and went back to work.
Work finished with the same hum and shuffle it always did. Outside, the sky over the Thames was painted gold and deep orange. Arin left the office with a sigh of relief and chose the riverside path toward Greenwich, glad to feel the open air after the stifling hum of machines. The water flowed dark and steady, carrying the colours of the sunset across its surface, and he found himself slowing just to watch the ripples catch the light.
Ferry horns called from far away, rolling across the river like a song of departure. A jogger in bright running gear swept past him, her pace steady and determined, earbuds tucked in as she lost herself in her evening rhythm. Arin stepped aside, letting her pass, and couldn't help thinking how free she looked, running simply for herself. Ahead, two kids darted by on scooters, their laughter spilling into the air as they challenged each other to a race, the clatter of wheels against stone pulling him briefly into their carefree world.
He slowed near the railing by the pier, still thinking of the children racing past him on scooters. Their laughter echoed in his head, reminding him of Mira and Leo, and the treasures they had pressed into his hands that morning. He leaned on the cool metal, letting it steady him as he unshouldered his bag.
From inside, he drew out Mira's folded sketch and the stuffed wolf, Shadow Fang. The paper was a little crumpled, the pencil lines faint in places, but the image stood clear: the four of them together under a great bird with a tail like fire. He traced the bird's wing with his thumb, smiling softly. Beside it, the wolf stared up at him with its ear battered and worn, an odd but loyal guardian.
'This is what I carry with me, their love, their laughter, the little pieces of them that fit in my hands. As long as I hold onto these, maybe I can keep pushing through each day.'
A low vibration thrummed through the ground beneath his shoes.
Arin froze and looked around.
The hum faded. The sound of the river and distant traffic returned. A breeze tugged at the edge of the drawing, and he quickly pressed it flat again.
He tucked the drawing back into his bag with care, then nestled the stuffed wolf beside it so the two rested together, safe where he could reach them whenever he needed a reminder of home.