By the time they reached the fringe of Hollow Street, Rafi's breath came out in white shards, every lungful colder than the last. The girl kept pace behind him like a phantom shadow. The boy stumbled more than he walked, toes numb, lips cracked, yet his small fist never let go of Rafi's cuff.
It was early afternoon, though you wouldn't know it here. The buildings on Hollow Street hunched together so tight that the sun barely touched the ground. It felt like standing at the mouth of a throat — wet brick, rotted window frames, and the faint stench of mildew that seemed older than the street itself.
Rafi hadn't been here in a long time. Not since before the hush crawled inside him back at camp. Not since he'd run so far that he'd nearly forgotten the first place he'd learned to hide.
He paused under the battered street sign. Hollow Street. A name that never fit any map, not really — just a nickname whispered by kids who knew where to squat when winter cracked its knuckles.
The girl tugged his sleeve, just once. Her eyes flicked to a gap between two buildings — a dark seam that looked too narrow for a body to slip through. He knew it anyway. Knew it before she pointed. The alley. The cut in the ribs of Hollow Street.
"You remember it," she said. Not a question. A statement thick with a dare.
Rafi pushed the boy gently behind him, between himself and the girl. Then he stepped into the alley's mouth.
The hush greeted him at once — not a roar this time, but a sigh, soft as a lullaby. His skin prickled where damp brick brushed his shoulders. Each step made the echo of his shoes sound wrong: too slow, too fast, no rhythm at all.
Years ago, he'd hidden here with his old crew. Kids with pockets full of glass shards and stolen matches, boys who taught him to fight dirty when grown-ups came sniffing for them. Most of them were gone now — dead, locked away, or worse, eaten up by the hush that lived in all the hollow places.
At the back of the alley, he stopped. There was still the old door, half-hinged, covered in spray paint too faded to read. Someone had nailed a piece of plywood over the bottom half, but the top gaped open like a yawn.
Behind him, the boy whimpered. The girl crouched to his level, murmuring something Rafi couldn't hear. He didn't turn around. He pressed a palm to the door.
It swung inward with a groan, old dust blooming into the cold air. The inside smelled like rotten paper and mold, familiar enough to sour his tongue. He ducked through. The children followed without question.
Inside was exactly how memory left it: stripped walls, a mattress so filthy no rat would nest in it, graffiti that looked like prayers or threats or both. In the far corner, a broken window dripped water from last night's rain. Beneath that window, a ragged hole gaped in the floorboards — the old crawlspace that ran under the street.
When they were younger, this was the secret exit when cops came knocking. Now, he realized, it was the mouth of something else entirely. He could feel it breathing, deeper than concrete, deeper than Hollow Street's bones.
The girl nudged closer, braid swinging. She looked older in the gray light, or maybe just older than him in a way he could never catch up to.
"He wants you to come down," she said. "He's awake now. He knows you're close."
Rafi shivered so hard it rattled his teeth. "And if I don't?"
She shrugged, careless as a ghost. "Then he comes up."
The boy began to sob — not loud, not dramatic, just small choking hiccups. Rafi dropped to one knee, wrapping his arms tight around the thin shoulders.
"It's okay," he lied. "I'm gonna end it. I promise. No more running."
He felt the hush coil warm against his ribs, purring approval, as if it knew the taste of this promise before he did.
Rafi pulled the boy tighter one last time, then gently pushed him into the girl's arms. She hugged the boy without blinking at Rafi — an unspoken pact passing between them like breath.
He turned to the hole in the floor. Blackness yawned up at him, a throat that wanted him back inside. He crawled to the edge, fingers brushing the splintered wood.
Below, the hush rustled like dry leaves under water. A voice without a tongue, yet it called him by name.
Rafi's heart bucked against his ribs. He set one hand on the rotten floor, leaned into the darkness, and whispered to himself — the old prayer he'd used back at camp, back before he knew prayer was useless where the hush could hear it.
He lowered himself down. Into the crawlspace. Back into the roots. Back to where all the broken parts of him waited to be claimed.
Above, the girl murmured to the boy, rocking him gently while Hollow Street swallowed every sound they made.