Mosin watched from afar, confusion twisting his small face as his father walked toward the man standing beneath the old, massive tree.
At first, his father's steps were calm, steady — nothing unusual.
But as he reached the shadowed figure, something in his posture changed.
Even from the distance, Mosin could sense it — the air between them had grown tense.
His father's shoulders stiffened, his voice rising faintly, laced with anger that hadn't been there before.
Mosin couldn't make out the words, but he could feel it — something was wrong.
The man beneath the tree stood still, unshaken, while his father's gestures became sharper, more heated with every passing second.
Mosin thought with confusion.
Who is that man… and why does Father sound so angry?
After a few tense minutes, his father turned, taking long strides back toward him.
His face was set, composed, but the anger hadn't completely faded — it lingered in the hard line of his jaw.
"Mosin," his father said, voice calm but firm as he reached him, "listen. I have to go back home for a moment.
You… you go to Mr. Kazmi's home and stay there. You know the way, right?"
Mosin blinked, still confused.
"Yes… but… why are you leaving me?"
His father gave him a quick, unreadable glance.
"I have work to do. I will be back soon. Do as I say, and stay there until I return."
Mosin nodded slowly, his mind racing, still trying to process the encounter he had just witnessed.
The shadow beneath the tree, his father's fury, and the sudden command — it all pressed against him, an uneasy weight he couldn't yet understand.
Mosin made his way through the quiet streets, his small steps hurried but careful.
Soon, he reached Mr. Kazmi's home — a modest, well-kept house with smoke curling gently from the chimney.
As Mosin approached, the door opened, and a warm, familiar face greeted him.
"Oh! Is it… Mosin?"
Mr. Kazmi exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.
"You've grown! My, my… it's been so long since we last met. But… why are you alone, boy? Where are your father and mother?"
Mosin shifted slightly, glancing down.
"Father… he said he has work to do. That's why I came here alone."
Mr. Kazmi nodded thoughtfully, understanding but still smiling warmly.
"Ah… I see. He must have matters to attend to. Well, don't worry, we'll see each other soon enough. Come in, boy. You're welcome here."
He guided Mosin inside and poured a cup of milk, handing it to the boy with a gentle, reassuring smile.
"Drink this. You must be tired from the journey."
Mosin took the cup carefully.
After about an hour, Mosin stood, stretching his small arms.
"I… I should be going back now," he said softly.
Mr. Kazmi shook his head, concern etched on his face.
"No, no, let me walk you home. It's late, and the streets aren't safe at this hour."
Mosin nodded.
"O…okay."
The two moved through the quiet lanes, the night air cool against their faces.
But soon, a flicker of orange light caught Mosin's eye far off in the distance.
"Fire…" he whispered, pointing toward the horizon.
His heart tightened as he recognized the direction — toward his grandmother's house.
People were running frantically from that direction, their screams mingling with the crackle of flames.
"Why… why is there fire there?" Mosin asked, panic creeping into his voice.
Mr. Kazmi's face darkened, his usual calm replaced by shock and urgency.
"Mosin… stay here. I will go check it out. Do not go that way."
Before Mosin could protest, Kazmi dashed forward, moving through the crowd of people fleeing toward the blaze.
Mosin's small hands clenched, fear and helplessness knotting in his chest as he watched the familiar figure disappear into the chaos.
The flames flickered higher.
Mosin's heart pounded in his chest. He could not stay there.
Mom… Dad… Grandma… everyone… I have to go. I have to help them! he thought, panic and determination fueling his steps.
Without hesitation, he ran toward the fire, mind racing, questions spinning through his head.
Why is there fire in that direction? Did someone make a mistake?
As he reached the edge of the devastation, his stomach dropped.
His grandmother's home was completely engulfed, blackened beams jutting out from the ashes, smoke curling into the night sky.
People frantically tried to beat down the flames, their faces twisted in fear and desperation, but the fire roared as if it had a life of its own.
"M-Mom! Dad!" Mosin shouted, his voice cracking as he scanned the chaos.
Panic clawed at him.
Amid the fire, a figure emerged.
A man with his face painted like a grotesque joker — white base, eyes rimmed in black, and a wide red smile stretching unnaturally across his cheeks.
His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, and yet terrifying in their precision.
He strode toward Mr. Kazmi, his expression a mask of anger and cold satisfaction.
In a swift, brutal motion, he struck — Kazmi fell, the life leaving him before he could even cry out.
Mosin's young eyes widened in shock, but the man did not see him.
Mosin stumbled backward, the heat of the fire brushing against his face, and fled.
He ran until he could no longer see the inferno.
Collapsing under a large tree, he sank to the ground, trembling.
"What… what happened?" he whispered to himself, tears welling in his eyes.
"Where is everyone… Mom… Dad…?"
The only answers were the distant crackle of flames and the eerie, quiet shadows of the night.
The next day, Mosin awoke under the tree, stiff and weary.
He hurried back toward his home, heart pounding, but the streets were quiet — only the sorrowful murmurs of villagers broke the silence.
He reached the house and froze.
Everything was gone.
No mother, no father, no grandmother.
People moved around silently, faces pale, eyes downcast.
"Where… where is everyone?" Mosin cried, confusion and fear lacing his voice.
Four bodies lay on the ground, covered in white cloths.
The sight sent a shiver down his spine. He spun around, desperate for answers, but none came.
Then, a figure appeared.
The same grotesque, joker-like face he had seen before — the man who had killed Mr. Kazmi.
His painted grin stretched unnaturally, his dark eyes cold.
"I am known as Jester," the man said slowly, his voice low and ominous.
"And what I am about to tell you… is not going to be easy to hear."
Mosin's chest tightened with anger and confusion.
His small hands trembled as he pointed toward Jester.
"I know you!" he shouted, voice breaking.
"You're the one who killed Mr. Kazmi last night! He's a killer!"
But no one around him moved — no one said a word.
Jester's voice was steady, cruel in its calmness.
"Your father, your mother… all your family… they died yesterday. The person behind it… was Kazmi."
Mosin froze, his small frame trembling. His eyes dulled, a haze of disbelief clouding them.
Then, as if reality finally sank in, tears welled and spilled down his cheeks.
"No… no… they can't be… dead…" he whispered, his voice breaking, shaking under the weight of loss.
Jester said nothing, letting the words hang in the heavy air.
Around them, the villagers watched in silence, understanding that the boy before them had lost everything.
Mosin stood alone, the world he had known crumbling to dust around him.
Jester lowered his gaze.
"I was your father's student," he said quietly.
"He trained me himself. Your father… he was a spy — one of the best our kingdom had. He died because of that duty."
Mosin's lips trembled.
His voice cracking with every word.
"Why… why did he have to die? Why did everyone have to die?"
His small hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as he screamed, "No! Why am I the only one left? I want to go with them!"
Jester said nothing. There was no comfort he could give — only the truth, heavy and merciless.
Jester's voice trembled as he stepped closer. "Mosin… I'm sorry."
For the first time, his painted smile meant nothing.
A tear slipped down his cheek, tracing through the colors on his face, washing them into something human.
"I was late," he whispered, voice breaking.
"Because of me… they died."
Mosin stared at him, eyes wide and hollow.
"You don't have to die," Jester said softly, holding him tight.
"Your father — in his last moments — he thought only of you." His hand trembled as he placed it on the boy's back.
"He told me to protect you. To make sure you never have to do anything you don't want to do."
The child buried his face in Jester's chest.
For that moment, under the cold dawn light, the painted man and the broken boy were bound by grief.