The boy was first seen just after dusk, wandering between streetlights like a drifting shadow. He was small—small enough that most people didn't notice him at all. But one man did.
Arsen moved slowly from wall to wall, carefully pressing "Missing" posters against cold concrete. His hands shook terribly, smudging glue across the corners. His eyes were empty in a way no child's eyes should be—dark, tired, and heavy with something he didn't have words for.
The man watched from the other side of the road, uneasy. Kids his age usually made noise—talked, cried, complained, laughed. Anything.
But this boy said nothing. Not a word.
When Arsen turned into a quiet lane, the man followed, keeping his distance. The boy walked to a small house with its door half-open, the kind of careless gap that meant someone had left in a hurry… or never returned.
Arsen slipped inside.
Curiosity pulled the man to the doorway—and what he saw made his stomach drop.
The house was painfully silent. No lights. No movement. No adults.
Only Arsen, standing in the center of the room like he wasn't sure what to do with himself. He clutched the stack of posters to his chest as if they were the only thing holding him together.
Without thinking twice, the man pulled out his phone and called Poppy Orphanage.
Two caretakers showed up soon after. Their footsteps sounded too loud in the empty house. Arsen didn't look up when they entered. He didn't flinch. He didn't react at all.
The caretakers exchanged a quick, worried glance.
There was something about this child… something in the way his shoulders curved inwards, like he was trying to disappear. Something in the way his gaze hovered on the floorboards, refusing to lift.
A child shouldn't look like that.
But Arsen had been carrying too much for too long.
His parents had vanished when he was three, leaving him in the hands of his older brother, Asher. A kid raising another kid. Somehow, Asher had made it work for years—leaving Arsen with the kind lady next door, going to school, and working after classes for ten pounds a week. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep them going.
Until the woman died. Suddenly, they had nothing again.
Asher dropped out of school at fifteen, put Arsen in instead, and worked any job he could find. They barely scraped by, but they still laughed sometimes. They still shared what little they had. They still had each other.
And then the day came when Asher was captured.
Not missing.Not gone by accident.Taken.
Just like that.
A whole world ripped out of Arsen's hands.
Now he stood in front of the orphanage workers like a ghost. When they asked him questions—Where are your parents? Do you have anyone else?—he stayed silent. His eyes didn't move from the floor even once.
One caretaker knelt down to his level and spoke gently, "You can come with us, sweetheart. You'll have food, a warm bed, teachers… You don't have to stay here alone."
For a split second, something softened in Arsen's face. Something small and fragile. But it vanished almost instantly, swallowed by fear.
He shook his head.
He couldn't leave. What if Asher escaped and came back home? What if he walked through that door and found no one waiting? Arsen couldn't let that happen. He'd rather go hungry. He'd rather freeze. He'd rather wait forever than risk missing his brother's return.
The caretakers didn't push. They simply placed a small white card on the dusty table.
"If you ever need help," one of them said quietly, "call us. Anytime."
Then they left him alone with the silence.
Days crept by. Hunger gnawed at him until it felt like there was nothing else inside him. His hands shook when he tried to eat the little food he had left. The posters curled at the edges, forgotten on the floor.
And Asher didn't come.
By the seventh night, Arsen could barely stand. His legs wobbled beneath him as he approached the table. The card lay there—simple, harmless, waiting.
He felt like picking it up meant giving up on his brother.
But he also knew he couldn't survive another night like this.
His fingers shook as he lifted the card. He pressed it to his forehead for a moment, eyes squeezed tight, whispering his brother's name under his breath.
Nothing answered.
Finally, he walked to the phone and dialed.
The ring echoed in the quiet house.Once.Twice.
"Poppy Orphanage," a soft voice said.
Arsen swallowed hard. His throat burned.
"I… I need help," he whispered, barely audible.
And just like that, everything he had been holding onto broke—and something new, something frightening and unfamiliar, began.