The start of the day was not silent.It never was.
Even before the sun fully rose, the port city was already moving like a bad-tempered animal waking up. Chains groaned on the docks, voices shouted orders that no one seemed to obey properly, and the salty smell of the sea mixed with old fish, wet wood, and cheap smoke. Osborn watched it all from a distance, standing near the edge of the forest, six coconuts pressed against his chest, feeling their weight more in meaning than in his arms.
He returned to the tent carefully, avoiding the most obvious paths. Not out of immediate fear—but out of habit. He had learned quickly that those who always walked the same routes ended up being seen too much. And being seen, on that island, almost always meant being measured: strength, weakness, usefulness.
Inside the tent, he crouched and pulled aside the loose plank in the makeshift floor. He buried the coconuts beneath the dry earth, then covered everything again, smoothing it with his small hands until it looked untouched. He stayed there for a few seconds, breathing slowly, feeling his empty stomach complain—not loudly, but constantly.
I can endure, he thought, more as a reminder than a certainty.
He had already decided. Not on that day exactly, but before. In the days leading up to it. Watching. Calculating. Seeing children disappear from the market and never come back. Seeing others become shadows of themselves, walking with hollow eyes, too weak even to beg for food.
Today was not a day to think more.It was a day to act.
Osborn walked toward the market with his head lowered, but his eyes alert. He was not looking for just any child. Not the ones who still had enough energy to run, nor the ones already so close to the end that they wouldn't even understand a word.
He was looking for someone at the edge.
He found him near the grain stalls, where merchants didn't care much about shooing away beggars too small to be a nuisance. A boy sat on the ground, leaning against a wooden post, his thin body folded in on itself. His pale skin looked almost gray from lifelessness. Cracked lips. Eyes open, but unfocused.
He was breathing. But it looked like he did so only out of habit.
Osborn stopped a few meters away. He watched longer than would seem normal. He wanted to be sure. Approaching the wrong way could draw unwanted attention. Or worse: it could frighten the boy enough for him to run and waste the last energy he had.
It's him, he thought.
He didn't feel pity in the usual sense. He felt recognition. He had seen himself like that before. That feeling of being alive only because the body hadn't given up yet.
He approached slowly.
"Hey…" he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself.
The boy didn't react.
Osborn crouched in front of him, examining him more closely. The breathing was shallow. The skin too warm. Probably fever. Dehydration. Hunger piled on hunger.
Shit, he thought. If I leave him here, he won't last long.
He looked around. No one seemed to be paying attention. The market followed its own cruel logic: those who fell behind were left behind.
Osborn slid his arm carefully under the boy. The body was far too light. That bothered him more than he expected.
"Hold on… just a little," he murmured, even without knowing if the other could hear him.
And then he did something no one in that city did without a very strong reason: he took someone with him.
The walk back to the tent felt longer with the boy's weight in his arms. Osborn felt his own heart beating faster—not from exhaustion, but from alertness. Anyone could find it strange. Anyone could ask questions.
But no one did.
Maybe because no one cared.
Inside the tent, Osborn laid the boy down on the ground lined with dry leaves. Light filtered weakly through the gaps in the worn fabric. It was warm, but sheltered from the wind.
He took one of the coconuts from the hiding place, his hands trembling slightly. Not from fear. From urgency.
He grabbed the stone he used as a tool and struck carefully, controlling his strength. The dull sound echoed softly. Then another blow. And another.
When the shell finally gave way, he used the improvised bowl to collect the water.
"Slowly…" he said, bringing it to the boy's mouth.
The boy coughed as he felt the liquid, but he swallowed. Then another sip. And another. His breathing began to steady, almost imperceptibly.
Osborn scraped a bit of the flesh and offered it with his fingers, little by little, waiting between each portion. He didn't want him to get sick.
He stayed there in silence, watching.
After a while, the boy opened his eyes again—this time with more focus. He blinked, confused, looking around the tent.
"Where…" his voice came out weak, barely there.
"Easy," Osborn said. "You're safe. You drank water. You ate a little."
The boy tried to sit up, but Osborn placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Slowly. If you get up too fast, you'll pass out."
He obeyed. Stayed still, breathing.
After some time, he asked:
"Why… did you help me?"
Osborn didn't answer right away. He looked at the open coconut, at his own dirt-covered hands.
"Because I know what it's like," he said finally. "To be alone. To be invisible."
The boy swallowed hard.
"Everyone walked past me today…"
"I know," Osborn replied, without anger. "That's how it is here."
Silence.
"You could've stolen my things…" the boy said, suspicious.
Osborn shrugged.
"You didn't have anything to steal."
That pulled a tired half-smile from the boy.
"My name's Bill…" he said after a while.
Osborn nodded.
"I'm Osborn."
They ate a bit more in silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind of silence shared by people who didn't need to prove anything.
"Are you going to… send me away later?" Bill asked quietly.
Osborn thought before answering.
"Not now. And maybe not later." He looked straight at him. "Alone, we disappear. Together… we last longer."
Bill stayed quiet. Thinking.
"Are you an orphan?" he asked.
"I am."
"Me too."
Osborn took a deep breath.
"Then listen," he said. "I don't promise big things. I don't promise food every day. Or total safety. But I promise one thing: as long as I have something, you won't have nothing."
Bill nodded slowly.
"I'll stay," he said. "If you want."
Osborn felt something different in his chest. Not victory. Not relief. Something quieter.
Continuity.
"Then stay," he replied. "We learn together."
The tent felt too small for two children. But for the first time since he had arrived on that island, Osborn didn't feel like he was taking up too much space in the world.
And that alone changed everything.