The driver stood at the edge of the dumping ground, arms crossed tightly, watching the boy tear through the earth like a feral animal. The wind had picked up now, carrying with it the sour stench of rot and old metal. The last sliver of sunlight had long faded, replaced by a bruised night sky.
He stepped forward, hesitantly.
"Kid... it’s getting dark. You shouldn’t be here any longer."
Jian didn’t respond. His fingers were caked in black dirt, his nails chipped and bleeding. His face streaked with grime and tears, eyes wide, lost.
The man tried again, voice firmer this time. "Hey. You’re gonna hurt yourself."
Still nothing.
The driver looked to Nansich, whose worried eyes flickered between Jian and the growing shadows. "He’s not gonna listen," the boy said quietly. "Not like this."
The man let out a long breath. "There’s a farm I look after just two miles from here. It’s not much, but it’s warm. Safe. You kids can stay the night."
Jian suddenly slammed his fists into the dirt and let out a broken cry. "He’s not here! He’s not here!" he choked, his voice shattering like glass. "Where did he go?! Where did they go?!"
Nansich flinched, then gently approached him. "Jian..."
Jian turned to him with hollow eyes. "He’s gone. What if... what if I’m too late again? What if I let him die?!"
"You didn’t let anything happen," Nansich said, quietly kneeling beside him. "You did everything you could. Jian, please... just rest for now. We can look again tomorrow. You’re exhausted."
"I can’t rest!" Jian snapped. "What if he’s out there right now? Cold and hurt and waiting for me?! What if—"
"You won’t find him like this!" Nansich grabbed his wrist, eyes firm. "You’ll collapse if you keep going. He wouldn’t want that, would he?"
Jian froze. The boy’s words struck deep. He looked down at his raw hands, his trembling arms. His chest heaved with sobs, and slowly... he stopped digging.
"...I can’t feel anything anymore," Jian whispered. "I can’t even feel my fingers."
Nansich stood and offered a hand. "Come on. Let’s go. Just for tonight."
"I don’t want to leave."
"I know," Nansich murmured. "But I think... I think your grandpa would want you to survive too."
Jian’s eyes welled again, but this time, he didn’t protest. He let the younger boy guide him to his feet. His legs were unsteady. The driver was already waiting at the car, the door open, the engine humming low.
"You sure?" the driver asked Nansich in a hushed tone as they approached. "He looks like a wreck."
"He needs time," Nansich answered. "We’ll just stay the night. Please."
The man nodded, softening. "Climb in."
They drove in silence.
Jian sat in the back, cradling his dirt-streaked hands in his lap, eyes vacant. The occasional tear would slip silently down his cheek, but he didn’t sob. He just stared out the window as if the stars outside would somehow guide him to those he’d lost.
Nansich turned around in his seat to check on him. "Jian... are you warm enough?"
Jian didn’t answer, but after a moment, he gave a tiny nod.
"Don’t worry," Nansich said softly. "We’ll find him. I promise."
Jian finally spoke, voice hoarse. "...You don’t have to stay."
"I want to," the younger boy replied, turning back forward with a small frown. "You saved me, remember? Now it’s my turn."
The farm appeared like a ghost in the darkness—an old wooden house surrounded by open land and a crumbling barn. The driver pulled in and parked quietly.
"You can stay in the loft," he said, grabbing some old blankets from the back. "I’ll heat something up inside. It’s not much, but it’s warm."
Jian let Nansich guide him again. They walked side by side to the barn. Nansich laid out the blankets in the hayloft, fluffing them as best he could.
As Jian sat down, he finally broke the silence, voice trembling. "...Do you think he’s really gone?"
"I don’t know," Nansich replied honestly. "But we’re not giving up okay."
Jian curled up in the blanket, eyes burning as he stared up at the wooden beams overhead. "I’m scared."
Nansich lay beside him, staring at the same ceiling. "Me too."
*******
Xing Yu’s boots kicked up clouds of dust as he sprinted through the battered streets, heading back toward where he had left Jian’s grandfather.
His breath was ragged, chest heaving. He had already used his speed twice, and now his legs screamed in protest.
Every muscle in his body throbbed—but he didn’t care. Not when he had finally found a thread leading to Jian.
He stumbled down the slope behind a cracked concrete barrier and saw the old man—crumpled to the ground, shoulders shaking with every broken sob.
"Jian is alive," Xing Yu said, voice breathless but urgent as he dropped to his knees beside him.
The old man didn’t look up at first. He was too deep in his sorrow, his hands pressed against the dirt like he was begging the earth to give back what it took.
"Did you hear me?" Xing Yu grasped his shoulder. "He’s alive."
The old man’s head slowly lifted. His face was streaked with tears, every wrinkle etched with pain, eyes red and raw. "Jian..." his voice cracked. "He...?"
"Yes," Xing Yu nodded firmly. "He’s outside the city. At the dumping ground."
"The... the dumping ground?" the old man repeated, disbelief and fear mixing in his tone. "That’s... outside the walls. There’s nothing there,"
"I know. That’s why we have to move. Now."
He helped the old man to his feet, supporting his weight. The man’s legs trembled beneath him.
"Why would he go there... why?" the grandfather murmured, his voice hoarse.
Xing Yu looked up toward the sky, where the alien ships hovered like ominous moons, their smooth silver hulls gleaming in the dark. His jaw clenched.
"Because he was looking for you," Xing Yu said coldly. "We need to get moving..."