Chapter 3 - GHOSTS IN THE DAYLIGHT
The old man’s gaze dropped to the floor, then rose again.
The deep grooves around his mouth deepened into a frown.
He uncrossed his arms and rested one hand on the cold glass of the display case.
The condensation from a milk bottle left a wet ring on the wood.
"Where's your mom?" the shopkeeper asked.
His voice was gravelly, worn down by decades of small talk and sharp transactions.
The boy flinched.
The question hit him like a physical blow to the stomach.
He took half a step back.
His worn sneaker squeaked against the floor.
The boy looked down at the baby’s face.
He used his chin to gently nudge the edge of the blanket away from the infant's nose.
His shoulders slumped forward, curving inward to protect the bundle.
He didn't look at the old man.
He looked at the space between the shopkeeper's boots.
"My mom left us," the boy said.
The words were entirely devoid of emotion.
They were spoken with the terrifying, blunt acceptance that only a child can muster.
The shopkeeper’s hand stiffened against the display case.
His knuckles turned white.
"Moms only leave when the house runs out of hiding spots," the boy added, his voice dropping to a hollow whisper.
The child logic hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
"Our house is very small. She couldn't find a place to hide anymore. So she had to go outside."
The old man’s breath caught in his throat.
He stared at the boy, his stern facade cracking like thin ice under a heavy boot.
The boy’s rationale wasn't meant to elicit pity.
It was simply the only way his six-year-old brain could process abandonment.
If it was a game of hide-and-seek, it meant she wasn't gone forever.
It just meant the game was still being played.
The baby wailed again, a high-pitched siren that shattered the momentary silence.
The boy winced, his ear pressed dangerously close to the infant's mouth.
He swayed side to side.
His eyes darted back to the rows of white glass bottles.
The milk.
May you like
The only thing that mattered in the present tense.
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