One morning, while I arranged goods, I asked again, softer this time.
“David, where do you stay?”
He froze, broom still in his hand.
“I stay around,” he said.
“Around where?”
He shifted, uncomfortable. “Just… around.”
He said it like a locked door.
I let it go, but the fear in his tone stayed with me.
That evening, after we closed the shop, David thanked me as usual and walked away with leftover food I packed for him.
And something in my heart refused to rest.
So for the first time, I followed him.
I stayed far behind. I didn’t want him to notice. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I just needed to know he was safe.
David took small paths, moving quickly like someone used to avoiding attention. The farther he went, the more my worry grew.
Then he stopped in front of an uncompleted building.
It looked abandoned. No windows. No doors. Bare blocks exposed to the night air. A place that felt like it belonged to ghosts and danger, not to a child.
David stepped inside like he had done it a hundred times.
I held my breath and watched from behind a wall.
He placed his food pack on the ground and sat on a pile of old blocks. Nearby, a thin piece of cloth was spread like a bed.
No light. No adult. No protection.
Just an empty building and a little boy trying to survive.
