The rain hammered against the window, something normal in the Land of Rain, where it rained constantly. Honestly, at this point, I was half-convinced the sky was just throwing a temper tantrum, trying to drown the world in a fit of pettiness.
I was on the couch, lost in some mindless game on a handheld console; I was bored. A twelve-year-old still needs something to do, right?
And then, it happened.
A soft creak. Almost nothing. But enough to make me stop mid-game, my fingers frozen on the buttons. A second later, another sound. A footstep, light but deliberate, too careful to be an accident, too casual to be anyone with a solid plan.
I paused the game and listened.
Someone was inside my house.
Was it a looter? A thief thinking they could sneak in, grab whatever they could find, and disappear? Or maybe some idiot who thought this was an abandoned house, ripe for the taking. Whoever it was, they didn't sound like they had much of a plan.
I slipped off the couch and moved silently into hiding, my eyes never leaving the door. My hand went instinctively to my jacket, where I summoned a gun from my Workshop inventory. A silenced handgun.
But I didn't want to make it obvious I was armed. I needed to be smart about this.
The footsteps came again, closer this time, barely audible, but there. I could almost feel the weight of them pressing against the floorboards.
The plan was simple: wait, observe, and if they were stupid enough to come any closer, I'd be ready.
Then the footsteps stopped. I held my breath, staying as still as a statue, my fingers tight around the grip of the gun. My mind was running through options—strategies, angles, escape plans. But nothing was certain. I needed to be careful.
Then, I heard it. A voice, low and hoarse, worn down by exhaustion.
"Looks like it's empty, kiddo."
I didn't make a sound, didn't let my presence slip.
I peeked ,then I saw them—two figures silhouetted by the dim light. The man was thin, his clothes ragged and covered in dirt. His face was haggard, eyes hollow with days, maybe weeks, of running and hiding. The kid at his side, no older than six or seven, was clinging to him, holding a knife that was almost too big for them, their tiny hands trembling with exhaustion.
They stepped inside, cautiously, not daring to trust the silence. The man's eyes scanned the room, darting over every corner, checking for threats. When he saw nothing, he exhaled, a sound of relief that was barely audible.
"Seems like no one's here..." he murmured, almost to himself.
They didn't know yet. They didn't know I was here, waiting, watching them from the shadows.
His shoulders sagged with the weight of that brief moment of relief, and the knife in his hand lowered. The kid, though, still seemed on edge—nervous, clutching the blade as if it were their only protection left in a world that had forgotten how to be kind.
"Papa… what if they come back?" the kid whispered, eyes wide with fear, constantly searching, scanning the room like a prey animal.
The man crouched down in front of the child, his face softening, though the tiredness never left his eyes. "It's alright," he said quietly, his voice heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from too much running, too many days spent in hiding. "We're safe here. Just for a bit. We'll rest, and then we'll keep going."
The kid nodded, but it was clear the trauma was already there, etched deep into both of them. War did that to people. Took what you were, what you could've been, and left nothing but fear and survival instincts in its wake.
I stayed hidden for a moment longer, watching the man and the child, the weight of my decision pressing on me. Was it worth it? Was it worth revealing myself?
I sighed.
Honestly, I couldn't kill them—not when they hadn't done anything to me. I'm not that kind of guy. It'd be easy enough to just watch them, to let them go on their way. But killing innocent people? Especially a kid? No. That wasn't something I could do.
Perhaps my sigh was louder than I intended. The man tensed up immediately, his head snapping in my direction. He stood up quickly, alert, his grip tightening around the knife as if he could sense something wasn't quite right.
"Who's there?" His voice came low, sharp, wary.
I didn't move. I didn't want to escalate things. Slowly, I let the gun I'd summoned disappear, slipping out of existence. No need for it now. Instead, I stepped out from the shadows, my hands raised in a gesture that was more for their sake than mine. It wasn't much, but it was enough to show them I wasn't about to attack. At least, not yet.
"I live here," I said, my voice cool, steady, a little dry.
The man's gaze flickered around the room, his grip tightening on the knife for a moment before he relaxed slightly, though his posture was still guarded, defensive. He looked confused, his brow furrowing.
"Live here?" he murmured, glancing back at the child, who stayed close, eyes wide, clutching their knife with a nervous grip.
I shrugged.. "Yeah. Been here a while."
The man hesitated, his shoulders sagging with a sudden weight, like the realization had hit him. He glanced over the house, as if seeing it for the first time—this wasn't some empty shell of a place. This was someone's home. My home.
"I... I'm sorry," he said, his voice soft, apologetic in a way that almost felt too human for someone who looked like he'd been running for days. "We didn't mean to intrude. We're just... we just need somewhere to rest."
The apology hung in the air, thin and fragile. And I could tell it wasn't just about the house. It was about the fact that they had nowhere else to go. Nothing else to rely on. They were just two people, caught in the crossfire of a world that had forgotten what it meant to be kind.
I didn't answer immediately. I let the silence settle between us, thick and heavy, while I watched them.
Finally, I exhaled and motioned toward the couch. "Sit. You're not gonna get a better offer than that."
The man gave a short, tight chuckle, more out of relief than anything. His posture softened, his body sinking back into the couch like he had just been given permission to exhale. His eyes closed briefly, as if he could finally stop pretending to be on high alert.
The kid didn't move right away. But after a moment, they slowly edged toward the couch, glancing up at their father as if waiting for approval. The man nodded, and the child took a seat next to him, their body still tense.
I turned away, walking toward the kitchen.
The man cleared his throat, the sound almost apologetic. "Thank you," he said, the words rough, like they hadn't been used in a while. "We... we didn't know where else to go."
I paused, glancing back over my shoulder. He wasn't looking at me, just staring ahead, his hands resting on his knees. "Same here,"
The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. I wasn't about to play the part of a gracious host. But I wasn't about to kick them out either.
Instead, I focused on something that didn't require thought—preparing something simple in the kitchen. Something to remind me that I wasn't alone in this empty, wet world. Something to remind me that I am still human, and I am me.