Fear.
A van slams into a hydrant, unleashing a geyser of water that erupts skyward mixing with the rain from above, catching the dim glow of a streetlamp before collapsing into a shimmering cascade.
Brakes scream.
A motorcycle skids sideways, its rider a flailing marionette before crashing into a newspaper stand.
Pages explode into the air — yesterday's tragedies set loose, drifting aimlessly through the indifferent dusk sky.
In the heart of the chaos: a boy.
Small, desperate, afraid.
He clutches a glass sphere — a flicker of life trapped within, water sloshing violently inside its fragile prison. He runs. wildly . unapologetically across this busy street.
A bus lurches forward, heedless of the red light. A woman screams as a taxi unwillingly mounts the curb, scattering her and the fragile fabric of her day.
Oblivious to the chaos he created, he moves with singular purpose—deaf to the sirens, blind to the wreckage, his entire existence narrowed to the fragile life clutched against his chest.
A fruit cart tips, oranges spilling like tiny, sunlit planets rolling freely out of orbit into the street.
The boy moves as though fate itself has latched onto him.
The city — a snarling beast of steel and smoke — conspires against him. A car door bursts open — he pivots. A cyclist topples — he vaults. A horn howls — he doesn't flinch. He is motion distilled into a singular, unwavering purpose.
A truck's tires lock, screeching — friction's last, futile protest. He doesn't stop. He can't stop. The world, vast and unfeeling, churns on without mercy.
The fish inside the sphere thrashes, its tiny world turned violent and wild. The boy whispers, though the words vanish beneath the city's roar:
"I'm not going to let you die."
Across the street, a girl with eyes like pools of honey sees him. Those eyes widen, fear swelling in her throat.
"Hanako!" she cries, arm outstretched.
Her voice cuts through the cacophony.
Hanako glances back, as if for a second he was living in the moment.
tears streaking his face — the kind of tears wrenched from the soul, the kind no one ever wants to shed. but he doesn't slow.
He crosses this busy street and enters an ally way.
The city shifts.
With each stride, the modern skyline unravels. Glass towers distort, melting into graffiti-streaked walls and flickering neon signs. Street corners blur into shadowed alleys, figures wrapped in smoke and desire. Cracks splinter through pavement. The present peels away like old paint.
And then it falls further back. He runs faster and faster - The streets wither into ancient stone paths, walls crumble into ruins, and the air grows heavy with the scent of old rain and forgotten prayers. Time buckles and collapses until he stands at a crossroads — a place neither here nor there, suspended between nothing and everything.
He looks back. The city is now in the rearview.
The once rainy morning is now partly golden sky, as if the rain washed the sky and made it a new- the time for running is over. He made it to his destination.
All that remains is the crossroads, drenched in shadow and covered in history.
The glass sphere trembles in his hands. His fish floating at the top, barely breathing- barely living.
Somewhere in the distance, the girl's voice still echoes his name.
Panting, Hanako kneels. His breath rasps, jagged and uneven — like a pig's wheezing snort. He hasn't run this hard since his fourth-grade track meet last year.
There's no time to catch his breath.
There's no time at all.
His trembling fingers claw at the earth, desperate and frantic, ripping through the layers of dirt, stone, and the wriggling creatures that burrow in the depths below. He digs deeper, heart hammering, until a small hollow is formed. With a final, agonizing motion, he presses a single copper coin into the damp earth and whispers, with the little breath he has left, the words so vulnerable:
"Help me."
Suddenly, a crack of thunder splits the still air….