Night had fallen like wet wool around Billy's shoulders—heavy, scratchy, impossible to shake off—as he walked the trail home.
His shoulders drooped with every step, and his clothes clung faintly with the sweat of wandering too long.
The village lights glimmered dimly behind him, but none felt like they were waiting for him.
Only one remained lit—his home, but it didn't feel like one tonight.
At the main entrance, Mr. Dand stood with a lantern in one hand and a quiet gaze that seemed to reach all the way through Billy's chest.
Billy paused a few steps away.
Mr. Dand didn't speak, not at first. He simply studied the boy's face—the glassy eyes, the tired breath, the tightness in his jaw—and understood more than any words could explain.
"He's not back yet," Mr. Dand said gently.
Billy nodded once.
"I looked everywhere," he murmured.
There was a long silence between them. Then Mr. Dand, with the ease of a man who'd seen his share of heartbreak, turned and held the door open.
