When the bus started moving, the child didn't sit down.
The bus wasn't crowded; people were scattered around, as if the spaces between them had been intentionally left open. No one spoke, only the sound of the wheels rolling over the road, steady and rhythmic, emptying his mind with each turn.
He gripped the handrail, his palm a little slippery.
Not from sweat.
But from a dampness left behind after contact.
He glanced down at his hand.
His skin was clean, with no marks. Yet, he still instinctively wiped it on his pants, the motion light, as if to avoid drawing attention.
The street scene outside the window moved past.
Familiar, yet mismatched.
The intersections were right, the traffic lights were right, but some shops were missing, while others, which hadn't existed before, were now squeezed in, making it feel slightly crowded.
It was as though someone had been layering new marks on top of the original map, again and again.
A woman sat in the middle of the bus.
She held a child in her arms.
The child, about the same age as him, was quietly resting on her shoulder, his face buried in her coat, his expression hidden.
Since he boarded, the woman's gaze hadn't left him.
Not a direct stare.
But that kind of gaze that pretends to look elsewhere but always lingers within the same vicinity.
The child shifted slightly, trying to move away.
Her gaze followed him.
When he realized this, a chill spread in his chest.
The bus stopped at the next station.
A man boarded.
Middle-aged, wearing an old jacket, his hair disheveled. He swiped his card slowly, the machine beeped, and he seemed to be roused by the sound, lifting his head.
His eyes scanned the bus.
When they landed on the child, they paused.
It wasn't curiosity.
It was confirmation.
The man's expression relaxed a little, as though he'd finally found what he was looking for.
He walked toward the child.
The sound of his footsteps echoed clearly in the bus.
"Why are you here alone?" the man asked.
His tone was natural.
As if asking a question whose answer he should have already known.
The child didn't answer.
The man sat down next to him, not too close, but also not making an effort to distance himself.
"Where's your mom?" the man asked again.
The child's throat tightened.
He didn't look up.
"I don't have a mom," he said.
When the words came out, he was taken aback.
Not because it was untrue.
But because it felt too... easy.
So easy it didn't feel like a lie.
The man was silent for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"Of course," he said. "She's been very busy lately."
The child looked up suddenly.
The man met his gaze, his eyes firm.
"Don't worry," the man said. "I know her."
"You don't know her," the child said.
This time, his voice wavered.
The man didn't argue.
He just sighed softly.
"You all say that," he said.
Those words made the child's spine stiffen instantly.
The same words.
From different people.
He couldn't quite understand what this repetition meant.
Someone coughed in the bus.
The woman holding the child suddenly stood up.
She tightened her grip on the child and walked over to the man.
"Why don't you sit here?" she said to him, her tone polite.
The man glanced at her, then at the child, as if weighing something.
Finally, he stood up and gave her the seat.
The woman sat down.
The child in her arms lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
In that instant, the child's heart skipped a beat.
Because the way the child looked at him wasn't like looking at another child.
It was like looking at a mirror.
The child's eyes were wide open.
But his pupils were a little unfocused.
As if he had just returned from somewhere far away.
"Are you cold?" the woman suddenly asked.
She wasn't asking him.
She was asking the child in her arms.
The child didn't answer.
The woman gently patted his back.
"It's okay," she said. "We'll be there soon."
The child realized that when she said "soon," she didn't mean the next bus stop.
The lights in the bus flickered.
Not off.
Just dimmed a little.
The driver's voice came from the front, muffled, as if blocked by something.
The child looked out the window.
The street scene became even stranger.
The proportions of the buildings began to shift.
Some buildings were too tall, others too short, and the transitions between them were abruptly erased.
It was like photographs from different times were being pieced together.
The bus turned into a road he had never seen before.
It was narrow.
The streetlights on either side were close together, their light crossing the windows in overlapping grids, forming segmented shadows.
The people in the bus began to stir uneasily.
Someone murmured something.
The woman holding the child suddenly turned to look at him.
"You shouldn't be on this bus," she said.
The child's heart sank.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
The woman didn't answer immediately.
The child in her arms slowly lifted his head.
The child saw his lips moving.
But no sound came out.
"He says he knows you," the woman whispered.
"He says you weren't supposed to be on this stretch."
The child shrank back a little.
He pressed his back against the bus window.
The glass was cold.
"What's he talking about?" the child asked.
The woman's grip tightened slightly.
"He says you've gone off track," she said.
"He says you were supposed to disappear with her."
The child's head buzzed.
The feeling of being pulled in a direction reappeared.
Like something was trying to push him toward a position already set.
"I'm not a part of her," the child said.
This time, he said it quickly.
As if afraid that, if he waited a second longer, the words would stop mattering.
The woman looked at him.
There was no malice in her gaze.
Only deep confusion.
"But they need you," she said.
"They need someone who's still alive."
The bus jerked violently.
Like something that shouldn't exist had been crushed.
Someone screamed.
The driver slammed on the brakes.
The bus stopped.
Everyone lurched forward, then were pulled back by inertia.
The lights went completely out.
A few seconds later, the emergency lights flickered on.
There was a murmur of confusion throughout the bus.
The child seized the opportunity to stand up.
He ran toward the doors.
The doors didn't open.
He knocked twice, hard.
No response.
"Don't run," the woman's voice came from behind.
Her voice was low, but it carried over the noise.
"You can't escape."
The child turned around.
The child in her arms was gone.
Yet the woman's arms remained in the same position, as if something had been taken from her.
"They already know you're here," she said.
"Next time, it won't be so gentle."
Under the emergency lights, her shadow stretched long.
Longer than any shadow a person could cast.
The child suddenly realized—
They were starting to mistake not just her.
But him.
The lights in the bus flickered back on.
The doors "clicked" open.
The bus stop was right ahead.
The child didn't look back.
He ran off the bus.
Behind him, he heard the woman's voice, light yet close.
"You'll be called by her name."
"Soon."