The bus stop was empty.
Not the emptiness of deep night, but an emptiness that had been preemptively cleared. The ground was clean, not even a puddle in sight, as if it had just been wiped down.
After the child jumped off the bus, he paused.
Not because he was tired.
But because, suddenly, he didn't know which way to go.
On either side of the platform were the same gray fences, and the exit was blocked by a construction board, leaving only a narrow gap. The faded notices posted on it had the text torn halfway off, the remaining content not quite matching.
He turned around to look.
The bus was still there.
The doors were wide open, and the lights inside were on.
But none of the people from before were in sight.
The bus was empty. The seats were arranged neatly, as if it had never carried passengers.
Even the driver's seat was vacant.
The steering wheel was still slowly returning to its position, making a faint sound of friction.
The child's heart sank bit by bit.
He didn't hesitate any longer and turned to run toward the narrow gap.
As he passed the construction board, his shoulder was scraped.
It wasn't hard.
But it made him stop.
In that instant, he had a strong illusion—
It wasn't the board that scraped him.
Something had confirmed his presence again.
Behind the construction area was an alley.
The alley was long, with patchy streetlights, some areas bright, others dark, with no pattern, like a broken memory.
He walked down the alley.
His footsteps finally echoed in this place.
But not from behind.
It came from ahead.
He stopped.
The echo stopped too.
He took another step.
The echo followed immediately.
Not delayed.
It was as if someone was matching his pace.
The child's throat tightened.
"Is anyone there?" he asked.
The voice was absorbed into the depths of the alley, not returning.
Just as he was about to turn around, a light flickered on ahead.
It was a convenience store.
The lightbox outside was on, but there was no sign, as if someone had deliberately erased its name.
The glass door was open.
There were people inside.
He walked in.
The bell didn't ring.
The store was quiet.
The shelves were packed full, but all the same kind of items—water, bread, tissues—lined up in rows, repeating until it became dizzying.
A woman sat behind the counter.
She was young, wearing a uniform, her hair tightly tied back.
She was looking down at a ledger.
The child stood at the door, not moving.
The woman looked up, saw him, and her movements paused for a moment.
Then, she smiled.
It wasn't a professional smile.
It was a relaxed expression, as though she was relieved.
"You finally came," she said.
The child's heart skipped a beat.
"You're mistaking me for someone else," he said.
The woman didn't immediately argue.
She looked at him carefully.
Her gaze moved from his face, to his clothes, then to his shoes.
"No, it's you," she said. "It's you."
"What's your name?" the child asked.
The woman set her pen down.
"Don't you remember?" she asked in return.
The child didn't answer.
Her smile slowly faded.
"They said you would forget," she said. "They said you would deny it."
"Who are they?" the child asked.
The woman didn't answer that question.
She stood up, walked around the counter, and came toward him.
Her steps were steady.
No hesitation.
"Your mother's been looking for you for a long time," she said.
When those words fell, the child's head went numb.
Not because of the word "mother."
But because—
She said "your mother."
Not "your mom."
Not "that woman."
She used a title as if it had been an established fact.
"She's not my mother," the child said.
His voice was lower than he expected.
The woman stopped right in front of him.
They were separated only by a shelf.
"You didn't say that before," she said.
The child took a step back.
His back hit the door.
The glass was cold.
"You used to be obedient," the woman continued, "you would wait for her."
"You would sit where she could see you."
The child's breath became erratic.
These details were too specific.
Specific enough that they didn't feel like they were made up on the spot.
"Did you meet her?" he asked.
The woman nodded.
"Yes," she said. "She came here."
"When?" the child asked.
The woman thought for a moment.
"A long time ago," she said. "Maybe just now."
Her answer had no logic.
But it was irrefutable.
"Where is she now?" the child asked.
The woman didn't move forward.
Her gaze shifted toward the end of the shelf.
There, a row of mirrors were placed.
Not the kind of mirrors used to reflect people.
But those used in warehouses to check blind spots for safety.
The mirrors were slightly curved.
The reflections were somewhat distorted.
"Look for yourself," she said.
The child followed her gaze.
In the mirror, he saw himself.
But not entirely.
The child in the mirror was standing upright, his face pale, eyes wide open.
But in those eyes, there was something he had never seen before.
Not fear.
But a premature certainty.
The child in the mirror slowly raised his head.
His lips moved.
The child heard a voice.
It didn't come from outside.
It was directly inside his head.
—"She's almost succeeded."
The child jerked his gaze away.
But the image in the mirror didn't disappear.
"You saw it," the woman said.
It wasn't a question.
"That's not me," the child said.
This time, he said it quickly.
"But they will take it as you," the woman said.
"That's enough."
The lights in the store flickered.
The shelves made a faint rattling sound.
Like something deep inside the building was moving.
"They've started preparing," the woman said softly.
"Preparing for what?" the child asked.
The woman looked at him.
For the first time, her eyes became serious.
"Preparing to send you back," she said.
"Back to her."
The child shook his head.
The motion was small but firm.
"I'm not going back," he said.
The woman didn't insist.
She simply stepped aside, leaving a path open.
"Then you'll need to learn one thing," she said.
"What?" the child asked.
"When they call you by that name," the woman said, "you can't answer."
"Why?" the child asked.
The woman paused for a moment.
Then she said:
"Because once you respond,
they'll know,
you can be replaced."
Footsteps suddenly echoed from outside.
More than one.
They were light but dense.
It felt like someone was closing in simultaneously.
The woman retreated behind the counter.
She sat down again.
Her expression returned to its original state.
"They're here," she said.
"Remember, you didn't come to find her."
"You were found by her."
The convenience store bell rang for the first time.
Sharp.
But unwelcome.