The question was soft, curious, unguarded.
She turned to see a boy no older than eight standing a few steps away, his black jacket slightly too big for his narrow shoulders, the sleeves pushed up messily, his face serious in a way that didn’t quite belong to his age, as if life had already taught him things most children were protected from.
Behind him stood a man who looked like he had stepped out of a different world entirely, tall and broad, his presence heavy but controlled, leather vest worn smooth with time, arms marked by ink that told stories Mara didn’t know how to read, his posture relaxed but alert in the way of someone who had learned early how to watch without staring.
The boy looked back at the man for a brief moment, not asking permission out loud, just checking something, and whatever passed between them was silent but solid, because the man gave the smallest nod.
The boy turned back to Mara.
