Morning does not arrive with light.
It arrives with sound.
Water moves somewhere beneath broken concrete—slow, repetitive, patient. Olivèr wakes with his cheek pressed to cold ground, his body stiff, aching in places he does not remember hurting. His fingers are numb. His legs feel heavy, distant, like they belong to someone else.
For a moment, he does not know where he is.
Then it returns.
The city rumbles.
Not loudly. Not clearly.
It presses.
The sound is not outside him. It settles behind his ribs, low and constant, like something leaning its weight inward. He blinks, breath fogging faintly in front of his face, and opens his eyes.
They are still beneath the damaged overhang.
Rust flakes drift down when the wind slips through torn metal above them. A loose wire trembles, tapping softly against steel—irregular now, uneven. His mother is already awake. She sits near the edge of the shelter, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Her back is straight, but rigid. Held together by effort.
Her eyes are fixed on the open yard beyond the ruins, unfocused, as if she is watching something that has already passed through and left nothing behind.
The bandage around her hand is darker than it was last night.
"You slept," she says.
It is not an accusation.
It is not relief either.
"I didn't mean to," Olivèr says. He pushes himself up too quickly and sucks in a sharp breath as pain pulls through his side.
She flinches before she can stop herself.
"That's fine," she says, after a beat. Softer. "You needed it."
He nods, though his chest still feels tight. The cold this morning feels wrong—thicker, more stubborn. When his palm presses against the ground, something answers. A faint vibration, easy to miss. When he presses harder, it sharpens, buzzing lightly through his skin.
The rhythm is familiar.
The city did not stop while he slept.
"We move soon," his mother says. She does not look at him. "Before the fog clears."
"Are we close?" Olivèr asks.
She hesitates. Just long enough for him to notice.
"Close enough."
"Close to what?"
Her shoulders rise and fall in a slow breath. "Close enough that staying would be noticed."
His stomach tightens. He does not ask who would notice. He already knows the answer will not help.
They leave the shelter and step into the open manufacturing district.
The fog has thinned, pulling back in uneven patches. Broken warehouses loom on either side, their walls split and sagging inward like tired shoulders. Rusted rails cut across the ground at sharp angles. Far away, a machine groans awake—then stops abruptly, as if reconsidering.
They walk without talking.
Olivèr becomes aware of his body in fragments: his breathing, shallow and uneven; the way his feet land; how the ground responds when he steps too hard or too fast. Sometimes the vibration swells, sharp and sudden. Other times it dulls, almost retreating.
It feels reactive.
Like it is correcting him.
He swallows.
He says nothing.
Not yet.
They pass through a narrow corridor where collapsed shipping frames lean together, forming a jagged tunnel. Wind funnels through the gaps, whining softly. Ahead of them, something metallic shifts.
Scrape.
A panel slips free.
It crashes into the ground behind them with a violent clang. The sound echoes, sharp and ugly. Olivèr flinches hard, shoulders jumping, heart slamming against his ribs.
His mother stops instantly. One hand lifts without thinking. Her breath catches as she listens.
The hum deepens—thick, oppressive—then settles again.
They wait.
Somewhere far off, water slaps against concrete.
Nothing else follows.
She lowers her hand, but her steps are tighter now. Shorter. Her head turns slightly as they move, tracking shadows that aren't there.
"Why are we going to the docks?" Olivèr asks quietly.
She keeps walking.
After several steps, she says, "Because the docks are unstable."
"That's it?"
She stops.
Ahead of them, a crane stands frozen mid-rotation, its long arm angled toward the water. The wind rocks it slightly. Metal groans.
"Unstable places are harder to track," she says.
"For who?"
She turns then. Really looks at him.
"For anyone who might care where we are."
He holds her gaze for a second, then looks away. The answer settles badly in his chest, like something unfinished.
As they get closer, the ground changes. Some sections feel dense, resistant. Others feel hollow, unreliable. When the vibration suddenly skews sideways, Olivèr stumbles.
A laugh slips out of him before he can stop it—short, startled, wrong.
He catches himself on a bent rail, heart racing.
His mother is on him instantly, fingers digging into his shoulder.
"Oli," she says, sharp. "Careful."
"I didn't fall," he mutters. Embarrassed. Annoyed. "It just… moved."
She studies him. Worry draws deeper lines into her face.
"Tell me when that happens," she says. "Every time."
He nods.
But his eyes are already drifting past her.
The docks are close now.
He can smell salt. Hear water shifting beyond the buildings. Chains sway gently. Ropes tap against posts. From here, it almost looks normal. Almost quiet.
They stop inside a roofless structure near the edge of the docks. Only parts of the walls remain. Through thinning fog, wooden platforms stretch over dark water. Some have collapsed. Others still hold, though they sag under their own weight.
Near one of the posts, something dark stains the boards. Old. Dried. Too deliberate to be rust.
Olivèr notices. His mother does too.
Neither of them says anything.
She checks their supplies.
There is almost nothing left.
"We rest," she says. "Briefly."
Olivèr sits, pulling his knees to his chest. His stomach twists painfully.
"Then what?" he asks.
She adjusts the strap of her bag with her good hand. The other stays close to her body. "Then we decide."
"After the docks?"
"Yes."
"Where do we go after that?"
She does not answer right away.
"That depends," she says finally, "on how much attention we draw today."
He hates that answer.
He shifts his weight. The vibration pulses beneath him—stronger than before—then fades. Like something testing its boundaries.
"Mom," he says quietly. "I think it reacts to me."
She looks up sharply.
"When I get scared," he continues, pressing a hand to his chest, "the ground gets louder. Like it's listening."
She reaches out and grips his wrist. Her hand shakes—not from strength. From fear.
"The city reacts to movement," she says. "Sound. Heat. Weight."
"But it feels like—"
"You are not special," she cuts in, too fast. Her voice cracks. She closes her eyes, then opens them again. Lower now. Controlled. "Not yet. And we keep it that way."
Something tightens behind his eyes.
He nods.
An hour later, they move again.
The fog has nearly burned off. The docks lie open. Exposed.
Chains sway. Water shifts below, dark and unreadable.
Someone else is there.
Olivèr feels it first.
Not because he sees anyone—because the vibration tightens. Narrows. Focuses.
His steps slow without him meaning to.
His mother notices a heartbeat later. Her body shifts subtly, angling toward him.
A man steps out from behind a stack of containers.
He looks ordinary.
Average height. Worn coat. Clean enough. His posture is loose, casual. When he sees them, surprise flickers across his face—real, unguarded.
"Oh," he says. "Didn't expect anyone out here."
"We're passing through," Olivèr's mother replies.
"Same," the man says. He smiles easily, then stops himself, as if remembering something. The smile softens. Becomes measured.
His eyes slide to Olivèr.
The vibration spikes—sharp, brief.
The man blinks.
Just once.
Then nothing.
"You okay?" he asks. His gaze lingers half a second too long. "You look cold."
"I'm fine," Olivèr says quickly.
Too quickly.
His mother stiffens.
"That's good," the man says. "Not many people are."
He glances down the docks, then back at them, as if checking distances.
Olivèr's stomach growls.
Loud.
The sound carries. His face burns.
"I'm hungry," he blurts out. "I haven't eaten since yesterday. My stomach hurts."
His mother turns sharply. "Oli—"
The man lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "Yeah. That makes sense."
He turns and starts walking. "There's a place nearby. Still has food."
He takes a few steps, then stops.
They do not follow.
He looks back. His expression shifts—not annoyed. Curious.
"You coming?" he asks.
Olivèr hesitates.
Then, without looking at his mother, he takes a step.
The vibration surges—hard enough to make his teeth buzz.
"Oli," she whispers. Panic slips through.
He stops.
The man turns back fully now. His eyes flick briefly to Olivèr's feet. To the ground.
"Oh," he says softly. "Right. I forgot."
He places a hand over his chest, as if steadying himself.
"I'm Ilyas," he says. "Ilyas Kornev."
A beat.
"If you want," he adds, carefully, "you can decide after we eat."
Olivèr reaches for his mother's sleeve.
"Please," he whispers. "Just a little."
She does not answer.
Something listens. It knows.
Steady.
Contained.
Waiting...