I wake up to the sound of crows’ flying in and the clatter of the coins falling on top of each other. Days have passed and still the sky I see when I open my eyes is overcast, like it’s always going to pour and cry.

Our mum’s locket sits between me and my brother, sitting half-hidden in the folds of the blanket. I take it in my hand and look at it in the morning light.

Mum had always worn this everywhere. She never took it off whatever it was she was doing. I could see it hanging around her neck as she stirs the stew over a low fire. I could see it between her fingers as she sat quietly in her room, mumbling to herself.

Whenever I saw her around - this past year - she always had a faraway look on her face, like she wasn’t really there. We could talk to her sometimes but she always seemed distracted. Her voice was soft and airy, like she just woke up from the dream and she was still half in it. And her eyes - always her eyes - darted here and there and rarely on us. She didn’t seem so sure of what she was seeing, if she was really seeing us at all.

“Oleg,” my brother whispers from beside me. His eyes are still red and half-closed, having just woken up. But he’s looking at me and the locket in my hand, blinking against what little sunlight there is.

“You hungry?” I ask but don’t wait for an answer. I stand up, the blanket slipping off my knees, and reach for the bread I got last night. It’s packed in a used plastic bag, one that’s been hanging around here, and I give it to him.

He takes it in his hand and breaks it in four pieces. The crumbs fall on his lap, but he brushes it off with the back of his hand before handing me a piece, biting his quarter like an ant.

“Can I come with you today?” he asks me , throwing the rest to the crows. They leave their perch on the slats of wood, happily swarming and pecking on the crumbs that littered the floor.

“No,” I say simply.

“Why?”

“No,” I say again for a number of reasons. Going out in the morning isn’t like going out in the evening. It’s this time that the city is alive and breathing. Its streets are filled with people, not all of whom are nice enough or even busy enough not to take note of one filthy child on the street, let alone two. It isn’t a risk I’m willing to take.

“Come on. I’m always here. It’s boring.” And it is. But I have second thoughts of letting him come with me. Even from up here, I can hear the rush of cars on the streets and the vague chatter of people, voices over one another.

I can’t be too careful, can I? There are just too many eyes on the streets at thesehours than at night. But I look at his own pair of eyes as he says, “Pretty please?”

“Fine.” I say and chuckle at the way he jumped to his feet, sending some of my crows all over the room, and the way his face brightened up like the sky suddenly cleared and it doesn’t have to rain.

Sometimes I forget where we are, that we are living in a dusty old tower in the middle of the city, and living off of meager meals that I buy with the handful of coins the crows bring in. It’s those moments that instead I feel most at home. It isn’t because of the four walls and measly belongings, or the fact that there’s still a roof over our heads even though it does leak sometimes. But because I’ve still got a brother, and I still get to see a family despite our sorry state.

It just feels like one grand adventure. With each echoing step our footsteps make on the rickety stairs, or the strong sound of flapping wings overhead, it just seems like we’re living in a story. Something that isn’t quite different from the ones my brother has held onto as a kid. Those little books he carries around with him, this just seems like one of them.

He skips the last step and jumps into a puddle of water, remains of a dripping pipe still attached to the walls. He waits for me outside as he watches all sorts of people walk past the alley. No one gives us so much as a single glance. So far, they are still quite indifferent to the two ragged-looking boys in worn-down clothes walking with them.

It’s as much as I prefer it. Although, it still feels a lot like we’re being watched. They are probably about a hundred people in all manners milling about the streets, in crisp clothing and flowing dresses. And it’s almost about everything that I could see.

“Act natural,” I had told Owen before we left the safety of the alley. I laugh at it now realizing how different we already look.

I catch up to him before I lose him. I pull him with me as I took several more turns, keeping to the more deserted alleys as much as possible, slipping in and out of view without being noticed.

“Where are we going, anyway?” he says. He’s looking at me, and I can see how he’s beginning to get tired. His eyes are almost drooping, and he slumps his shoulders as he tries to settle his breathing.

“Well, you wanted to come,” I tell him.

We walk slowly now under the blanket of gray clouds so thick with rain. I haven’t even seen the sun these past few days.

I hear Owen kick rocks and slosh over puddles. I hear the crows over the rooftops, just barely out of sight. I hear the chatter and smell freshly baked bread before I see the bakery in the last turn.

Much like most of the streets, it’s bustling with people. They are mostly adults, reading newspapers, sipping tea, and trading gossip. But there are a few children my age too, sitting beside their parents.

“Come.” I steer us towards a ladder set to a wall of a shop with a single floor. There are a lot all over the city, and I’ve been to many, spying on people from the safety of their rooftops.

“So, what are we doing here?”

“Just watch.”

Across the street, The Owner stands outside the shop. His apron is caked with flour, and he wears his hat with the top side slumping down. The Officer stands beside him, wearing his black coat and holding a pad.

Unlike last night, The Owner is quite animated. He flourishes his hands as he speaks, and stomps his feet in some. But he laughs and smiles, quite the opposite of The Officer who only stands by him, listening quietly to his story.

Through the entire thing, I’ve only heard the story of last night once. I thought that perhaps, I’ve gone too sloppy. But with the way The Owner moves, it doesn’t seem like we’re in a bad position, if at all.

Owen laughs. I turn from my perch at the low-wall that ringed the rooftop, and sit on the moist gravel-covered floor. Out here, there’s only the water tower and a few boxes piled by the other end.

He’s throwing rocks at the pile, seeing if he can shoot one in. Whenever he does, he raises both of his hands, and laughs. He’s quite enjoying himself despite the past months. And I just sit there quietly watching him.

It’s one of those few moments where I really envy him, and the way he sees everything, like there’s not a thing he worries about. It’s almost as if he had forgotten what had happened, and I wish - if only at that moment - that I could forget too. Maybe then, I can see things the way he does.

But I can’t forget. Because we might not even be here to regret it when that happens. It’s just a good thing there wasn’t much to say about last night.

“We should go,” I say to him as I feel the raindrops on my hair and on my arms. I hear the rushed footsteps in the streets below and the sound of umbrellas being clicked open. But neither of us moves.

I stand watching him in the rain. His eyes are closed, his head tilted skyward, letting the drops fall on his face. “It feels good,” he says, smiling that smile he always has. And perhaps it’s that he’s younger than me, but he sees the world so differently that I can’t help but smile myself.

“We really need to go.” I put my arm around his shoulders and he lets me steer him towards the ladder.

On the way back to the tower, I feel less anxious. My feet doesn’t feel all that heavy, and I notice no eyes trailing us with each of our footsteps. I’m calmer in a way that I’ve almost forgotten.

It feels quite like walking home.