A calm wind whispered; leaves trembled. 

A tiny, round bluebird swept down and landed on a low branch beneath the tree. It shook its head and cocked an eye at the sleeping boy. He shivered; the bird hopped from the branch, fluttered up and settled on his shoulder, light as a thought, jabbing its beak at the marching ants.

His chest stuttered. He drew a sudden breath; his head snapped up and the bird launched. He stayed frozen—mouth ajar, eyes blown wide—shaking in fits.

"Hah. Hah. Hah…" He stared at the rolling hills and the green field, blinked, and closed his mouth. He rubbed his eyes; his fingers lingered at his brow.

Warm slickness clung to his skin—thick and sticky. He lowered his arm. His fingers trembled, stained with blood; his skin split in thin, aching sores.

His heart hammered, his mouth widened again. He set his hand in his lap and leaned back against the tree, staring at the sky.

An engine rumbled distant, then a thud and a harsh screech. Wind rose, tearing at the clouds. Sirens began to wail—close now, layered and keening. Sunlight pricked his eyelids as footsteps closed in; voices murmured—urgent, muffled.

The sun beat down on his muddied face, matting his thick, dark curls with grit. His hazel eyes, usually bright, were now blown wide and vacant.

Hands reached for guns; fists tightened; weapons leveled. Two men stepped forward—one in black, one in white—plain‑suited and unblinking amid armored soldiers bristling with plates. Their jaws locked; brows knitted.

"What did you do?" the man in white demanded, drawing a quick line between his eyes. The blood slid across the blade, but the boy said nothing. He didn’t flinch; he just kept staring at the sky.

The man in white sheathed his blade. The man in black nodded. "Take him."

Soldiers surged. They yanked his arms, forced him face‑down, bound his wrists, clamped a gag across his mouth. The crowd's murmur swelled into a single low tide.

"Konin! Konin!" a thin voice called—high, trembling with something like hope. The name brushed the edges of his mind; he could not answer. Memory ripped him backward—to the night of rain, to the small, ordinary room a month ago.