Rokurō

The old school warehouse was dark, damp, and forgotten. It was the kind of place no one went… except Rokurō.

Huddled behind cloth-covered boxes, he hid his face in his arms. The muffled sound of his crying mingled with the dripping of the cracked ceiling. His hands trembled. His chest rose and fell too quickly, as if something inside him was slowly breaking.

He didn't want to be seen like that.

Some people don't need a hug. They need someone who won't run away.