Found

“She didn’t say ‘I’m sorry’—but she held on like she meant it.”

When I opened my eyes, everything was soft.

Not quiet, exactly. Just... gentle. The kind of morning that doesn’t make a big entrance. No golden rays bursting in, no birds announcing themselves, no sudden sharpness. Just light—pale and watery, like milk left too long in the bottom of a bowl. It spilled through the roof slats in thin stripes, laying itself gently across the dust still hanging in the air.

The particles floated like they had all the time in the world. No rush. No purpose. Just drifting, like us.

It wasn’t bright enough to sting my eyes. Wasn’t dark enough to disappear into. It just was.

Existing without apology.

My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache. My legs were stiff from sleeping curled up like a snail, my back tight and sore from the cold, and my neck prickled with tiny, mean needles from the way it had rested against the dip in the mattress. One of the springs had pressed into my hip all night—hard and insistent—until it felt like it had tried to burrow in. Like it wanted to become part of me.

Even my jaw hurt. Like I’d been clenching it while I slept. Grinding down against invisible worries, dreams I couldn’t remember but didn’t want back.

But I’d slept.

All the way through.

I hadn’t woken—not once—not even when the wind pushed its lonely moans through the cracked walls, or when the metal roof sighed and shifted like an old man getting out of a chair, every joint stiff and slow.

Not when the dark came so close I could feel it breathing on me—soft and whispery, with words I couldn’t understand but somehow knew weren’t meant for children.

Not when the cold touched my face like ghost fingers, trailing icy lines across my cheeks.

And that was strange.

Because I always woke up.

Even at home—especially at home—before everything turned inside out, before the testers came, before Dad stopped checking in on us—I’d wake if the dog barked, if someone opened the fridge too hard, if a door clicked in the hallway. I’d wake when Dad came home late, boots making that specific sound on the floorboards—heavy but careful, like he was exhausted but still trying not to wake anyone.

But not here.

Not last night.

I blinked slowly. The ceiling above me felt like a stranger’s face—familiar in shape, but not in detail. The metal beams crossed overhead in dark, rust-streaked lines, slicing up the air like bones. Like the ribcage of something long dead, left open to the weather. A spider had made its home in the corner, its web catching the morning light and turning silver.

I looked away.

And that’s when I felt it.

Warmth. Along my side.

Mack.

He was curled around me, knees pulled up, one arm draped loosely over my side like he’d fallen asleep that way without meaning to. Like his body had made the decision for him.

A shield, I realised.

He’d made himself into a shield.

His other hand was tucked under his head, the fingers twitching every so often—just little spasms, like dreams were tugging at him. Or like he was reaching for something he couldn’t quite hold onto.

He didn’t look peaceful. Not in the way people are supposed to when they sleep.

He looked… drained. Like the sleep hadn’t fixed anything. Hadn’t softened any of the edges.

His eyes were open. Not wide—just barely. The way people look at the TV when they’re not really watching it. Unfocused. Red around the rims, like they’d been open too long in the dark. Like he didn’t trust himself to close them all the way.

There were shadows under them—deep, bluish smudges that made his face look older. Bruises, almost. Not from a fall. Not from a fight. From worry. From waiting. The kind of tired you can’t sleep off.

The kind that settles in your bones and stays there.

He didn’t look surprised to see me awake.

Just tired.

Like he’d been watching the darkness, waiting to make sure the sun still knew how to rise. Like he hadn’t been completely sure it would.

I didn’t sit up.

I didn’t want to break the stillness—the fragile hush of this moment before the day had fully begun, before the weight of hunger and thirst and empty-eyed men returned to settle across our shoulders. Before we had to start thinking about what to do if Grandma didn’t come back.

So I stayed as I was.

Curled beneath Mack’s protective arm, wrapped in Mack’s jacket, Ribbons pressed to my chest like a talisman against whatever might come next.

Instead, I whispered:

“…You didn’t sleep?”

The words barely crossed the space between us. Just breath, really. My voice sounded rough, unfamiliar. Scratchy from thirst. Like I’d spent the night swallowing sand. Like something inside me had rubbed raw.

Mack didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The truth was written all over him—in the stiffness of his posture, in the way his eyes stared at nothing, in the faint ticking of a muscle in his jaw. He shifted only slightly, the barest movement of his head, as if to say: I’m here. It’s fine. Don’t make a thing of it.

So I didn’t.

I just lay there. Still. Quiet. Holding Ribbons tighter, feeling the misshapen lump of her body beneath my chin, her loose button eye resting just under my thumb.

The fabric of Mack’s jacket rustled softly as I adjusted it around me, that shhh-shhh sound like leaves brushing together, like secrets being kept between walls and wind.

It was warm. Not hot. Not the fierce, dry warmth of the sun or the thick, dizzying kind of fever. This was something gentler. The warmth that lingers when someone has been still for a long time. The warmth that says: I stayed. That says: I’m not going anywhere.

It smelled like him too—like dust, and jumper fluff, and a faint trace of mint from the toothpaste Mum always bought in bulk because it was on special. Mack said it tasted too spicy, but he used it anyway because it came in a blue tube, and he liked blue best. There was something else woven into the smell too. Not sweat exactly. Not fear. Something quieter. Something that belonged to nights spent watching instead of sleeping.

I swallowed.

It hurt.

My throat felt like it was lined with red dirt, like I’d breathed in the dryness and it had decided to stay. And then, from somewhere deep inside me, the word came out.

“Thanks.”

Just that. Soft and small. A whisper of a thing, almost lost in the rustling wind. But I meant it. Meant every part of it. Thank you for staying awake. For keeping the dark away. For being the thing between me and the unknown.

I didn’t know if he heard.

Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.

But he didn’t speak. And that was okay.

Some things don’t need answering. Some things are the answer—just by being. Just by not leaving. By staying still when the night feels too big and too full of eyes.

The light on the floor brightened, creeping further in, tracing slow golden shapes across the concrete. Revealing the dirt, the dust, the forgotten bolts and screws scattered like remnants of someone else’s story. The new day didn’t shout its arrival. It crept. Soft but sure.

Outside, a bird called.

One note. Clear. Sharp.

I felt the strange emptiness inside me again. Not just hunger. Not even pain. More like a hollow. Like something had been scooped out of me, leaving space where food and fear and hope used to live.

I knew I should be starving.

We hadn’t eaten properly in days. But instead of growling, my stomach just sat quiet and strange, like it had forgotten what it was waiting for.

Mack’s eyes finally met mine.

Really met them.

And in that look was something new. Something that didn’t belong to ten-year-olds. It was the same look Grandpa Greg had when he worked on broken things—bent over with his tools, sleeves rolled up, not stopping until they were fixed, even if no one believed they could be.

“We need to go today,” he said.

His voice was rough, shaped by thirst and long silence, but it didn’t waver. He wasn’t asking.

I nodded. My mouth was too dry for words, and even if it hadn’t been, I wasn’t sure I’d have said anything. The idea of leaving made my heart flutter like a trapped bird. But staying…

Staying meant waiting. Waiting for help that might never come. For a phone that would never ring again. For a grandmother who had vanished into dust and distance.

There was the smoke. Still out there. Still rising, maybe. Still waiting.

People. Water. Food. Something. And something—anything—was better than this slow fade into nothing.

Mack’s hand found mine again. His fingers closed around mine, firm and a little too tight. Like he was afraid I might slip through them if he didn’t hold on hard enough.

His palm was warm. Damp. I could feel his pulse—quick, steady. Proof.

“We’re going to be okay, Rose,” he said. He’d practised it. I could hear it in the shape of the words. A phrase rehearsed in the dark.

“I promise.”

And I knew.

He couldn’t promise that. Not really. The world didn’t care about promises anymore.

But I believed him anyway. Or maybe—I believed that he believed it. And sometimes, that’s enough.

The sound came slow at first.

Soft and far away, like it didn’t belong here. Like it had taken a wrong turn in the sky and landed somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be. A low hum, barely more than a breath in the stillness, curling into the edges of my thoughts as I drifted somewhere between dreams and dust.

Then—crackle.

Twigs snapping. Stones shifting. Something heavy rolling over gravel. The kind of noise that didn’t belong to this empty place. The kind of noise that came from movement. From machines.

Tyres.

Tyres on dirt.

The realisation struck like cold water thrown across my face, snapping the floaty feeling out of me in an instant. My eyes flew open. My heart was already racing, pounding before I even understood why.

Mack was ahead of me.

He was moving before I even sat up. No thinking—just instinct. Like someone had pulled a wire inside him and all the parts clicked into gear. He twisted toward the broken window, dropped into a crouch, one hand pressed to the rusted sill like he needed to steady himself—or the building.

His fingers splayed wide. His whole body was still, except for his eyes.

Scanning. Watching.

Listening.

The sound grew louder.

Tyres crunching over loose stones. A rhythmic squeak of suspension, metal protesting against the uneven track. Each noise landed sharp and clear, louder than anything we’d heard in days. Louder than wind. Louder than birds. Louder than our own breathing.

Then I saw it.

A silver car. Long and dust-draped. Bumping its way down the uneven track like it didn’t quite belong to the earth. A cloud of ochre dust rose behind it, suspended in the still morning air like a slow-motion explosion.

It hit a dip in the ground and bounced, tyres kicking up a fan of red powder like rusty water. The bonnet was streaked with dried mud, long smears across the metal like finger paint. And the sun—the sun—caught the windscreen just right and fired it back at me in a flash so bright it stabbed my eyes. I blinked against it, squinting through the tears it forced to my lashes.

Mack didn’t move.

His whole body hummed with tension. Poised. Waiting. Balanced on a thread between hope and something darker—something like doubt.

“Is it—?”

The question caught in my throat, too big to finish. It came out small, a dry croak more than a word.

Before I could say more, the car skidded to a stop. A sound like fabric tearing filled the air as the tyres grabbed at the loose dirt and yanked it sideways.

Dust billowed around the car, cloaking it in orange-grey smoke. For a moment it disappeared, swallowed by the storm it had created.

Then the breeze took the dust and swept it gently away.

The engine stopped.

Not instantly, but with a stuttering cough. A mechanical sigh, like the car had used the last of its strength to get here and was glad it didn’t have to go one metre further.

The driver’s door flung open with a shriek of metal—sharp and high and awful in the stillness.

And then—She came out.

She was running.

Not walking. Not shouting. Running.

A full, frantic sprint. Arms pumping, hair wild, legs flying.

“Mum?” I breathed. Not quite a word. Not quite a thought. A prayer. A wish. A disbelief wrapped in sound.

Her face was a storm of movement—eyes scanning, mouth parted, breath tearing from her chest as she ran. Her hair had once been in a neat ponytail, but now it streamed behind her in tangled waves, catching the sunlight in flashes of copper and gold.

In her hand, she clutched her phone. White-knuckled. Gripping it like it might vanish if she let go. Like it was the thread connecting her to us, and if she loosened her hold, we’d disappear.

She wasn’t crying.

But she looked like she had been. Or like she might. Or like she’d forgotten how to cry after doing it too many times. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. Her cheeks blotchy, her nose pink. The kind of face people get when emotions have run so deep for so long that they don’t show on the surface anymore.

There was a coffee stain on her jumper.

A big one. Right over her heart. A dark, uneven splash. Like she’d spilled it and hadn’t noticed. Or hadn’t cared. Or had noticed and still hadn’t cared because finding us mattered more than looking clean.

Mack was still crouched by the window. Still holding himself like the wrong move might shatter the moment. But his eyes—

His eyes had gone wide.

And mine were burning.

Because she was real. She was here. Running towards us like the whole world had narrowed to just this one moment, just this place, just us.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then Mack turned, fast and quiet, slipping from the window and rising to his feet in one smooth motion. His body moved with the kind of purpose that didn't need discussion. He looked at me—just a flick of his eyes—and I understood.

We were going outside.

The building felt like it exhaled as we left, like it had been holding its breath too. Dust swirled in the doorway as Mack pushed it open wider, one hand brushing my back as we stepped out into the hard light. The sun had risen fully now, casting long shadows behind us that clung to our heels like the night refusing to let go.

Our feet crunched over gravel and dry red soil, the crunch of each step sharp as we crossed the few metres to meet her.

“Oh my God—oh my God,” she muttered, the words spilling out in a breathless stream as she stumbled forward, eyes fixed on us like we were a mirage she didn’t dare blink at. Like she feared we might dissolve into sunlight and dust.

“Mum!” I said again, louder this time, the word bursting from somewhere deep—somewhere I’d stuffed every unanswered question and every moment of fear. It flew out of me like something escaping.

And then she was there.

She reached me first.

Her arms wrapped around me too fast, too hard, lifting me off the ground like I was still little, like she could erase the days we'd spent in the middle of nowhere by pulling me close enough to undo it all. I gasped as her grip tightened, my face pressed into the soft place just below her jaw, where her skin was warm and smelled like coffee and gum and worry.

Her whole body trembled.

A fine, constant shaking, like wires buzzing under her skin. Her heartbeat was loud against my cheek—fast, wild, the kind of beat you’d expect from something trying to escape its cage.

“You’re alright—you’re alright—you’re alright,” she whispered, over and over, like if she said it enough it might turn into the truth. Like repetition could smooth out the jagged, awful hours she’d spent not knowing where we were.

Her jumper was soft but cold, like she’d been driving with the windows down, trying to freeze away thoughts too sharp to sit with.

I didn’t cry.

Not properly. Not then.

But I clung to her.

Because she needed me to. Because in that moment, I understood something I hadn’t before—I wasn’t the only one who had been lost.

She pulled back just enough to cup my face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed over my cheeks, my forehead, the tip of my chin—like she was checking each part for damage, making sure I was still me. Her eyes moved quickly, darting from feature to feature, as if she couldn’t trust memory to get it right.

Then she turned to Mack.

She didn’t lift him. Couldn’t. He was too tall now, all elbows and jaw and pride.

Instead, she folded her arms around him and held on. Longer than she held me.

There was something different in that embrace. Something heavier. Not just relief. Not just love. A recognition. Of what he’d carried. Of what he hadn’t said.

He stood stiff at first, not hugging back. His arms hung at his sides, hands curled into loose fists like he was still holding something—maybe fear, maybe responsibility. Maybe just the tension of too many sleepless nights.

His face was hidden in her shoulder. But I saw hers.

She closed her eyes tight. Tight like pain. Tight like regret.

She held him like she was apologising. Without words. Like she was asking forgiveness for something she hadn’t yet confessed.

The moment stretched.

Thick with everything we hadn’t said. Everything we didn’t know how to say.

Then she let out a breath—a long, shaky exhale—and wiped her face with the back of her hand. It left a smear of dirt across her cheek, a stripe that didn’t match the lines of her face.

Still holding onto Mack’s shoulder with one hand, she looked back at me, then at both of us. Her eyes were bright with disbelief, still wide, still scanning, like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

“You’ve been here this whole time?” she asked.

Her voice was steadier now, but there was something under it. Something brittle and cold, like glass waiting to crack.

Mack nodded. A small, hard tilt of his chin.

His face had shuttered again. Drawn in. Watching.

Mum’s jaw tightened. I saw the way the muscle jumped under her skin—tight, tense, that silent warning I knew too well. The one she wore when she was trying not to yell. When she was holding it all in.

For a moment, everything around us stilled.

Not a breeze. Not a bird. Not a single movement in the scrub.

Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

She did too, for a second. Then she murmured—more to herself than to us: “They said you’d gone missing. They said no one’d seen you. I thought—” She broke off. Swallowed. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. You’re alright.”

But it did matter.

I could feel it in the space after her words. She hadn’t just ended a sentence. She’d cut it short—like the rest of the thought was too dangerous to say out loud. Like the truth of what she’d imagined was too dark to give voice to.

Her eyes flicked around the clearing. The building. The sky. The red earth.

Looking for something. Or someone.

There was a new tension in her.

Different from the panic, the relief.

A wariness.

Her hand stayed tight on Mack’s shoulder, fingers digging in slightly. Her other arm curved around my waist, anchoring us both to her sides. She pulled us close, like she could fold us back into her body if she tried hard enough.

We stood there like that—a little circle of three.

And for the first time since she arrived, I felt something strange.

Not just relief.

But exposure.

Like we were safe... and seen.