The hill’s crest appeared ahead, dotted with crooked trees and scattered boulders, familiar markers along the climb. His boots sank slightly into the damp earth as he pulled himself up by a wooden post — an old orientation table that still stood proudly. The stone steps were too big for him, but after countless trips, he knew every uneven spot. Just a few more steps.

Today, though, each step felt heavier. A deep sense of loneliness weighed over him, sharper than usual, and he’d come here seeking solace and hoping the view might fill the ache a little. From the top, he could overlook the whole patchwork of rooftops of his home and the other houses nestled in the surrounding neighbourhood. His companion followed, trailing him in its usual steady way, offering a silent comfort. Yet, it wasn’t the same. Dog was a friend, and he longed for family.

Dog’s black, plastic legs extended in smooth movements, adjusting to the rocky slope — its triangular cardboard panels wobbling awkwardly on the front. As always, he had won the race to the top, so he stopped to catch his breath and look down at the city below. The clouds hung low, thick and grey, spreading a dim light across it, softening the edges of rooftops and streets until they looked almost dreamlike, like a painting — one where the world stood still under an endless sky. Only the woods moved around him, the canopy alive in a gentle wind.

He dropped onto his usual bench, the dampness seeping through his clothes. He set his backpack beside him and scanned the sprawl below. From up here, the caved-in rooftops and cracked streets looked almost peaceful. He squinted at the roads, his gaze shifting from one block to another. Would he even recognise her if he saw her again? Her face had grown blurry in his mind. Yet, he scanned the empty streets with a habit he couldn’t shake — other people were rare here anyway.

A faint whirring pulled him from his thoughts as Dog clambered onto the bench beside him, its plastic body shifting as it found balance on the damp wood. He leaned back, resting his hand on Dog’s head, feeling the smooth surface under his palm. “It’s quiet, right, Dog?” he whispered, with half a smile. Only his friend never knew how to answer.

In the hush, his thoughts wandered back to her, and a tune slipped out, soft and wistful. “Far away the mountains sing, but no one hears a single thing ~” The lullaby was like a thread linking him to her, to the times when she would sing it softly to carry him into sleep. Even now, he could almost feel her hand pulling him out into the cold, the wind tugging at them both, while he’d grumble and drag his feet.

“The world’s still here, Milo. Never let the clouds make you think otherwise,” she’d say, her voice warm even against the chill. He closed his eyes, letting the memory settle, grounding him like the soft pressure of her hand once had.

His fingers found the edge of his frayed scarf, a quiet ritual. Its colour had dulled, but once, it had been a red as bright as berries. She would wrap it snugly around his neck, pulling him close and pointing out the rooftops below. “See that one? A family of four lived there — always screaming. And that one, with the blue door, was full of plants like a whole little forest.” She painted the city alive with her stories, her words steady as if the world would always stay just like that.

His little heart ached from the memory, missing the gentle steadiness she offered — an anchor in his small world. He opened his teary eyes, taking in the familiar skyline. Sometimes, he came here to remember, like if he stayed long enough, she might appear on the path below, smiling. She might one day.

So he waited on their favourite bench for her return.

#

The wind whipped cold against his cheeks as he barrelled downhill, leaning into the descent with all his weight. This was his favourite part — the thrill of going faster until everything blurred around him, until it was just him and the wild rush of speed. Bursting from a thicket of bushes, he stumbled onto a muddy path. Each step made a satisfying squelch as his boots sank and lifted with a pop.

Ahead, he spotted a half-buried wooden plank sticking out of the mud. A grin spread across his face. Perfect. He quickly wedged it flat and hopped on, letting the slick, muddy path do the rest. The makeshift sledge shot forward, and he whooped as he picked up speed, mud splattering around him in dark streaks.

Then, a clod of dirt flicked right into his eye. He jerked back to try and rub it away, blinking through the sting. The plank wobbled, his grip slipping as he fought to keep his balance. He felt himself twisting around; his makeshift sledge turned sharply. He let out a small yelp as his arms hit the ground, scraping through the mud and slowing him down to a muddy crawl.

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His slide came to an abrupt stop against something soft. A tingle of surprise prickled up his spine.

He blinked, trying to make sense of the shape before him. Two stubby horns darkened with mud, and a single black eye stared back emptily. His gaze traced downwards, where a thick red line trickled from a fuzzy neck, pooling around a rough wooden stake that jutted upward. Milo swallowed, the metallic smell twisting his stomach.

“Did you see where it dropped?” a deep voice called out, close, just beyond the trees.

Milo’s heart leapt, his breath catching in his throat. He fought the urge to bolt, knowing the movement would give him away. Instead, he crouched low behind the fallen creature. He darted a glance up the path he’d come from. His companion was nowhere in sight, and without Milo’s orders, Dog would eventually come running in this direction.

Leaves rustled nearby with a crunch of footsteps. He pressed his hand against the ground and edged back, inching toward a cluster of bushes. Just like hide and seek. But this time, the stakes were higher. He ducked low, leaves brushing against his face, and tried to stay quiet.

From his hiding place, his vision was obscured; only fragments of the muddy path were visible through a thin screen of branches. But he saw the shadow — a dark figure stretching out across the ground, flickering with the movement of leaves in the dappled light. Whoever it was, they were just a few steps away.

“Found it.” The voice came softer this time, satisfied.

There was a grunt, then the sound of something heavy scraping over the ground. Milo held his breath, straining to see through the gaps in the bushes. All he could make out was a pair of boots, thick with clumps of dried mud. He pressed himself further into the leaves, feeling every twig and brittle edge dig into his cheek. But he didn’t dare shift. He watched, counting each heartbeat as the man turned, slower now, and started walking back the way he’d come.

A low clatter shattered the quiet, loud as a shout in the silence.

The man halted, and Milo felt his stomach plummet. No. Not now. A flash of white at the edge of his vision, stark against the shadows, told him everything he didn’t want to see — Dog had stumbled out from the bushes. His mechanical friend’s foot had caught on a rock, and his frame jerked awkwardly, struggling to restore balance.

“Hey! Come check this out!” the man called, his voice booming from the forest. He dropped the deer with a wet thud, leaving dark smears across the ground as he stepped towards Dog.

Milo’s mind whirled, his heart hammering so hard he feared they’d hear it. Run, Dog! His fists were clenched, his body coiled, and he was twitching with the urge to leap out and do something. He felt a swell of desperate, helpless anger. He wished someone would burst out right then, like the heroes in his stories, and find some way to save his friend. But he could only watch, powerless, as the man closed in.

Fingers curling around one of Dog’s legs and lifting it roughly to its head, the stranger inspected his new catch. Everything went quiet again, the forest holding its breath with Milo.

#

The men regrouped with a rough cheer, voices rough and triumphant as they gathered around their spoils. Their laughter cut through the trees while they inspected the animal, loud and grating. It clashed with the low helpless whirrs from Dog. Milo’s eyes were fixed on his friend, limp in the man’s grip, dangling like a scrap of metal and plastic — like a toy. The man holding Dog gave a satisfied chuckle, holding up his prize for the others to see, as if he’d won something valuable. A jagged scar split across his left eye, giving him the signature look of a villain from Milo’s stories.

He could hardly contain himself. Dog looked so small in that man’s hand, so terribly helpless. Everything about his companion — the little whirrs, the way it followed him faithfully through every hill and every danger — reminded him that he couldn’t protect it now.

His instincts screamed at him to slink back into the underbrush, to melt into the shadows and wait until they passed. Stay safe, beware of strangers. But something else slowly took hold: an unfamiliar feeling, raw and fierce, coiling tightly around his chest. He’d never felt this way, like a fire he couldn’t quite name. I can’t let them take you.

Not this time. This was his friend. And he had to find answers to all the questions that haunted him, the strange men he had seen. But more than that, he had to get Dog back.

The men dragged the deer along the muddy path with careless footsteps, pushing deeper into the forest’s shadows. Milo weakly crept out from his hiding place; his body shook as he forced himself to stand. Her warnings, the constant reminders to stay hidden and be careful — it all told him to let Dog go and escape while he could. But his only friend had always followed him, never asking why. More than a friend, Dog was family.

His hands were caked in mud, his heart a wild drumbeat, but he set his jaw, brushing his hands off on his pants. Distressed whirrs cut through the air, piercing and insistent, and his chest ached in response.

As he took his first step into the forest, the sky split with a growl. Thunder rolled across the protesting clouds. Drops of water slapped against his skin from the heavy rains that now lashed over the woods. He tucked his chin into the folds of his scarf, the familiar fabric a reminder of what he willed to risk.

At that moment, he felt something shift inside. There was no one else here, no one to protect Dog or stand in his place. He stepped forward, melting in the shadows with a quiet determination. A pearl of tear slid lonely on his shaking cheek. If no one else would help, he would have to be the hero.

***