Buster's Journey

Dust skitters across a sun-bleached storefront as Buster Jones, the Teenager, and the Hunter Captain slip inside out of the wind. Empty shelves creak in the draft. The street beyond the cracked glass feels far away for the first time in hours.

The Teenager sinks onto a battered bench, shoulders dropping at last. They rub their face, breathe out slowly, and look up at Buster with tired curiosity.

The Hunter Captain stays by the window, one hand near her map chip, but her posture eases. She glances toward the street, then back to them, listening without interrupting.

Outside, the wind taps the glass and moves on. Inside, the dust settles around three people who are finally, briefly, not running.

Buster lowers his gaze to his scarred hands and speaks quietly about mornings on a porch, cheap coffee, and the first time he learned heavy things could be held gently.

He tells them the best days were ordinary, chores done slow, neighbors waving from across the road, no cameras, no shouting, just space to be left alone.

The Teenager leans forward on the bench, listening like the words matter more than the room. The Hunter Captain glances down at the map chip, then back up, letting the silence hold.

Buster finishes with a simple memory of quiet company and a table that stayed warm after sunset. His voice costs him a little, roughening at the end, and he flexes one hand as if shaking off the ache of old work.