The Long Way Home

The cardboard was damp. Not soaked—Tom had enough experience to know the difference—but it wouldn’t hold up through another frost. He ran his fingers over the uneven edges, the jagged tears where he’d ripped it from a larger box the week before. The letters, scrawled with a fading black marker, had bled slightly in the misty air: Homeless Veteran. God Bless.

Tom sighed, tilting the sign toward the streetlights to check if it was still legible. Probably not. Not that anyone cared. People didn’t really read the signs. They looked at the person holding them, then made up their own stories.

"Too vague," the guy in the next alley had told him last week. "You want pity, you gotta sell the details. ‘Lost my leg in Kandahar.’ ‘Wife left me after the war.’ Something they can latch onto."

Tom hadn’t said anything at the time, but the advice churned in his head now. Details. Sell the story. As if pain could be itemised. As if a stranger’s pity could fill the gnawing hole in his chest.

A wind gusted down the street, rattling a string of tinsel hanging above the shopfronts. Tom shifted his weight, the cold seeping through his threadbare coat. He rubbed his hands together, the rough callouses catching on each other.

Across the road, a group of carol singers swayed in unison, their voices bright and cheerful. They sang "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" like it was the first time they’d ever heard it, their faces flushed with cold and mulled wine.

Tom stared at them for a moment, then down at the tin cup by his feet. Two coins sat at the bottom—a 20p and a penny, their edges dulled from countless hands. He scoffed. "Guess I’m not angelic enough."

"You’re in the wrong spot."

The voice made him start. Tom turned his head sharply and squinted through the dim light. A boy stood a few feet away, his silhouette framed by the glow of a lamppost. Blonde curls spilled out from under a knitted hat, and he hugged a floppy-eared bunny close to his chest.

Tom frowned. "What?"

The boy stepped closer, his boots crunching on the icy pavement. "You’re in the wrong spot."

Tom leaned back against the wall, his fingers tightening around the edge of his cardboard sign. "And what’s that supposed to mean?"

The boy shrugged, the motion exaggerated, like he was imitating an adult. "Mum says everyone has a spot where they fit. This doesn’t look like yours."

Tom let out a bitter laugh. "That so? And where exactly is my spot, kid?"

The boy tilted his head, studying him. His eyes were uncomfortably sharp, like he could see right through the layers of grime and defences.

"Not here," he said finally.

Tom snorted. "You’ve got a real talent for stating the obvious, you know that?"

The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he crouched down, setting his bunny carefully on the ground beside him. The toy flopped sideways, one ear folding over its face.

Tom watched as the boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-pound note. He held it out without a word.

Tom stared at the note, then at the boy. "What’re you doing?"

The boy blinked at him. "Giving you this."

"Yeah, I see that. Why?"

The boy frowned, as if the question didn’t make sense. "Because you need it."

Tom hesitated, then took the note. The paper was warm from the boy’s hand, its creases soft and familiar, like it had been folded and unfolded countless times.

"You always go around handing out cash to strangers?" Tom asked, tucking the note into his coat pocket.

The boy shrugged again. "Sometimes. Mum says it’s good to help people."

Tom shook his head, his breath fogging in the air. "Your mum sounds like a real saint."

"She tries," the boy said simply.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The carollers across the street started another song, their voices carrying faintly through the cold.

"You lost?" Tom asked finally, breaking the silence.

The boy shook his head. "No. Are you?"

Tom barked a laugh, short and bitter. "Kid, you’ve got no idea."

They walked in silence at first, the boy leading the way with slow, deliberate steps. Tom followed a few paces behind, his boots scuffing against the icy pavement.

"So where’s home?" Tom asked, more to fill the quiet than anything else.

The boy pointed vaguely ahead. "That way."

"That’s helpful."

The boy glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You’re funny."

"Yeah, well, don’t get used to it," Tom muttered.

The boy hugged his bunny tighter as they turned a corner, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement.

"You got a name, kid?" Tom asked.

The boy hesitated, then said, "Sam."

"Sam, huh? Short for something?"

The boy shook his head. "Just Sam."

Tom nodded. "Alright, Just Sam. Lead the way."

They passed a row of shuttered shops, their windows fogged with condensation. A faint smell of roasting chestnuts drifted from a vendor’s cart a few streets over. Tom’s stomach growled, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

"You been out here long?" Sam asked suddenly.

Tom frowned. "What, tonight?"

Sam shook his head. "In the cold. On the streets."

Tom exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp and tired. "Long enough."

Sam nodded, as if that answer made perfect sense. "Do you miss it?"

Tom glanced at him. "Miss what?"

"Before."

Tom opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He looked down at the pavement, the question hanging heavy in the air.

"Sometimes," he said finally.

Sam nodded again, his steps slowing slightly. "It’s okay to miss things," he said softly.

Tom didn’t respond.

The blue lights came into view gradually, flashing against the buildings like strobe effects in a dingy nightclub. Tom slowed his pace, his stomach tightening as he realised what they were approaching.

"Kid," he said, his voice low. "We should go another way."

Sam didn’t stop. "This is the way."

Tom gritted his teeth, his boots feeling heavier with each step. When they reached the scene, his breath caught in his throat.

The car was crumpled against a tree, its bonnet folded like an accordion. Steam hissed from the engine, mingling with the cold night air. Paramedics knelt beside a figure sprawled on the ground, their voices urgent but muted, like a soundtrack playing just out of sync.

Tom’s eyes locked on the figure. A man in a torn jacket, blood staining the fabric dark. Dog tags glinted against his chest.

He stumbled back, his heart pounding. "No. No, this isn’t…"

Sam turned to him, his gaze steady. "You know him, don’t you?"

Tom shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. "This… this can’t be real."

Sam stepped closer, his voice calm. "It’s time to stop running."

Tom’s vision blurred, tears stinging his eyes. "I don’t… I don’t understand."

Sam reached out, his small hand brushing against Tom’s. "You’ve been lost for a long time."

Tom stared at him, his chest heaving. The boy’s grip was firm, grounding him.

"What happens now?" Tom whispered.

Sam smiled faintly, his bunny dangling from one hand. "We go home."

Tom hesitated, then let out a shuddering breath. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers curling around Sam’s.

The blue lights faded as they walked away, their steps echoing softly against the frozen ground.