Children of The Last Breath

The crowd at the market square smelled like sweat and soured fruit. The sun beat down like it was punishing the world for waking up, and Nayara Kess stood in the middle of it all—dust on her bare toes, a crack forming in her soul. Her father gripped her arm too tightly, speaking to the merchant with a wide smile that never reached his eyes. “She’s special. Not just a girl—no, no—she’s got a touch to her. Quiet, obedient. You won’t regret it.” The merchant raised a brow. “Too pale. Too strange. What’s wrong with her skin?” “She’s been like that since birth,” her father said quickly. “Cursed, some say, but I say it’s a blessing. She could be useful, maybe even... magical.” The merchant scoffed. “You’d have better luck trading off a ghost.” He turned, walking away. Her father’s face twisted with frustration and shame. “Waste of breath,” he muttered, yanking Nayara aside. Her mother stood near the edge of the stall, her mouth sealed shut behind shaking hands. But her eyes—those tired, broken eyes—met Nayara’s, and then she shifted a crate, knocking over a basket of fruit. The vendor cursed. Her father turned, distracted. And that was enough. Nayara ran. Through the heat, through the crowd, through the noise. Time didn’t break. It glitched. As her bare feet pounded the cobblestones, the world stuttered. The market blurred, then froze—like a pause pressed by unseen hands. Nayara gasped. Her arms trembled. Her vision bent sideways. She saw someone. Not her mother. Not her father. A boy—wrapped in gold, glowing, clean. Like sunlight in human form. His lips moved like he knew her. Like he was waiting. Then—gone. Nayara blinked—and the world snapped back. Just in time for her to slam into something solid. No—someone. “Oof—!” Nayara hit the ground hard, her hood falling back. Above her stood a tall, shadow-wrapped figure, arms crossed and an amused smirk playing on his lips. He stepped out from a patch of unnatural darkness like it was his bedroom curtain. “Well,” said the boy, voice silk and sarcasm. “You alright there, Time Glitch?” She stared. The shadows didn’t move around him—they followed him, like loyal pets. “You—” she panted. “You saw that?” “Sweetheart, I felt it. You cracked time like a dropped plate.” He offered a hand. She ignored it, scrambling to her feet. “Who are you?” she asked, narrowing her brown eyes. “Name’s Renji.” He made a dramatic bow. “Resident alley ghost and professional pickpocket. And you?” “Nayara,” she said, still eyeing him. “You’re… like me. Different.” “Different is putting it kindly,” he quipped. “You mess with time, I mess with shadow. Together, we could ruin a perfectly good timeline.” Nayara didn’t smile. Not quite. But her eyes softened. “I saw someone,” she whispered. “In the glitch. A boy, shining. He was calling me—no, us.” Renji tilted his head. “Well. That’s vague and unsettling.” “He’s like us,” she continued. “There are more. And we’re supposed to find them.” “Oh, cool,” Renji said, deadpan. “Love a good destiny. Really goes well with my whole barely surviving in an alley aesthetic.” She stepped closer, serious now. “We’ll meet again. With the others. I know it.” Renji looked at her—really looked. Then, without warning, his smirk returned. “Try not to glitch through dinner before then, Time Glitch.” And just like that, he was gone, swallowed back into the shadows. Nayara exhaled. The warmth of the sun returned. The square felt distant now. She pulled her hood up, wrapped herself tight, and kept running. Toward something… or someone.