A small, rundown town, early evening. It's late autumn, and an icy rain has set in, relentless, splattering across empty streets and dripping off the cracked pavement. The town feels abandoned, as though even the rain is lonely. The camera pans to a young boy, barely eleven, hunched on the curb in his soaked, threadbare clothes. His hair clings to his forehead in wet, matted curls, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees as if to ward off the chill. His name is Kid, though he's never heard it said kindly.
Kid stares up and down the street with a dogged sort of hope, his eyes bright, stubbornly optimistic. The world may look bleak, but Kid's face—pale and worn—holds a faint, persistent smile.
Kid (whispering to himself, shivering but hopeful): It's okay. They'll come for me. Dad's probably just busy at work, that's all. I'll wait a little longer… they'll come.
The rain falls harder, cold droplets stinging his skin, seeping through his clothes. He shivers again but stays put, his eyes glued to the empty road. Shadows stretch across the street, bending under the flickering streetlights, and still, no one comes.
After a long silence, Kid tries to distract himself, humming softly, clutching the sound like a lifeline. He hums a tune he's pieced together from half-forgotten songs he's heard on the radio.
Kid (singing softly, almost to himself): Sound the alarm… shatter me like glass…
He pauses, unsure where he learned the song but feeling the words more deeply than he understands. He tilts his head back, watching the raindrops fall, a tremor in his voice as he continues to sing.
Kid (singing, voice a little shaky): Covered in scars, but roses are coming through the cracks…
Flashback: The Turner House, earlier that day.
Inside a small, cluttered house, the hallway is dim, lined with peeling wallpaper and stale-smelling carpet. Kid is in the kitchen, standing on tiptoe to reach the top shelf where the cereal is kept. He pours himself a bowl, humming quietly, pleased to have something to himself. Suddenly, his older sister, Tina, barges in, glaring at him.
Tina (scoffing): What are you doing? Thought you'd be out by now.
Kid (trying to smile, holding out the cereal box): Just, um, getting breakfast. Want some? It's still half-full.
Tina rolls her eyes, snatching the bowl away from him.
Tina: No, I don't want any of your leftovers. And don't make such a mess; Mom's already mad enough at you. (She stares him down, an eyebrow raised.) I heard her say that you're just… a total waste of space.
Kid's face falls, but he nods, forcing a shaky smile.
Kid (whispering to himself, as if convincing himself): I guess… everyone gets called names sometimes, right?
Tina snorts, tossing the bowl back at him, scattering cereal all over the floor.
Tina: Keep dreaming, Kid. You're like… a mistake nobody wants around. You know that, right?
Kid watches her walk away, his face carefully blank. Slowly, he crouches down to pick up the spilled cereal, one piece at a time.
Back in the rainy street, night is creeping in, the shadows growing longer. Kid sits on the curb, his fingers numb from the cold. He watches the distant streetlamp flicker, his smile starting to tremble around the edges.
Kid (whispering to himself): They'll come. Any minute now…
The rain shows no sign of stopping, and Kid's stomach growls, but he clenches his jaw, shaking it off.
Kid (to himself): It's okay. I don't need much. Just a… just a little warmth. And they'll bring me home. I'll get dry, and maybe they'll… maybe they'll ask me about my day.
His mind drifts to what he might say if anyone ever did ask. Maybe he'd tell them about the hero he'd been drawing earlier, or the song he'd been working on, how he could almost imagine it playing through speakers. His imagination had always been a safe place—a place where he could be the hero, or at least, someone with a purpose.
But as he thinks, reality sinks back in, colder than the rain.
Kid (whispering to himself, voice quiet and strained): But maybe… maybe they won't come. Maybe they don't even know I'm here.
The weight of the thought presses down on him, settling heavily in his chest, but he tries to shake it off, his mind quickly latching onto something else, something to pull himself back from the edge of despair.
Kid (humming to himself, gripping the words like a lifeline): Time that you killed… you promised to help me rebuild… (pauses) That's what families are supposed to do, right? They're supposed to help you rebuild… not… not leave you…
The words cut deeper than he intended, and his optimism wavers. He lowers his head, pressing his face into his knees.