Ash was moving before his brain caught up.
One second he stood on that platform, the next-lightning cracked the air and he was gone. No plan. Just legs pumping, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out. He didn't look back.
His boots hit the pavement hard enough to crack it. People shouted. Someone screamed. He didn't stop.
Spaceports were chaos-ships coming and going, cargo loading, engines screaming. Perfect for disappearing. Ash ran over a stack of crates, landed wrong on his bad arm, and bit down on a scream as fire shot up to his shoulder.
A vehicle was taking off, engines glowing blue-hot. Ash ran straight at it.
"Hey! Kid! STOP-"
He jumped.
The world tilted. For one sick second he was falling, then his fingers caught the edge of a wing panel. Metal groaned under his grip. Wind tore at him as the ship climbed, ripping tears from his good eye. He pulled himself up, muscles screaming, and flattened against the hull.
The G-force should've ripped him off. Should've killed him. But Ash had stopped caring about "should" a long time ago.
Below, the city shrank to a grid of lights. Above, the black. Ash breathed. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Space was cold.
Ash didn't feel it.
Cold bit through his clothes the second the transport left atmosphere. His breath fogged in front of his face, then froze. The ship's hull burned his cheek where he pressed against it, but the rest of him was going numb.
Didn't matter.
From there, it was jump after jump- on passing vehicles, kicking off asteroids, moving like something was chasing him. Maybe it was.
His arm bled through the bandages. As he arrived to a dead planet.
The statue appeared like a ghost in the dark.
'Ascended Hands to Heaven.'
Two massive stone hands reaching for the stars. The head was gone, just a broken neck. No one knew who built it. No one knew why. It's as if it has just existed since the beginning. Tourists used to come, back when people gave a shit about mysteries.
Ash's landing was messy. He skidded across the left palm, skin scraping stone, and didn't get up.
For a long time, he just lay there.
Every part of him ached- his arm, his eye, the old scar along his side that never really stopped hurting.
He was sixteen.
Sixteen, and his hands were stained with blood that wasn't his. Sixteen, and he carried deaths like stones in his pockets. Sixteen, and sometimes he forgot what his brother's laugh sounded like.
Ash rolled onto his side and threw up.
He spat, wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, and curled into himself. His knees pressed to his chest. His forehead touched stone.
The statue didn't care that he was broken. Didn't care about his sins or his pain. It just was, same as the stars, same as the void.
Ash breathed.
The air here tasted like dust and something older. Not clean. Not safe. But quiet. Like time moved different. Like nothing that happened here mattered to the universe.
His fingers traced cracks in the stone. Ancient ones, worn smooth. How many people had stood here before him? How many had cried? How many had screamed?
The statue didn't answer.
Ash squeezed his eyes shut. His chest felt too small. His ribs pressed in.
Sixteen
He was sixteen and his brother was gone and the world hated him and he was so tired.
His fists pounded the stone once, twice, until his knuckles split. Blood smeared gray rock red. No one heard.
No one came.
The statue held him in its palms like he was nothing. Like he was everything. Like it had waited a thousand years just for this moment- just to catch one broken kid as he fell apart.
Ash lay back. The stars spun overhead.