The port woke before the town did.
By the time dawn thinned the sky, men were already moving along the docks — silhouettes against sodium lamps, shoulders bent, voices low and economical. Crates scraped against concrete. Chains clinked. Water slapped the hulls of trawlers with a steady, impatient rhythm.
Kannan stood at the edge of it, the smell of salt and diesel filling his lungs.
This was a place that did not ask questions.
It took bodies, strength, time — and in return, it allowed you to exist without explanation.
"This is where names disappear," Jeevan said quietly beside him. "And new ones are chosen."
Arun watched the flow of workers.
"If he's here," he murmured, "he's learned how not to be seen."
Sara adjusted Basil's cap, keeping him close. Nish and Arjun moved toward a cluster of tea stalls, already listening more than speaking. Ravi lingered near a wall covered in shipping notices, eyes scanning hand-painted signs offering daily work.
Kannan felt a strange pull — not toward any one person, but toward the place itself.
As if the ground remembered footsteps.
They started with the union office.
A low building with peeling paint and a notice board crowded with lists — vessel names, shift numbers, handwritten changes. A man with a thick mustache sat behind a desk, stamping papers with bored authority.
"Looking for work?" he asked without looking up.
"Looking for a worker," Nish replied. "Quiet. Young. Skilled with drawing. Might've helped with inventory."
The man snorted.
"Drawing?" he said. "This isn't an art school."
Kannan stepped forward and placed the folded sea drawing on the desk.
The man glanced at it — then looked again.
His eyes sharpened.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
Kannan's heart jumped.
"My son made it," he said. "Years ago."
The man leaned back slowly.
"There was a boy here," he said. "Didn't give a name. Kept to himself. Drew markings on crates so shipments didn't get mixed up."
Arun inhaled sharply.
"Did he still work here?" he asked.
The man shook his head.
"Not anymore. Left last monsoon."
Kannan's chest tightened — relief and loss colliding.
"Why?" Sara asked.
The man shrugged.
"He didn't like attention. Foreman started asking questions. He doesn't stay once people start noticing."
Ravi swallowed.
"Did he go far?"
The man tapped the desk thoughtfully.
"Not far. Just… sideways."
Kannan frowned.
"Sideways?"
"Fish processing units," the man said. "Temporary crews. Cash work. Faces change every week."
He paused, then added:
"He went by Ash."
The name hit Kannan like a quiet blow.
Ash.
Not Akshay.Not Nadi.
Something smaller. Lighter. Easier to shed.
They followed the trail through the afternoon.
A processing shed where women stood ankle-deep in ice, gutting fish with practiced speed.A cold storage unit where numbers were chalked and erased every hour.A loading bay where men slept between shifts on flattened cardboard.
At one shed, an older woman with tired eyes listened to their question and nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Ash. Quiet boy. Very polite."
Kannan's breath caught.
"What happened to him?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"He got hurt," she said. "Nothing serious. But it scared him."
Arun leaned forward.
"Hurt how?"
"Foreman lost money," she said. "Thought someone was stealing. Started yelling. Ash didn't wait to be blamed."
Sara closed her eyes.
"He ran again," she whispered.
The woman nodded.
"But before he left," she added, "he did something strange."
Kannan looked up.
"He left a drawing," the woman said. "On the wall, near the wash basin."
She led them inside.
There, faint but unmistakable beneath layers of grime, was a drawing scratched into the paint.
A boat.A wide horizon.And a circle — incomplete, open toward the sea.
Kannan touched it with trembling fingers.
"You were here," he whispered. "So close."
Late afternoon light slanted across the docks when it almost happened.
They were walking past a supply truck, voices low, when Arun stopped suddenly.
"Kannan," he said quietly. "Don't turn around yet."
Kannan's heart began to race.
"Why?" he whispered.
"There's a boy," Arun said. "Near the nets. Sorting ropes."
Kannan froze.
From the corner of his eye, he saw him.
Late teens, maybe early twenties now. Lean. Hair cropped short. A scar near the wrist. Movements efficient, practiced.
Not a child.
Not a stranger.
Something in between.
The boy laughed at something another worker said — a short, surprised sound, as if unused to laughter.
Kannan's chest constricted painfully.
He wanted to turn.
He wanted to run.
Sara's hand closed gently around his arm.
"Wait," she whispered. "Look before you leap."
The boy bent to lift a coil of rope.
As he did, his sleeve slipped back.
On his wrist —
A faded cloth bracelet.
Missing beads.
Kannan's breath left him in a soundless rush.
"It's him," he whispered.
Arun's jaw tightened.
"Yes."
At that exact moment, a horn blasted.
A truck reversed.
Workers shouted.
The boy looked up, startled — and for a split second, his eyes met Kannan's.
Recognition flickered.
Not certainty.
Not memory.
Just a pause.
Then someone called out sharply.
"Ash!"
The boy turned.
Grabbed his bag.
And ran.
Kannan broke.
He stepped forward instinctively, voice tearing out of him.
"Akshay—!"
The name hit the air like a stone.
The boy hesitated — just half a step.
Then fear took over.
He disappeared into the maze of containers and alleys beyond the dock.
Silence fell.
Only the sea kept moving.
Kannan stood frozen, hands shaking violently.
"I said his name," he whispered. "I scared him."
Arun held him upright.
"You didn't," he said firmly. "The world taught him to run."
Sara's eyes shone with unshed tears.
"But he looked at you," she said. "That means something."
Kannan nodded weakly.
"He didn't know me," he said. "But he heard his name."
Ravi spoke softly.
"He ran… but he didn't forget it."
Jeevan watched the alley where the boy had vanished.
"He's nearby," he said. "And now he knows someone is looking."
Kannan pressed his palms together, breathing hard.
"I won't chase him," he said hoarsely. "Not like that."
Arun met his eyes.
"Then what?"
Kannan looked out at the water, then back toward the town.
"I'll stay," he said. "Where he can see me. Without fear."
Sara nodded slowly.
"You'll let him choose," she said.
Kannan's voice steadied, thin but resolute.
"He walked alone for years," he said. "I can wait."
The port swallowed the evening light.
Names changed here.
Lives slipped past each other.
But something irreversible had happened.
A name had been spoken aloud.
And somewhere in the maze beyond the docks, a young man with no fixed name was running — not away from danger this time, but from a past that had suddenly found him.