The River Child

Fifty-five years ago, the seeds of a new world war were planted. They called it World War III — arriving exactly seventy-five years after the second had ended, as if history itself couldn't resist repeating its worst mistakes.

The cause? Nothing noble. Just the ego of governments and their leaders — men too proud to share, too stubborn to compromise, and far too easily offended to ever consider peace.

Explosions tore through cities without warning. Thick smoke swallowed the sky whole. Bodies — human, animal, and the charred remains of trees — littered every street, every field, every forgotten corner of the world. Gunfire, screaming, and the groan of collapsing buildings became the soundtrack of daily life. Not just occasionally. Every single day.

Countless innocent people were taken hostage, tortured, and killed in ways that no one should ever have to imagine. Their bodies were left unnamed — silent witnesses to a cruelty that the world had promised itself it would never repeat.

Parents, desperate and heartbroken, would abandon their children in the hope that a stranger might show them the mercy the world had stopped offering. They placed their last remaining hope into the hands of fate.

---

Forty years into the war. The city of Surabaya, Indonesia.

Deep beneath the ground, an enemy-operated prison held its captives in the dark.

"AHHH!"

A woman cried out as she was shoved to the floor, her body slamming hard against the cold stone. Her long black hair fanned around her. She trembled, her face a map of bruises.

"Get out. You're useless now. Next," said the man who had pushed her — tall, uniformed, his eyes as cold and empty as the walls surrounding them.

Rape had become routine in that place. Many of the hostages were women in their twenties, treated as though they had never been human to begin with.

Then, one day, the woman discovered she was pregnant. She gave birth to a baby girl with a full head of black hair. And the moment she could, she ran.

Clutching her newborn tightly against her chest, she fled through narrow, lightless corridors. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her legs shook with every step. But she didn't stop.

Huh — huh — huh —

She reached a short cliff overlooking a river below. Sweat dripped down her face. Her right arm held the cloth-wrapped baby like it was the only thing worth saving in the world — because it was.

"STOP!"

Soldiers' voices echoed behind her. Not one. Several.

She looked down at the river. Then at her baby.

Gently, with shaking hands, she released her daughter over the edge — letting the current carry her away.

"I hope someone kind finds you," she whispered, tears streaming freely down her face.

"And, my darling... forgive your mother."

Before she could say another word, three large men grabbed her and dragged her back — rough, brutal, without a shred of hesitation.

---

The river carried the baby downstream, past the foot of the hill and into the city's outskirts. Gunfire cracked on both sides of the riverbank — the water acting almost like a boundary between two armies exchanging fire. Miraculously, not a single soul noticed the tiny bundle drifting quietly between them.

Until an old man did.

He looked to be in his sixties, wearing glasses and sporting black hair fading to white at the edges. He was making his way across a bridge — carefully, quietly — when something in the water caught his eye.

"What's that?" he murmured, squinting toward the distant shape. A bundle of cloth, moving with the current.

"Is that...," he breathed, eyes going wide.

“A baby”.

He broke into a run, darting off the bridge and down to the riverbank, positioning himself just in time to intercept the bundle as it passed beneath. His feet found their footing on the wet ground.

"There," he murmured, pulling the soaked bundle gently from the water.

He peeled back the cloth — and found a piece of paper tucked inside. On it, a single word:

Lindsey.

He turned the paper over.

"To whoever finds this — please, take care of her."

The ink had smeared from the water, but the words were still readable. Still desperate. Still hopeful.

The old man held the baby close and stood up slowly.

"Alright then," he said softly. And carried her home.

---

Ten years passed.

Fifty years had now gone by since World War III began — and at last, a fragile peace had begun to take hold.

A man from the Surabaya city police was making his rounds through the ruins, searching for war survivors. He was broad-shouldered and somewhere in his forties, with neatly combed black hair — and a distinctive streak of blue at the tips that made him easy to pick out of a crowd.

"What's that?" he muttered, slowing his car to a near-stop. Through the trees, barely visible, sat a worn-down shack in the middle of the forest.

"What is it, Dad?" asked his son from the passenger seat. His name was Ryuu — built just like his father, with the same black-and-blue-tipped hair. Seventeen years old and already carrying himself like someone twice that age.

"There's a shack in there," said his father — Arion — pointing toward the treeline as he stepped out of the car. Fresh air hit his face as he stood. "Come on, Ryuu."

They pushed through the forest, Ryuu yelping quietly as he wrestled with a particularly thorny branch, until they arrived at the shack's front entrance.

An old man was outside, hunched over and slowly sweeping fallen leaves. The soft whisper of the broom against the ground was the only sound around them.

"Good afternoon," Arion called out, a little awkward. Behind him, Ryuu finally broke free from the thorn bush with a dramatic flail.

The old man looked up. "Oh — good afternoon. What brings you out here?"

Arion straightened up and presented his badge — a star emblem on worn leather. "We're with the Surabaya city police. We'd like you to come with us."

The old man's eyes went wide. "Wha — I haven't done anything—"

"You're not in trouble," Arion said quickly, a small smile crossing his face. "I'm not here to arrest you. I want to bring you to my compound. You don't have to hide out here anymore."

The tension drained from the old man's shoulders. He exhaled slowly and managed a small smile. "Well. Alright then."

"At least come inside first," he said, stepping aside to welcome them in.

"Excuse us—" "Excuse us—" Arion and Ryuu said in near-unison, stepping carefully over the wooden threshold.

The shack was made entirely of wood — floor, walls, ceiling, every last piece. From the outside it looked like it might fall apart at a firm handshake, but it had held together for thirty years. Barely, but it had.

"Lindsey!" the old man called out.

"Yes, Grandpa?"

A girl came rushing in from the back room — ten years old, with bright black eyes and long dark hair that swayed as she ran. She'd grown into someone quiet but bright, the kind of child who seemed older than her years.

"Make some tea for our guests," the old man said warmly.

"Yes, Grandpa," she replied softly, then turned and padded quickly toward the kitchen — which, it turned out, was an open space behind the back wall of the shack.

Arion and Ryuu settled into the wooden sitting area. Arion leaned back with a quiet look of appreciation.

"This is actually... comfortable," he murmured.

"Right?" Ryuu nodded.

"Would you mind if I looked around a bit?" Arion asked the old man. "I really do appreciate the craftsmanship in a place like this."

"Go right ahead," the old man replied.

Arion wandered deeper into the shack. Two small bedrooms. The walls were thin — almost worryingly so — and the wood had gone soft with age. He pressed a hand against one and felt it flex.

He stepped into one of the rooms. A wardrobe. A desk. A chair. A bed frame. All wood, naturally. A thin folded cloth served as a mattress — Lindsey's, by the look of it.

On the desk, a few sheets of paper. Arion picked one up.

He froze.

"What...?" he breathed, staring at what was written there.

"Who exactly is this old man...?"

"Grandpa!" Lindsey's voice rang out from behind the house.

Arion quickly folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. He stepped out of the room as though he'd never been in it.

---

After tea and a long conversation, the four of them filed out of the shack. The old man brought out a few larger belongings and loaded them into the car's trunk.

"Oh — I realize I never introduced myself," Arion said, extending his hand. "I'm Arion Houdoug. And this is my son, Ryuu Houdoug."

The old man shook it firmly. "I'm Yolan." He paused, scratching the back of his head with a slightly sheepish look. "No family name, I'm afraid. I've been on my own since I was young."

Ryuu glanced over and noticed Lindsey half-hiding behind Yolan's legs, peering at him with wide, uncertain eyes. He crouched down to her level. "Hey, little one. What's your name?"

She peeked out, then quickly looked away.

"Lindsey," Yolan said gently but firmly. "Come now."

"I'm... Lindsey," she said quietly, still not quite meeting Ryuu's eyes.

"Lindsey, huh," Ryuu said with an easy smile, giving her head a gentle pat. "Nice to meet you. I'm Ryuu."

"Alright, everyone in," Arion called from the driver's seat.

And just like that, they set off toward the Houdoug family compound — and the beginning of a life none of them had planned for.