The market buzzed with the remnants of Thingyan. Water sloshed in puddles, the faint smell of wet street food lingered in the air, and the once-vibrant colors of the festival seemed muted now. The boys moved through it like ghosts, their faces set in grim lines, their minds a thousand miles away from the laughter and chaos surrounding them.
Thura's face, burned and bruised, still haunted them. It was hard to believe it had been just a few days. The sting of it hadn't worn off.
They didn't talk about the police. Everyone knew that no one expected the police to do anything. There was no point in even mentioning them. No one had to say it aloud — it was just understood.
The plan was simple: find someone who knew something. Anyone.
Ko Aung took the lead, his steps confident but with a weight behind them. "We need answers," he said, his voice flat. He didn't have to say who he meant. They all knew.
Min Zaw and Ko Zay fanned out behind him. Kyaw Lin lagged slightly, eyes scanning the crowds, his jaw tight. He'd never been a fan of crowds, never been good at pretending everything was fine. Today, that was impossible.
The first vendor they approached was an older woman selling betel nuts. She smiled as they approached, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She was looking everywhere but at them.
"You saw the attack on Thura," Ko Aung said, his tone even, more request than demand.
The woman shifted uncomfortably. "Too many people, too much water. I didn't see anything," she answered, her voice a little too quick, a little too practiced.
Min Zaw stepped forward, but Ko Aung held up a hand, stopping him. "Are you sure?"
Her eyes darted away, and for a brief moment, Ko Aung thought he saw something — guilt? Fear? But then she was back to rearranging her stall, hands busy, avoiding their gaze.
They moved on.
At each stall, they got the same answers. Everyone was busy. The whole market was in chaos. No one had seen anything.
Ko Zay questioned a man selling cheap sunglasses. "You saw anything strange on the first day?" he asked, trying to sound casual, though his eyes were locked on the vendor's face.
The vendor looked at him like he was asking about the weather. "Nah, man. Too many people, too much noise. Everyone was drunk, having fun."
But something about the man's eyes didn't match his words. Ko Zay's gut twisted. He tried to press further, but the man just shook his head, and Ko Zay moved on.
Finally, they came to a stall on the corner, where dried goods were piled high. The vendor — a middle-aged man with a lazy eye — was watching them before they even spoke. His eyes flicked nervously over their shoulders, then back to them.
Kyaw Lin was the first to approach him. His tone was calm, but his posture was anything but. He leaned forward slightly, like a wolf sizing up prey.
"You saw something," he said, his voice low but edged with irritation. It was the kind of irritation that simmered just beneath the surface, and it made the vendor shift uncomfortably.
The man wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "I didn't see anything," he muttered quickly, his gaze darting around as if searching for an escape.
But Kyaw Lin wasn't backing down. "You're lying," he said, his voice turning colder, more insistent. "We know you saw something. People don't just disappear into the crowd like that."
The vendor flinched, and for a moment, Ko Aung thought he might crack. But the man stayed quiet, his fingers trembling as he shifted a sack of rice.
Kyaw Lin took a step closer, his breath steady but sharp. "Say what you know."
It was enough. The man's resolve shattered. He took a deep breath, exhaling like he'd been holding it for too long. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he finally spoke.
"There's a boy. He sits up there, by the lamppost. Always. All day. He sees everything. If anyone saw something, it would be him."
Ko Aung nodded. "Where?"
The vendor pointed toward the far corner of the market, where a broken-down lamppost stood next to a crumbling wall, the shadow it cast long and dark. It wasn't far.
The boy was easy to find. He was sitting on the edge of a cracked ledge, his legs dangling carelessly over the side, eyes half-closed like he was too tired to care. He looked no older than sixteen, but his eyes had the sharpness of someone much older — someone who had seen too much.
Ko Aung approached him first, his voice soft but urgent. "Did you see what happened on the first day? Thura — the attack."
The boy didn't even look up. His lips curled into a lazy smile, like he was too cool to bother with them. "Which day?" he asked, his tone flippant.
Kyaw Lin stepped forward. His patience, worn thin from hours of unanswered questions, snapped. He grabbed the boy by the collar, yanking him to his feet. The boy's grin faltered, and he looked startled for a moment, but then his eyes flicked toward the ground, a subtle surrender.
"You saw something," Kyaw Lin said, his voice barely a whisper, but the threat was clear. "Say it."
For a moment, the boy hesitated, his shoulders stiff, his eyes darting to the side. Then, slowly, his posture relaxed. His head drooped, and he muttered something.
"I saw a woman. She didn't belong. Not like everyone else. People were dancing, celebrating. She wasn't. She just... watched."
The boys exchanged a look, something passing between them. This was different. This was something.
The boy continued, quieter now, like the words were being dragged out of him.
"She walked down Thiri Street. I followed her, I don't know why. But she came back quick. Same way. Like she was in a hurry. She... didn't forget anything."
Ko Aung's heart skipped a beat. No one forgot. Not something like this.
Min Zaw was the first to speak after a long silence. "That's it, then. We find her."
But Ko Aung didn't move. He stared at the boy for a long moment, as if trying to read something in his eyes. "What else did you see?" he asked quietly.
The boy shook his head, his gaze falling. "That's all. I don't know anything else."
The silence lingered for a few moments longer before Ko Aung turned and walked away. The others followed.
As they left the market, the oppressive heat seemed to follow them. They walked in a tight knot, the weight of what they had just learned pressing on them like the air itself. Ko Aung glanced back once, at the boy still sitting on the ledge, staring after them. Then he turned his eyes toward the street ahead, wondering just how far they were from finding the woman who had ruined their lives.