The last of them

 The world had moved on.

That was the first thing Dev realized when he stepped out of prison after twenty years.

It was in the way the streets hummed with a different kind of life, the way the city skyline had shifted, the way everything around him seemed unfamiliar. He had spent years in a place where time stood still, but out here, the world had kept moving, leaving him behind.

His plans of getting into college, having a decent job with his best friend… all gone.

The air smelled different. The noise felt overwhelming. And he had nowhere to go.

No family waiting. No friends left.

Nothing.

Chou had visited him a few times after the trial. At first, Dev thought he might actually keep his word, that he might do something to help. But as the years passed, the visits became less frequent, the promises more hollow, until one day, Chou just stopped coming.

Dev had spent a long time being angry about it. Then one day, he stopped caring.

Because in the end, it didn't matter.

No one was coming for him.

And when the prison gates finally opened, when he was handed a small bag of belongings and told he was free to go, Dev realized he had nowhere to go at all.

The first place he went was his father's house.

He didn't want to. He had spent years trying to forget about that man, about the coldness in his voice, about how he never once visited him in prison. But there was nowhere else to turn.

He stood in front of the familiar door, his fists clenched at his sides, trying to steady his breath. Then, finally, he knocked.

The door opened after a long pause.

His father stood there, looking older, his face lined with age, but his eyes… his eyes were the same.

Cold. Unforgiving.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Then his father scoffed. "Do I know you, young man?"

Dev stood in disbelief, his own father didn't recognize him. But what was he expecting, after all this years that had passed, prison changed him. " It's Devan"

His fathers eyes widened "What the hell are you doing here?"

Dev swallowed. "I just got out."

His father's lip curled in disgust. "And?"

"I…" Dev hesitated. "I have nowhere else to go."

A bitter laugh escaped the old man's throat. "That's not my problem."

Dev felt something tighten in his chest. "Dad…"

"No." His father's voice was sharp. Final. "You're not my son. Don't call me dad. My son died the day he murdered his best friend."

Dev felt the words like a punch to the gut.

He clenched his fists. "I didn't kill Cole."

His father's expression didn't change. "Doesn't matter. You shamed this family. You ruined everything. Now get the hell off my property."

The door slammed in his face.

Dev stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, feeling something inside him crack.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

The next place he tried was his aunt's house.

He knew it was pointless. Knew that if his own father wouldn't take him in, they sure as hell wouldn't. But he had to try.

When his aunt opened the door, the look on her face told him everything he needed to know.

"And do I know you?" She said rudely, eyeing him up and down.

"It's Devan, Aunt Margaret"

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her lip curled like the very sight of him disgusted her.

Dev forced himself to stay calm. "I just got out of prison."

She scoffed. "And you thought you'd come here?"

"I don't have anywhere else." His voice was quieter now, the fight already leaving him.

Her expression hardened. "We don't want you here, Dev."

Dev swallowed, his throat dry. "Please. I just…"

She cut him off. "Your mother is dead."

Dev froze.

The words didn't make sense at first. His mind refused to process them.

Dead?

His mother?

His aunt crossed her arms. "She died years ago. And it's your fault. Yours and your father's."

Dev felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

His mother was gone.

He had spent twenty years holding onto the thought of her, believing that if there was anyone who might have still cared, it was her. But now…

She was gone.

His chest tightened. He couldn't breathe.

His aunt stepped back. "Leave. Don't ever come here again."

The door shut, and this time, Dev didn't stand there.

He turned and walked.

Just walked.

He spent nights on the streets.

He slept on benches, in alleyways, in shelters when there was space.

He learned quickly how different the world was now. How no one cared about an ex-convict with no money, no family, and no future.

And then he found the job.

It wasn't much. Just a cleaning job. Sweeping the streets, picking up trash, working long hours for barely enough pay to eat.

But it was something.

And it was there that he met Marty.

Marty was short. Comically short. The kind of short that made people do a double take when they saw him, especially with how much confidence he carried himself with. He acted like he was seven feet tall, strutting around like the world owed him respect, and somehow, it worked.

He had a wiry frame, all sharp angles and restless energy, like he could never sit still for too long. His hair was a mess of dark curls, always unkempt, and his face was lined with just enough stubble to make him look older than he probably was. His eyes were sharp, always darting around like he was sizing up a situation before anyone else even realized there was one.

And he never shut up.

Marty had the kind of voice that could fill a room, fast-talking and full of sarcasm, always ready with a joke or a comment that toed the line between funny and annoying. He had opinions on everything, from politics to the best kind of street food, and he was more than happy to share them, whether people wanted to hear them or not.

Despite his small stature, Marty carried himself with an unshakable confidence, the kind that made it clear he didn't care what anyone thought. And for some reason, despite everything, Dev didn't mind having him around.

"Damn, man, you work like you're trying to punish the ground or something," Marty said one day, watching Dev sweep aggressively.

Dev ignored him.

Marty didn't take the hint. He never did. "So, what's your story? You one of those quiet, brooding types? Or did life just kick your ass real bad?"

Dev paused, gripping the broom tighter.

Marty grinned. "Judging by that look, I'm guessing it's option two."

Dev sighed. "You talk too much."

Marty smirked. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Dev shook his head and went back to sweeping.

Marty leaned on his broom. "You got a place to stay? I notice you just hang around after work."

Dev didn't answer.

Marty whistled. "Oof. That bad, huh?"

Dev kept sweeping.

Marty watched him for a moment, then said, "Look, man. You don't gotta tell me your life story. But if you need a place to crash, I got a couch."

Dev paused.

For the first time in weeks, someone was offering him something other than disgust.

He didn't know what to say.

Marty just shrugged. "Think about it."

Then he went back to sweeping, humming to himself like he hadn't just changed Dev's entire night.

And for the first time since getting out, Dev felt something close to relief.