Chapter 180: Their Home

But before the children could enter the shop, a sales attendant stepped in front of them, quietly blocking their way.

"Ma’am, I’m sorry," she said, her voice apologetic rather than rude. "These two aren’t allowed inside. They might soil the merchandise. I hope you understand."

Isobel stared at her for a moment, irritation flashing across her face. She wanted to argue. She wanted to ask what made the woman think so little of two children who had done nothing wrong.

But before she could say anything, Randy gently tugged at her hand.

"It’s okay, Aunt Bel. We can wait outside."

Isobel exhaled slowly.

The sales attendant wasn’t being cruel. She was simply being cautious, perhaps following the store’s rules. Reluctantly, Isobel nodded.

"All right. I’ll be quick."

She went inside and bought three sets of clothes for Randy and Yana, along with a pair of rubber clogs for each of them. When she came back out, she took the children to a nearby restroom.

"Go on. Wash yourselves properly. Here."

She handed each a face towel and their new clothes. The children obediently cleaned themselves as best they could.

When they emerged, Randy wore a simple blue polo shirt with walking shorts, while Yana looked adorable in a pink blouse and a blue skirt. Isobel gathered Yana’s tangled hair and pulled it into a neat ponytail.

She stepped back.

For the first time, she was able to really look at them.

Cleaned up and properly dressed, the children looked completely different.

They were beautiful children. And strangely familiar.

The shape of Randy’s eyes. The curve of Yana’s nose. The softness of their features.

Isobel felt a strange flutter in her chest.

They look almost fifty percent like me.

She quickly pushed the thought aside. ℯℯ𝘭.

She didn’t know why she was noticing such things.

"Come on," she said. "Let’s get you something to eat."

At a nearby grocery store, Isobel filled a basket with bread, instant noodles, biscuits, and powdered milk. Before returning to the car, she spotted a small display of jackets.

She picked out two for the children.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she chose another one for their grandfather.

"Let’s eat first," she said as they walked toward the car. "After that, I’ll take you home."

Randy and Yana exchanged a worried glance.

Something about those words—take you home—seemed to make them uneasy.

But neither child objected. They simply followed her.

They ate at a small fast-food restaurant nearby.

The moment the food arrived, Isobel noticed how hungry they really were.

Their eyes lingered on the fried chicken as though it were something precious.

Yet, despite their hunger, they tried to eat slowly, carefully, almost politely.

Yana took a small bite and her eyes immediately brightened.

"Brother, the chicken is so delicious. I haven’t tasted food this delicious in a long time."

Isobel nearly choked on the piece of chicken in her mouth.

Even at the orphanage, she had eaten fried chicken at least once a month, sometimes more. There had always been kind-hearted people—good Samaritans who occasionally brought food and treated the children.

But judging from Yana’s expression, this was something far more special to her.

"Yes, Sis," Randy agreed, carefully chewing his food. "It’s so delicious. Let’s thank Aunt Bel."

Isobel smiled.

"No need to thank me. Just finish your food."

She looked toward the restaurant windows. The daylight was already beginning to fade.

"It’s getting late. Your grandpa might be worried about you."

The children quickly finished their meals.

Isobel ordered enough food for them to take home, then carried the bags as they walked back to her car.

Outside, the sky had turned the western horizon into a canvass splashed with orange, purple and crimson. The sun was sinking behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the streets.

"Where does your grandpa live?" Isobel asked as she unlocked the car.

Randy hesitated.

"We live in East Bridge."

Isobel nodded.

She assumed they meant a neighborhood near the bridge.

"Okay. Show me the way."

Randy climbed into the car beside Yana and carefully directed her through a maze of narrow streets and crowded alleys.

The farther they went, the more the neighborhood changed.

The houses became smaller. The roads rougher. The buildings older.

Finally, they reached East Bridge, an enormous concrete structure stretching nearly a kilometer across the River Easton.

Traffic rumbled overhead, the constant vibration of vehicles traveling across the bridge.

"Aunt Isobel," Randy said, pointing ahead, "there’s a space there. You can park your car."

He pointed toward a narrow space in front of a small cafeteria.

Isobel parked reluctantly and handed the attendant a few dollars to keep an eye on the vehicle.

She turned back toward the children.

"Okay. Where’s your grandpa’s house?"

Neither child answered.

Randy looked at Yana. Yana looked at Randy.

There was something in their expressions that made Isobel’s stomach tighten.

Slowly, Randy lifted his hand. His finger pointed downward.

Not toward an old condominium. Not toward the street. Not toward an apartment building.

Toward the space beneath the bridge.

"We live under the bridge, Aunt Isobel."

For several seconds, Isobel couldn’t speak.

"Under... the bridge?"

Randy nodded.

"Yes."

Isobel stared at the massive concrete structure above them.

Then she looked toward the darkness underneath.

She had expected a cramped room in a deteriorating apartment. Perhaps a tiny house with peeling walls, broken windows, and a roof that leaked when it rained.

But this?

Under the bridge?

She followed the children down a narrow dirt path beside the concrete support columns.

The noise of traffic overhead grew louder with every step.

Below the bridge, another world existed—one that most people passing above would never see.

There were scraps of cardboard spread across the uneven ground. Pieces of flattened boxes had been stitched together to form makeshift walls. Torn plastic sheets hung from ropes, fluttering weakly whenever the wind passed through. Old tarpaulins, faded advertisements, discarded plywood, and rusted sheets of metal had been arranged into something that could barely be called shelter.

The smell of damp concrete, the dying river, smoke, and garbage lingered in the air.

Rainwater had left dark stains along the bridge pillars, and shallow puddles filled the depressions in the ground. In some places, the earth was nothing more than mud mixed with gravel and trash.

There was only a door. No windows. No electricity. No beds.

Only whatever belongings the families beneath the bridge could carry or salvage.

Against the foot of the bridge, an old cooking pot sat over a makeshift stove made from several bricks. A few plastic containers were lined up beside it, holding the family’s drinking water.

Clothes hung from a rope stretched between two pillars, swaying in the evening breeze.

A thin, worn-out blanket lay folded over a piece of cardboard.

Randy called it their home.