It was a quiet afternoon in the backyard. The sun warmed the grass, birds chirped softly, and Baby Ricky played near the fence while his mom worked—sweeping, folding clothes, humming gently.
Tong was with him, his closest friend. They’d spent the morning chasing butterflies and pretending flower pots were castles. But today, Tong seemed different. He kept glancing at the bushes beyond the yard, twitching with nervous energy.
Then suddenly, without a sound, Tong stood up and ran.
Ricky blinked, confused. “Tong?” he called, expecting him to return. But there was no answer. He stood, waddled toward the gate, peered into the trees beyond. “Tong?” he repeated, this time more softly.
Still nothing.
Ricky sat on the grass, heart heavy. His tiny fingers played with the dirt, but the joy was gone. Tong had left. No goodbye. No reason. Just vanished.
Behind him, his mother continued her chores, unaware. She thought her little ones were still playing. But Ricky felt the emptiness. The yard, once so alive, now felt cold and still.
What Ricky didn’t know was that Tong had overheard voices talking about returning him to the forest. Scared of being taken away, Tong made a choice—run before anyone could say goodbye. He thought he was protecting himself, maybe even Ricky. But he didn’t realize the pain he’d cause.
Now, alone in the yard, Ricky waited. His eyes stayed on the gate, hoping Tong would come back, say sorry, make it all okay again.
