The bodega didn't smell like anything edible anymore.
John cracked open the last freezer unit and immediately regretted it. A sour chemical bite escaped, thick with the ghosts of milk long curdled and meat sealed behind frostbitten plastic for over a decade. He shut it again—gently, out of pity—and began hauling the rest of the expired stock into garbage bins on the sidewalk.
He worked in silence.
The city buzzed beyond his walls, unbothered by his labor. Horns blared, a train rumbled underground, and some kids shouted from a rooftop across the street. The world kept spinning, loud and unruly, while he cleaned out his small piece of it.
Shelf by shelf, he scrubbed rust. He pried open sealed boxes that had once held candy, aspirin, matchbooks. He found cans so bloated they were nearly round, their labels faded into nothing. He filled seven trash bags by noon, each one heavier than the last.
Behind the old register, he found a chalkboard.
"2 for 1 on Fridays – Tell Mrs. Cruz I sent you!"
It was scrawled in loopy handwriting and underlined with a shaky smiley face—probably a kid's.
Probably his.
He paused, but didn't let the memory take hold. Not yet. He still had work to do.
By mid-afternoon, the room had changed.
The air moved easier. The sun spilled in through the front windows again. What had been a stale, sealed tomb now looked like… potential.
The floor tiles, though cracked in places, bore a swirling red-and-gold pattern beneath years of grime. He scrubbed until they showed again, until he could see the shop it used to be, and maybe—maybe—the shop it could be once more.
Not just a storefront. Not just a cover.
But a purpose.
A way to be part of the street again.
Upstairs, the second floor held a different kind of weight.
John walked slowly through the living space, assessing what could be saved. The kitchen had a warped table but intact cabinets. He found cracked dishes, pots so rusted they might crumble if used, but the plumbing worked. That was a miracle in itself.
In the living room, he uncovered an old photo frame. The glass was shattered, but the photo inside had survived—faded and creased, showing a man and woman smiling at a boy too small to remember.
The boy held a wrench like a toy.
John turned it over and placed it gently on a clean shelf.
In the smaller bedroom—likely once his—he opened a drawer and found a music box.
It didn't play. But hidden beneath it was a folded drawing: three stick figures, one large, one medium, one small, all standing in front of a building. The building said "MY HME" in crooked letters.
The smallest figure held a little gray stick—maybe a wrench, maybe a sword.
He smiled and folded the drawing again. It went into his pocket.
A sudden noise snapped his head toward the window.
Metal clanging. A trash bin rattled across the street.
He stepped to the window and peered through the cracked blinds.
A girl—no, a teenager—was digging through the garbage.
She looked younger than she should have. Her limbs were thin, face drawn, eyes tired. Her hoodie was two sizes too big, and her shoes didn't match.
But it was her hair that stood out. It shimmered faintly, like moonlight on water—hues of green, violet, and silver dancing across strands that moved with a life of their own.
The same girl from the alley.
The one he'd helped days ago.
John was out the door before he even thought about it.
She flinched when he got close.
"Hey," he said gently.
She whirled, sandwich clutched in one hand, eyes wide. Her body tensed like a wire about to snap.
"I'm not gonna hurt you."
"Then don't talk," she snapped, hoarse and raw.
He raised his hands and crouched slightly, like approaching a wounded animal. From his pocket, he pulled out a protein bar, still sealed.
He offered it wordlessly.
She stared at it. Then at him.
Then snatched it, eyes darting left and right. She bit into it like it might vanish.
After a pause, he asked, "What's your name?"
She hesitated, chewing slowly.
"…Lorna," she mumbled. "Lorna Dorne. People just call me Lorna."
"John."
She nodded once. Kept chewing.
"You remember me?"
"You're the guy who hit that meathead with the elbow. That was nice."
He shrugged. "He had it coming."
She cracked a dry smile. "They always do."
He gestured toward the building.
"I've got food. A hot shower. A bed."
She stiffened. "Why? What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"You some kinda mutant sympathizer?"
"No."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Then why?"
John looked at her, steady. "Because you're hungry. And tired. And you look like you haven't slept in a bed in months."
She snorted, but it was bitter. "Try years."
He stepped back, hands still open.
"You can come in or not. Up to you."
She didn't move for several long seconds.
Then, with a deep breath, she followed.
She paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe.
"This whole place is yours?"
"Yeah."
"You live here?"
"I do now."
She looked around like she was casing the joint. Every corner. Every exit. Her eyes flicked from wall to ceiling to floor.
"Damn," she muttered.
He pointed to the stairs. "Second floor. Bathroom's on the right. Clean towels in the basket."
She stared at him for a beat longer. Then slowly climbed.
While she was upstairs, he made food.
Soup. Bread. Sliced apples. He laid it out on the table like it was normal. Like having someone else in the building wasn't rewiring his brain.
When she came down, her hair was wet, skin flushed from the shower. She wore one of his old long-sleeve shirts, sleeves rolled twice at the wrists.
The aurora in her hair pulsed faintly in the kitchen light.
She sat across from him.
Didn't say a word.
Just ate.
Later, John showed her the spare bedroom.
"This one's clean," he said. "Door locks from the inside. No one comes in."
She stood in the doorway for a long moment.
Then turned slowly. "You really don't care that I'm… you know."
"I know."
She touched her hair. The shimmering strands caught the dim light like glass threads.
"I can't control it," she said. "The glow. Sometimes it gets brighter when I'm scared. It used to be worse."
"You don't need to control it here."
Her voice cracked when she asked, "Why are you doing this?"
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Because I have space. And because you look like you need somewhere to breathe."
She swallowed hard. "I haven't… breathed… in a long time."
"Then this is the place."
That night, as the city lights blinked across cracked windows, John stood in the bodega doorway and stared out at the street.
The chalkboard still held the old message.
He erased it.
Then wrote:
"Closed for Now. Open to the Right People."
He looked back up the stairs, where quiet breathing echoed through the building like life returning to a corpse.
The place was built to protect.
Now maybe it could protect someone else, too.