Isaac woke to the patter of rain easing into silence, the storm having passed sometime in the night. For a moment, beneath the coarse blanket in a bed that wasn't made of cardboard, he forgot where he was. The cracked ceiling above reminded him quickly enough.
The house shifted with small, tired sounds—the groan of pipes, a window rattling in its frame. Then came the faint clatter of metal against metal. A pan, maybe. A smell drifted in, warm and thick, carrying weight his stomach answered before his mind could.
A knock came at the door.
"Up and at 'em," Paul's voice called. "Got some food on the stove before I head out."
Isaac scrambled upright, hair wild, blanket still tangled around his legs. He padded barefoot down the hallway, the floor cold against his skin.
The kitchen was dim; its cracked window fogged with steam. A plate waited on the table: scrambled eggs, bread, and two strips of bacon glistening in their grease.
Paul stood at the counter, shrugging into his coat. His hair was still damp, his boots untied. He looked like any other man readying for work, not the stranger who had plucked Isaac from an alleyway the day before.
"Morning," Paul said, flashing a quick smile. "Eat up. Don't want you skipping meals."
Isaac slid into the chair. The fork was heavier than he remembered forks being, its shine too clean. He lowered it carefully into the eggs, chewing as if each bite might vanish halfway down his throat.
The bacon nearly stopped him. The taste was sharp, smoky, spilling grease across his tongue. It was so rich it almost hurt.
"Tonight," Paul said while tying his boots, "we'll see about getting you some clothes. like I said yesterday, can't have you walking around in rags."
Isaac paused mid-bite. The words sat heavy in his ears. Clothes. New clothes. Not just patched scraps begged from strangers.
He managed a nod, his throat too thick to risk words.
Paul stood, adjusting his coat. "I've got an early shift, won't be back until sundown. You'll be fine here. Don't open the door for anyone. There's some books in my room if you get bored." He glanced at Isaac, then added, "And don't be afraid to rest. You look like you haven't slept properly in years."
Isaac ducked his head.
Paul paused at the door. "Good lad."
The words clung to the air long after he left.
Isaac sat with the empty plate, brushing his finger around its rim as though to make sure it was real.
'Pig in the pen,' the hallucination crooned from the corner. A greasy lamb shank dripped onto the floor. 'Bacon for the bait, boy. Bacon for the butcher.'
Isaac shoved back from the table, refusing to look at it.
The house was quiet after Paul left. Quiet in a way Isaac wasn't used to. No alley-cats fighting, no muttered curses from drunks. Just the low groan of the building and the occasional whistle of wind through cracks in the window.
He paced the hallway before venturing into Paul's room. The door creaked open to shelves lined with mismatched books: old manuals, paperbacks with yellowing pages, and a Bible missing half its cover. Dust clung to them in thick coats.
Isaac ran a finger along the spines. The smell of paper and mildew filled his nose. He pulled one free—a battered copy of Treasure Island. The cover hung by threads, but the first page still held a map. He stared at the jagged lines and faded compass rose, wondering what it would feel like to have a world that wasn't rotting around the edges.
'Stories for fools,' the hallucination muttered, crouched on the dresser, flipping through the Bible with bloodied fingers. It licked one page, smearing the ink. 'Better maps than this are carved into butcher paper.'
Isaac slammed the book shut and shoved it back onto the shelf.
By midday, hunger gnawed again. He searched the kitchen, finding a loaf of bread wrapped in paper, hard at the edges but edible. He tore a piece free, chewing slowly.
The day stretched long. He dozed on the bed, sat staring at the window, flipped through books without really reading. Every creak in the house pulled his eyes up. Once, he thought he heard voices outside—low murmurs like prayers carried on the breeze—but when he pressed his ear to the wall, there was only silence.
The door opened again at sundown. Isaac jolted upright as Paul stepped inside, his boots leaving wet prints on the floor. He carried a small paper bag in one hand.
"Evening," Paul said, shaking rain from his coat. "Got held up at work, but I didn't forget." He set the bag on the table, sliding it toward Isaac.
Inside lay a folded shirt, trousers, and socks. Secondhand, patched in places, but clean. They smelled faintly of soap.
Isaac touched the shirt as if it might dissolve. His lips parted, but words caught in his throat.
Paul chuckled. "Go on, try them. Not much, but better than rags."
Isaac hurried into the hallway, fumbling out of his torn clothes. The fabric of the new ones felt strange—soft in some places, stiff in others—but whole. He stared down at himself, almost not recognizing the boy in the mirror's cracked surface.
When he stepped back into the kitchen, Paul gave him an approving nod. "That's better. Looks like someone who belongs."
The word belong struck deeper than Isaac expected. He lowered his eyes quickly, afraid his face might betray too much.
Paul busied himself at the stove, heating leftovers. "Sit. You'll need your strength. One meal doesn't fix months of scraps."
Isaac obeyed, his hands twisting together under the table.
'Kindness costs,' the hallucination whispered from the chair beside him, plucking at its lamb bone. 'And you'll pay. Oh, you'll pay.'
Paul set down two plates, steam curling into the air. "Eat. Then rest. Tomorrow will be better."
Isaac bent over the plate, heart racing, mind circling. The food, the clothes, the warm bed—all of it felt like a trap too perfect to resist.
That night, the house lay heavy in darkness. Isaac drifted beneath the blanket, the day's warmth still clinging to his skin. Sleep crept close.
Through the cracked window, a voice threaded faintly on the wind, low and steady like a chant.
"…make the most of every opportunity… for the days are evil…"
Isaac stirred, eyes snapping open, breath caught. He lay still, straining to hear. The voice faded.
But the words remained.
The hallucination's grin flickered in the dark, wide with anticipation.
Isaac clutched the blanket tighter, willing his eyes shut. Sleep took him anyway, though it was not clean.