The cobblestones were the first to steal the day's warmth.
Kael pressed himself tighter into the shallow alcove of the shop doorwar, knees to chest, trying to make his small body disappear. His coat was three sizes too big, smelling of old rain and older sorrow. It hung loose on his shrinking frame, the sleeves rolled back so many times they'd formed thick cuffs at his wrists. The thin wool was no shield. As he felt the night air slithering through every hole and tear, hunting him down with cold fingers.
But the cold wasn't his worst enemy. Hunger was.
It lived in his stomach, a hollow, gnawing and clawing beast that never slept with phantom teeth. It was more constant than the moon, more demanding than the city guards who'd kick him awake if they found him here. Some nights, when the ache grew sharp, Kael pressed both hands against his belly and felt how his ribs jutted out like shelves.
The beast would then twist, reminding him of its presence, as it ate him alive from the inside.
His mouth had forgotten the taste of sweetness weeks ago. Now it only knew the copper tang of his own blood when he bit his cheek too hard, the bitter grit of rainwater sipped from puddles.
Scritch-scritch.
His head jerked up, eyes scanning the glistening street. The sound came again, deliberate and rhythmic. Not guards. Just a fat river rat in the gutter, gnawing happily on something foul. It's fur was slick with filth, its pale tail twitching between the cobblestones. Two tiny hands clutched it's prize like treasure.
Kael watched it, a faint, bitter smile cracked his chapped lips. The lower one had split three days ago and kept reopening when he talked to himself in which he did more often now, just to hear a voice that didn't demand coin or threaten violence. Even the rats ate better than him.
The rain had been falling since dawn, dripping into his collar, crawling down his neck in icy rivulets. The dampness had worked its way through every layer, through the newspaper he'd stuffed in his shoes where the soles had worn through, through the rags he'd wrapped around his feet when the newspaper dissolved. His toes had gone numb hours ago, a mercy, really, since it meant he couldn't feel how they'd begun to blister and crack.
His gaze drifted across the dark street, drawn as always to the golden window of the baker's shop.
Finley's Finest, the painted letters read, though the 'i' had faded to a ghost. But the glow from its windows was blinding. Warmth shimmered through the glass, distorting the shelves filled with plump perfect loaves of bread and pastries that seemed to glow.
Kael had memorized them by now. Sourdough rounds, Braided challah. Cream-filled delicacies dusted with sugar. He could name them like a priest reciting holy scripture.
But it wasn't the bread he stared at. Not anymore.
It was the boy.
The baker's son. He was clearing tables inside, his movements efficient and practiced. Kael had been watching him for weeks now, timing his vigil to coincide with the evening cleanup. The boy had a round, honest face, flushed pink from the oven's heat. Not a single bruise or dirt smudge marked his smooth skin. His hair was clean, combed back from his forehead, still damp from a recent washing. His clothes fit properly, no patches or careful mends visible.
As Kael watched, the boy moved between the tables effortlessly. Wiped down surfaces with a clean cloth, stacked plates with casual confidence, humming something under his breath that Kael couldn't quite hear through the glass.
The boy picked up a leftover crust from a customer's plate, a piece thicker than any Kael had ever stolen, golden-brown and still soft in the center and without a second thought, without even looking at it, tossed it into a slop bucket for the pig farms outside the city walls.
The beast in Kael's gut roared.
The sound was real this time, audible even over the patter of rain. As the growl escaped his throat, loud and animalistic. He pressed a fist against his mouth, embarrassed by his body's betrayal.
He looked away, pressing his forehead against his knees, tasting salt where tears mixed with rainwater. The rough wool of his coat scratched against his cheek, a small, grounding pain that helped him focus. The scent of yeast and honey still found him, carried on warm air that escaped each time the shop door opened. It was a cruel and beautiful ghost in the damp air, taunting him with memories of his mother's kitchen, of Sunday mornings when the world had been kind.
"Tomorrow", he lied to himself, the same lie he told every night. "Tomorrow I'll find something".
Maybe the fishmonger would drop something. Maybe the fruit vendor would leave scraps. Maybe someone would take pity on a boy who looked more like a scarecrow than a child.
Then—
Clatter.
The sudden sound made him flinch, every muscle tensing for flight or fight but he had no strength for either. The shop door had opened, a wedge of light and warmth cutting across the wet cobblestones like a blade. Steam curled out into the cold air, and with it came the full, overwhelming perfume of the bakery with cinnamon and nutmeg, butter, sugar and the deep honest smell of grain.
The boy stood there, silhouetted against the golden interior, holding a bulging sack of rubbish for the night-collector. For a moment, he was just a shadow against the light.
Their eyes met.
Kael froze, pinned like an insect in amber, certain the boy could see everything—the hollow cheeks, every tremor in his shaking hands. He felt exposed, wanted to look away, to preserve what little dignity he had left, but found himself trapped in that steady gaze.
The boy didn't scowl or yell. He didn't call for the guards or shout threats about loitering.
He just looked. His expression wasn't the flat disgust of the wealthy, who saw him as something unclean to be swept away. It was something more complicated, something that made Kael's chest tight with an emotion he couldn't name.
Something that looked uncomfortably like… recognition.
As if the boy saw not a beggar or a pest, but another person. Another boy, perhaps, in different circumstances. For a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, they were just two boys in the rain.
Then, a voice called from inside the shop, warm and impatient.
"Marcus! Stop wasting time and close the door! The night-collector will be here soon."
The moment shattered like glass. Marcus jerked his head away, breaking eye contact. He stepped forward into the rain, his shoulders hunching slightly as water began to darken his clean shirt. He heaved the sack into the alley bin with more force than necessary, the contents settling with a wet thud.
He turned back to the door, his hand already reaching for the latch. But something made him pause, made him glance back once more toward the doorway where Kael crouched like a wounded animal. Their eyes met again, briefly, and this time Marcus's expression held something new like determination or perhaps guilt.
His hand flicked outward in a motion so quick Kael almost missed it.
A small, dark object arced through the rain-swept air, spinning endlessly before stopping.
Plink.
It landed in a puddle near Kael's hiding place. The door closed with a soft thud. As its bolt slammed and darkness swallowed the street once again.
Kael didn't move. He held his breath until his lungs burned, waiting for a trick. A trap. For guards to come running, for adult voices to demand explanations. When nothing happened and the only sounds were rain on stone and his own ragged breathing—he uncoiled from his alcove like a spring unwinding.
Slowly, painfully, he crawled forward, limbs stiff and weak. His heart hammered against his ribs and vision blurred.
And there it was. Resting in the murky water.
A perfect, fist-sized apple turnover. The sugar glaze was already melting in the rain, making the pastry shine like something precious. Through the dissolving sweetness, he could see layers of golden pastry and could smell the warm spice of cinnamon even through the rain.
It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
His hand trembled as he reached for it, not just from cold now but from something deeper. This wasn't a discarded crust or a half-rotten vegetable or even something that was thrown away or forgotten. It was purposefully given, deliberately placed where he would find it. The gesture was so shocking, so utterly alien to his experience of the world, that he couldn't process it.
Kael's breath caught. His hands trembling as he scooped it up and clutched the pastry to his chest with both hands, retreating back into his hiding place.
The turnover was still warm. Heat bled through his coat, into his bones that had forgotten what warmth felt like.
He didn't eat it. Not yet. He just held it, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and baked apple, letting the warmth remind him what kindness felt like. He would hold this moment, treasure it like the rare and precious thing it was.
And for the first time in weeks, the beast in his stomach was quiet.