Dawn was a grey thief, stealing the comforting blanket of night and leaving Kael exposed on the cold stone step.
He awoke with a jolt, every muscle stiff and protesting, the ghost of the apple turnover's warmth a cruel dream.
But his fingers were still curled around a corner of the cloth it had been wrapped in. It was real.
The memory of it was almost painful in its intensity—the sweetness that had exploded on his tongue, the way the flaky pastry had melted in his mouth—made the current hollowness in his stomach even more acute. He'd savored it for an hour, making it last, before sleep had finally taken him.
Now, the reality of another day was a heavier weight than any blanket. The hollow ache in his stomach felt sharper than ever—not just the familiar gnaw of hunger, but something deeper. He'd tasted hope and it only made him hungrier for more.
He uncurled slowly, wincing as his body screamed in protest and began the slow process of making his frozen limbs work. Three hours of sleep on stone wss a luxury he couldn't always afford, but his exhaustion had finally overwhelmed his caution.
Move. Find water. Find a corner where the fish-gutters toss scraps. Check for opportunities—dropped coins and unguarded merchant stalls. The same grim checklist as every morning.
As he stood, his eyes automatically scanned the street for threats—the guards making their morning rounds, shop owners preparing to chase him off, rival street kids who might view his territory as conquest worthy, the butcher's nasty dog.
His mental map of the district was precise as any cartographers Masterwork. He knew which alleys had the best drainage, which doorways offered protection from both winds and prying eyes. He knew the schedules of every patrol, the temperament of every shop owner, the habits of every potential mark or threat.
But this morning, his carefully cataloged world felt different to him. Filled with something he couldn't name.
His scan then stopped dead at the mouth of the alley beside the bakery.
And there, sitting neatly on a clean piece of sackcloth, was a loaf of bread.
Not a discarded end. Not a hard crust. A full, beautiful, round loaf of dark rye. The kind he saw wealthy merchants buy. The kind he'd never even dreamed of touching.
His first instinct was pure, animal panic. It was a trap. It had to be. Some elaborate scheme by the city guard to catch him in the act of theft, to finally have an excuse to drag him to the stocks or worse. The bread sat there like bait in a snare, too good to be real, too perfect to be safe.
He presser himself deeper into his doorway and froze, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he glanced around, expecting laughter, expecting the baker to leap out with a cudgel, expecting a guard to cuff him for even looking at it.
The street was empty except for a sleepy cat licking its paws on a windowsill.
The scent of it reached him—yeasty, earthy, with a hint of sourness that made his mouth water uncontrollably. It was the most delicious smell in the world. He thought to himself as his stomach clenched so hard it was actually painful, the hollow beast inside of him roaring to life with renewed fury.
'Don't,' every instinct he developed in three years on the streets screamed. 'It's a trick. A test. They want an excuse to beat you.'
But the memory of the pastry, of the boy's fleeting, complicated look, warred with a lifetime of learned fear.
He took a step forward then stopped, his bare feet silent on the damp cobblestones. Then took another. His hand trembled as he reached out, expecting a shout at any second. But nothing happened. The street remained distant, empty and quiet.
When he was close enough to touch it, he hesitated again. The loaf was still faintly warm as he brushed the crust with his fingers—not from being left out all night, but from recent baking. It was real.
For him.
The realisation hit him like a physical blow. This wasn't charity—the careless tossing of scraps to keep the beggars quiet. This was a sacrifice. Someone had given up something valuable, something they could have sold or eaten themselves and had given it to him.
In one fluid, desperate motion, he snatched the loaf, clutched it to his chest, and scrambled back into the shadows of his doorway, his back pressed against the cold wood waiting for shouts of "Thief!"to split the morning air.
But nothing happened. Just the gentle lap of water against the storm drains and the distant clatter of early morning cart wheels on cobblestones.
Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, he looked down at what he held. The crust was perfect—dark golden-brown. When he pressed his fingers against it, it gave in slightly, promising the dense yet satisfying crumb within.
He wanted to devour it. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to tear it apart with his teeth, to cram it into his mouth until the terrible emptiness was finally filled. But something held him back—the same careful dignity that had kept him silent under Hemstark's boot, that had taught him the difference between surviving and merely existing.
Instead, he broke off a small piece, hardly more than a bite. The crust crackled between his fingers, releasing a puff of that incredible aroma. He placed it on his tongue and closed his eyes.
It wasn't just food. It was a revelation. The dense, sour crumb was more filling, more real than anything he'd ever eaten. He had to force himself to chew slowly, to not devour it all in three frantic bites. Making each bite last as long as possible. This was what food was supposed to be. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, eating felt like more than just postponing death.
As he ate, his eyes never left the bakery's silent, shuttered windows. Somewhere behind those dark windows, someone made a choice. Had decided that his life was worth something. Had seen him as more than just another problem to be swept away with the morning refuse.
The question that had haunted him since the turnover returned with doubled force:
Why?
The question was a drumbeat in time with his chewing. Why would he do this? The pastry could have been a moment of pity. This was different. This was deliberate. This was a secret.
He finished the last precious crumb, licking his fingers clean. The gnawing beast in his stomach was silent, replaced by a strange, warm fullness and a deeper, more confusing hunger. He had to know why.
Then out of nowhere, just as he finished licking his fingers, shadows detached from the mouth of the alley.
Three boys, older than him by a year or two, sauntered closer. Their faces were sharp with hunger, their eyes sharper still. The leader, a lanky kid with a split lip and a voice like broken glass, sneered.
"Would you look at the gutter rat feasting like a lord," he drawled. "Whole loaf, all to himself. Didn't even share."
Kael tensed, instinct screaming to bolt, but the loaf was gone—nothing left but memory and warmth in his belly. Running would only confirm their suspicions.
"It was mine," he said, forcing steel into his voice. "I found it."
The second boy laughed, high and mocking. "Found it? You mean steal it. Bet you nicked it right off Hemstark's stall,"
At that name, Kael's stomach knotted. Hemstark's boot. The crowd that had watched and done nothing. The blanket he'd lost. He said nothing.
The leader of the trio crouched low, his grin all teeth. "Tell you what darkie. Next time you 'find' something, you bring it to us first ok. Maybe we'll let you keep a bite, maybe not. A fair trade for protection isn't it darkie?" He said as he forcibly pressed his fingers against Kael's forehead.
In that moment, Kael met his eyes and said nothing, clutching the scrap of cloth tighter in his fist. Silence was safer than lies, safer than truth.
The third boy, smaller but with a mean glint, spat at his feet. "He's dumb as a rock. Doesn't even beg properly. A waste of space."
They shoved him once, twice, testing, like dogs circling weaker prey. Kael stayed rooted, refusing to flinch, refusing to give them the satisfaction. Finally the keader spat in the mud.
"Fine. Choke on your luck, darkie. You won't have it long. Come on boys, we have more pressing things to do than look at this darkie." He said as they slunk back into the shadows, their laughter echoing off the stones.
Kael let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His fingers ached from how tightly he'd clenched the cloth. His heart still pounded but the bread warmth was stronger than their mockery.
Driven by an impulse from that moment he didn't understand, he searched through the dirty ground around his alcove, his fingers sifting the scraps of rotten cloth, bent nails and fragments of broken pottery until he found what he was looking for—a chip of pale, sun-bleached brick. Probably a piece of the old cathedral that had been demolished years ago, clutching it like a dagger, he crept back to the spot where the bread had been.
He hand trembled as he raised the stone. He hesitated, his courage faltering. This was stupid. Dangerous. But the need to communicate, to somehow bridge the impossible gap between him and the baker's son's world overwhelmed his caution.
So he did it anyway.
On the dark, rain-dampened stone of the bakery's back wall beside the alley, the same wall where deliveries were made, where only someone looking from this specific angle would see it, carefully, using the sharp edge of the stone, he scratched two clumsy, shaky lines into the darkened brick:
+
It wasn't words—he'd never learned how to read or write, had never had anyone to teach him. But it was the best message he could send. The only symbol he knew that meant what he needed it to mean.
Thank you.
He stepped back, his heart pounding with the audacity of what he's done. The mark was small, barely visible unless someone knew to look for it. But it was there. He then dropped the brick and retreated back to his doorway, his pulse still roaring in his ears, half expecting the world to end. The empty cloth wrapped around his hands like a talisman. The bread was gone, but its warmth lingered in his chest, spreading through him like hope.
For the first time since his mother had died, Kael allowed himself to believe that tomorrow might be different than today.
Inside the bakery, peering through a tiny crack in the shutters, Marcus Finley let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. A smile, wide and unreserved, broke across his face for the first time in days.
He'd seen it all.